Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQR5RJT9F2863JPZ4JKMF5

The rain came down in sheets, turning the London streets into a slick maze of reflections and shadows. Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles, her breath sharp in the cold air. The suspect—lean, fast, darting through the alleys like a rat—had a twenty-yard lead. She’d lost sight of him twice already, but the wet slap of footsteps ahead kept her moving. A neon sign flickered above a side street, its green glow bleeding into the rain. *The Raven’s Nest.* The suspect cut left, vanishing into the narrow passage beside the bar. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She followed, her jacket clinging to her shoulders, the weight of her service weapon pressing against her ribs. The alley reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke. A fire escape ladder dangled just out of reach, but the suspect had already ducked under it, heading for the back door of the bar. Quinn lunged, her fingers brushing the damp fabric of his hoodie before he twisted free. The door slammed shut behind him. She yanked it open, stepping into a dimly lit hallway. The air was thick with the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses. A few heads turned, eyes narrowing at the intrusion. Quinn ignored them, scanning the room. No sign of the suspect. A man with a scar running down his forearm leaned against the bar, polishing a glass with a rag. His Saint Christopher medallion glinted under the low light. "You lost, Detective?" Quinn’s jaw tightened. "Tomás Herrera. Where’d he go?" Tomás didn’t look up. "Who?" She stepped closer, her voice low. "Don’t play games. The kid who just bolted in here. Where’s the back room?" Tomás set the glass down. "No back room here. Just a bar." Quinn’s hand twitched toward her belt. "I know about the bookshelf. I know about the Veil Market. I know you lot deal in more than just whiskey." Tomás finally met her gaze, his warm brown eyes unreadable. "You’re treading thin ice, Quinn. This isn’t your world." She didn’t flinch. "It is now." A beat of silence. Then Tomás exhaled, nodding toward the far wall. "Bookshelf. Third shelf from the top. Push the spine of *The Raven’s Tale*." Quinn didn’t thank him. She moved quickly, her fingers tracing the spines until she found the right one. The bookshelf swung open with a groan, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. Cold air rushed up from below, carrying the scent of damp earth and something metallic. Quinn pulled a flashlight from her pocket, clicking it on. The beam cut through the gloom, illuminating rough-hewn stone walls. She stepped forward, the bookshelf clicking shut behind her. The stairs spiraled downward, the sound of her boots echoing. At the bottom, a tunnel stretched ahead, lit by flickering torches. The walls were lined with stalls, their wares hidden under tarps and behind locked cages. A low murmur of voices filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of glass or shuffle of feet. Quinn kept her flashlight low, her other hand resting on her holster. The suspect couldn’t have gotten far. She moved deeper into the market, her eyes scanning the shadows. A figure stepped out from behind a stall, blocking her path. Tall, gaunt, with eyes that gleamed too bright in the torchlight. "You’re not welcome here, Detective." Quinn didn’t slow. "I’m looking for someone." The figure tilted his head. "Aren’t we all?" She sidestepped him, but he moved with her, his voice a low rasp. "You don’t belong. This place doesn’t forget. It doesn’t forgive." Quinn’s fingers tightened around her flashlight. "I don’t care." The figure smiled, revealing teeth that were just a little too sharp. "Then you’re a fool." She pushed past him, her pulse hammering in her ears. The market seemed to stretch endlessly, the stalls blurring together. Then, up ahead—a flash of movement. The suspect. Quinn broke into a run, her boots pounding against the uneven ground. The suspect glanced back, his eyes wide, before ducking into a side passage. She followed, the tunnel narrowing, the air growing thicker. The passage opened into a wider chamber, the ceiling lost in darkness. A bone token lay discarded on the ground, its surface etched with strange symbols. Quinn picked it up, her fingers tracing the grooves. The suspect was close. She could feel it. A sound—soft, like fabric brushing against stone. Quinn spun, her flashlight beam cutting through the dark. The suspect stood frozen in the light, his chest heaving. "End of the line," Quinn said, her voice steady. The suspect didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His eyes darted to the side, toward something just beyond the edge of the light. Quinn followed his gaze. A figure emerged from the shadows—a woman, her face obscured by a hood, her hands clasped around a small, ornate box. She stepped forward, her voice a whisper. "You shouldn’t have come here, Detective." Quinn’s grip on her flashlight tightened. "Who are you?" The woman tilted her head. "A friend. Or an enemy. That’s up to you." The suspect took the opportunity to bolt, vanishing into the darkness. Quinn hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to go after him. But the woman’s presence held her in place, the weight of the box in her hands unnervingly still. The woman extended a hand. "Come with me. There are things you need to see." Quinn’s jaw clenched. The market hummed around her, the air thick with secrets. She had a choice to make. Follow the suspect into the unknown, or trust the stranger with the box.