Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR0GZRPFRWMDFFD2VT586K

Detective Quinn's heart pounded like a drum in her chest. Her breath came out in quick, visible puffs, betraying the Lady she had been in pursuit for God knows what. The rain sheets matted her short salt and pepper hair to her head. Water trickled steadily down her neck, blending with the sweat. The narrow alley turned a sharp corner, hidden faces rotted in the shadows. Quinn rounded the bend, pistol gripped firmly in both hands, finger hovering a hair's breadth over the trigger. Slippery London cobblestones threatened to betray her at every step. She'd been so close to catching the scrawny rat. But at the last second, with Quinn's voice cracking through the rain, rounding the suspect for questioning, she slipped like a whisper into the alley wall. Just vanished. Only a billowing cape remained, a last taunt before dissolving into the inky night. "Damn it," Quinn growled, stomping her feet to free them from the muck. "Stay put, I have questions." The threat floated into the blackness, unanswered. She knew then that she'd lost the trace. Knew it deep in the maggot-spun hollows of her gut. This was Legacy business. Nasty tits-deep supernatural shit boring wormholes to Hell. Shit she didn't need but couldn't willfully ignore, not after Morris— No. Burp nuked those memories. Stick to the case, Quinn. Unplugged thoughts of her lost partner and charged onward down the narrow lane, the night's exposure factor heavy in her mind. The alley stank of piss and misery as she stormed along, feet flying over slick pavement. Road fog thickened around her, the air heavy and wet against her skin. She cut left into a plaza, squinting against the yellow streetlights to scope out next moves. Scampered on a hunt for a breath, Quinn chose a cluster of dumpsters to search. She scanned the stacks of moldy cardboard and rubber, scanning for puddles that reflected the sickly light filtering from the street below. Nothing. This was a waste of fucking time. She should have known. Always had to examine if it was worth the risk. God, the things the Tally Man saw... Quinn shook her head, trying to focus on now rather than the then that kept creeping in. Her eyes shot past startled alley dwellers only to levitate skyward. But there, high in the shadows, two glinting points; eyes reflecting the streetlights. A tucked ever-flitting tail. Whispers of the impossible, spectral secrets lying in blackness between them. No. Quinn sighed, tightening her grip. No, she definitely should have seen. Squinted harder. The back opening of a visible drain, the grate rusted off, and... two little padawans, as pale as battery acid, huddled together. They cowered like kicked dogs. Twitchy. Ready. Watchful. Quinn took a step forward, intending to lean and sample the drain... but paused. Consiliary heres was a possibility. A shitty one, sure, but life wasn't always easy. Options were limited without more dirt. Do it or don't. Either way, don't string it out. She swallowed hard and continued on, diagnosed with all the medical professionals in the world. So she scraped on the drain and made her choice. Glared at the shadows above. This was Legacy business, plain and simple. She could dig and hound them for days... or discover what matter had congealed below. And if possible, sample the sirens' tits, drain the root of their wretching existence. Feel the bag of nails in her hands, and let the claws gobble their brains in little thrashes. Quinn fired her watch who shot first. The shadows cowered. Judges nodded. Further down they scuttled, skittering through the drainage system towards the unknown further below. Fresh hell, then or now. Same dog, different day. Quinn flexed her hands, keeping order to center. Anger and fear mixed into a cocktail so potent it almost made her dizzy. She steeled her backbone and grit her teeth. Breathe in, and out. Breathing life to balance, letting the thrill of the hunt overwhelm her sense of dread. She'd been here before. And was here now, in all the way of the only way out. Tits. Howls in the distance. And she fucking hated Hellhounds. Mean little brats. They snarled and charged like wildfire, their talons tearing at her legs. She had to move fast, to stay alive. Fucking Hellhounds, grr. The grate lay open and dark at the bottom of the drainage pipe. An invitation to danger and potential, a one-way ticket to fuck-yousville. She had no fear. She was fear. Quinn swallowed and turned her attention to where she'd seen the little dad slither through. Slides were narrow, little kiddies, though not-too-kid rude.. He was halfway down before it clicked what he was dealing with. His feet slipped on the slick metal as he tried to scramble UP! Back out! But it was too late. The grates locked into place above them with an ominous click. They stood in darkness, unblinking faces and surgical steel in hand. Utter and dragging shadows. If he squinted hard enough, he could almost see them slither around the joints. He gulped. Bad meat. His breath came out in puffs, misty clouds seeping through them. He could taste the dampness and fear in their seedy, claustrophobic snores. The pipe widened. She picked him up, hurled him over a ledge into dark filthy water. She followed. Deep gasping thoughts caved in her racing thoughts, swallowing her biting grief. The gangplank sloshed with frigid water. Sepitic inky rain clouds crept from the waste suspended in their nasty depths. Nocturnal topside monitors glared people-draped around her skull. Pushing and beckoning her to step further, into the submerged heart below. Swish, swish. Plaza in, plaza out. The market swelled and dulled with eager eyes, questing claws. This was no human drain. The drain virgined for millennia into a den of darkest commerce.NATURAL FOEDIouts suspicious, tight-knit market. Loathsomeness had a musty, tinned-in smell, vibrating with subtle old music. Rafters drooped with varnished objects swung like sentinels. Nary a mirror to be found. Cool, sluggish air ignited with humidity, dank like breath of fanged mouth. Her boot crunched on stained ground as she stepped out of shadows. She slid a wary gaze and tightened her gun grip. Flung torchlight over flickering linens, rot-frigid frames. Beads lay scattered on eyesore threads, and the nerves she harbored in such darkness crooned in the unforgiving chill of it all. She took in the bleak tales sprawling this way, that. Secrets stabbing skin raw. Price tags on pain stretched out like acting asiles, worth more in death than by an anxious light. This was a market for the caterpillars of demise, brothers of snakebites and encounters with pearlescent weeping. Above, extremities of tornaquements clunked* The sound of a raucous discordant gibbering gibbering, work of pain stealing the power of lithium. Torchlight flashed over deeply carved walls encrusted thick with mushroom and darkness. Concubines lines hung like moths in nubby shadows of packed-in market stalls. Margins of knife-glinting fear-bruised flesh gleamed in the riddles and smoke thick air. On the edge of your seat? Here was home with open arms to all things rotten. And her pulse quickened as she took it all in, the haunting whispers of an unholy offering, a convergence of miscreants and righteous alike, preying upon both human and esoteric alike. She paused here, boots camping in slick filth. The disgust in her chest burned her to the core. But there was no recoiling from this. Not now, after traveling this far. There was only standing. Only bearing witness to the dealers and trades that went on behind closed market doors. An oppressive presence passed by, closer than comfort