Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQV219A1M5BZ6RFQV5HNKG

The rain fell in sheets, turning the pavement into a slick mirror that fractured the neon glow of Soho’s nightlife. Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles, her breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. The suspect had bolted down Greek Street, vanishing into the labyrinth of alleys behind the old jazz clubs. She didn’t need to see him to know he was panicked—his footfalls were too erratic, too desperate. A dumpster clanged against brick as he shoved it aside. Quinn vaulted it, her coat flaring behind her. The alley opened into a wider lane, the green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickering above the door like a dying firefly. The suspect hesitated, glancing back. His face was a pale smudge in the dark, but Quinn recognized the Saint Christopher medallion glinting at his throat. Tomás Herrera. She slowed, just enough to keep him in sight. "Met Police! Stop right there!" He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Tomás ducked left, slipping through a narrow gap between two buildings. Quinn cursed, squeezing after him. The passage spat them out onto a quieter street, the kind where the rain sounded louder, where the only light came from a flickering streetlamp at the far end. Tomás skidded to a halt at the top of a set of stairs leading down into darkness. The entrance to Camden Tube station—boarded up years ago, but the graffiti was fresh, the metal gates pried open just enough for someone to slip through. Quinn’s pulse hammered in her throat. She knew this place. Or rather, she knew the rumors. A black market beneath the city, one that didn’t deal in drugs or stolen goods, but in things that *shouldn’t exist*. Her partner, Morris, had been investigating it before he vanished. Before the nightmares started. Tomás didn’t look back this time. He took the stairs two at a time, disappearing into the black. Quinn hesitated. The rational part of her brain screamed *backup*, *procedure*, *wait for daylight*. But the other part—the part that had spent three years chasing ghosts—whispered that this was the closest she’d ever get to answers. She followed. The air below ground was thick with the scent of damp concrete and something older, something metallic and faintly sweet. The stairs led to a tunnel, the walls lined with flickering bulbs strung on wires. Tomás was already halfway down, his silhouette moving fast. Quinn kept her distance, her hand resting on the grip of her baton. Then the tunnel opened up. The space beyond was vast, cavernous, lit by lanterns that cast long, wavering shadows. Stalls lined the walls, their wares displayed on tables draped in velvet: vials of liquid that glowed faintly blue, bundles of herbs that shouldn’t have been able to grow in this light, small bones carved with symbols. A woman with too many teeth smiled at a customer, her fingers brushing a necklace of what looked like human teeth. Tomás weaved through the crowd, his head down. Quinn kept low, sticking to the edges. The market was alive with murmurs, with the clink of coins and the rustle of paper. No one paid her any mind—until a man with a face like cracked leather stepped into her path. "You don’t belong here," he said, his voice like gravel. Quinn didn’t break stride. "Neither does he." She jerked her chin toward Tomás. The man’s eyes narrowed. "You’re not one of them." "Not yet." He studied her for a long moment, then stepped aside. "You’ve got five minutes before the Watchers notice you." She didn’t ask what the Watchers were. She didn’t have time. Tomás had reached the far end of the market, where a curtain of beads hung over a narrow doorway. He pushed through, and the beads clattered behind him. Quinn quickened her pace, dodging a stall selling jars of eyes that *moved*. The curtain parted under her fingers, and she stepped into a smaller chamber, the air thick with incense. Tomás stood in the center, his back to her, his shoulders rising and falling with ragged breaths. "You shouldn’t have followed me," he said. Quinn didn’t lower her baton. "You shouldn’t have run." Tomás turned. His face was slick with rain and sweat, his medallion swinging against his chest. "You don’t understand what’s down here." "Then explain it to me." He laughed, sharp and humorless. "You think this is about explanations? You think this is about *rules*?" He spread his arms. "This place doesn’t care about your badge, Quinn. It doesn’t care about your laws." She stepped closer. "What does it care about?" Tomás’s gaze flicked to the doorway behind her. "Survival. And right now, you’re not on the list." The beads rattled. Quinn turned. A figure stood in the doorway, tall and gaunt, his coat hanging off him like it was made of shadows. His face was all sharp angles, his eyes hollow. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Tomás exhaled. "Too late." Quinn tightened her grip on the baton. "Who the hell is that?" "The Watcher," Tomás said. "And he’s not here for me."