Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQXF2YVGK41AWKF9PZNBMS

The night swallows her whole as Quinn sprints down the alley, her heart pounding in her ears. The rain stings her eyes, blurring her vision, but she can't slow down. The suspect had dashed into the shadows, leaving her in pursuit, determined to catch him. Puddles splash under her feet, soaking her trouser legs as she runs, weaving through the maze of dark lanes. The screams of stray cats echo off the brick walls, the only company she has in this chase. Up ahead, a neon sign flickers to life, illuminating a narrow passage—the suspect's trail. As she nears the entrance, she notices it's a bar—The Raven's Nest, according to the sign. Slowing her breath, she peers inside through the steamy window. A figure ducks behind the counter, disappearing into a backroom. Quinn's gaze follows the swinging door. She yanks open the bar's door, letting in a burst of cold air. Patrons turn their heads, not bothering to hide their contempt as the rain drips from her onto the wooden floor. "Everyone stay where you are," she says, taking measured steps towards the counter. Patrons continue chatting, pretending not to notice the authoritative edge in her tone. Her eyes scan the room for any trace of the suspect. Someone ducks out of sight—a flash of a green shirt behind the bookshelf. She quickens her pace, reaching the threshold in time to hear low voices from a secret room. "Stay here," Quinn murmurs to no one in particular. As quiet as a mouse, she edges behind the bookcase and finds a hidden door. She turns the handle and pushes. The secret room is empty. The warm scent of cherry tobacco hangs in the air, along with the sound of a distant door slamming shut. The room has but one other exit. Quinn paces towards the noise, checking her watch. She's closing in on the suspect, but she's losing time. She reaches the door and opens it with force, rainwater splashing off her forearms. A rush of cold wind howls up at her, coming from a dimly lit staircase. He's heading underground, she thinks, her hand on the handle of her revolver. The staircase spirals down into darkness. As she descends, the sound of her boots on the wet cement bounces off the walls, announcing her pursuit. The stairs end abruptly, opening up into a cavernous chamber with curved ceilings. The Veil Market, Quinn thinks, remembering the intel she got from headquarters. According to the whispers, the supernatural disappeared here, leaving behind trails of magic and mayhem. But tonight, the place bustles with the dead and the living. Stalls line the damp walls, with flickering gas lamps casting eerie shadows across the stone floor. Hunched figures peer over their goods—a spectacle of oddities: jars of eyeballs floating in yellow brine, caged tree frogs sprouting with colourful leaves, and fresh animal hearts beating on velvet pillows. A man with nails punched through his empty eye sockets beckons to her, grinning with gums as she passes. A trio of girls with skin like tree bark sits in a line, crocheting large doilies that undulate and dance. Amid the crowd, she spots the flash of that green shirt again, the suspect weaving between tables. She braces herself as she races through the hive of supernatural activities: an elf blows fire from her palms onto a piece of meat, searing it instantly; a group of women squat around a woman who transforms into a scorpion, slicing off her human tail. "Police! Stop!" she yells, prompting more than a few heads to turn. She closes the gap between them as the suspect turns a corner, ducking into a stall. She rounds the corner to see the vendor huddled behind a table of queer objects, untouched and unharmed, looking up at her with wide, cautious eyes. "You!" He directs the accusation at the wooden box that buzzes with some hidden power. Quinn glances around and notices the corner of the stall and the next table are connected in secrecy. She moves with haste, peeking her head around the corner in time to see the suspect's T-shirt being slipped off and handed off to a bald giant. The hustle of trade continues around her, everyone too engrossed in their transactions to pay her any mind. She follows the exchange, her eyes darting from the giant to a leather-clad figure, then to a woman with an assault rifle guarding a large velvet curtain. The giant walks past the woman and pulls the curtain aside. The room rumbles as the sound of a door seals in the background. The suspect, disfigured with a gleaming white bone, peers over his shoulder and winks, victorious, as the curtain falls behind him. Quinn weighs her options. She's here, in pursuit, but she's knowingly trespassed. The Market is neutral ground—both a dangerous hotbed and the community's sanctuary. But she won't back down. Three years have passed since Morris vanished on her watch, and she's determined to close this case, no matter the cost. Before she can make her move, a man's voice cuts through the commotion. "Det Jefe Quinn!"