Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR10HBWM69FBMSGZSDZTFQ

The rain fell in sheets, turning the pavement into a slick mirror that fractured the neon glow of Soho’s nightlife. Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles, her breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. The suspect—some wiry kid with a hood pulled low—darted ahead, weaving between late-night stragglers and delivery cyclists. He had the desperate speed of someone who knew the city’s veins better than his own. Quinn’s fingers twitched near her sidearm, but she didn’t draw. Not yet. The kid wasn’t armed, not that she could see. Just a runner. A messenger, maybe. But messengers carried things people didn’t want found. Ahead, the green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered, its glow bleeding into the downpour. The kid skidded around the corner, vanishing into the alley beside the bar. Quinn followed, her pulse steady despite the burn in her lungs. The alley stank of wet trash and stale beer. A fire escape ladder dangled just out of reach, but the kid didn’t climb. Instead, he crouched beside a rusted service door, fingers scrambling at the lock. Quinn slowed, her hand resting on the grip of her gun. "Met Police. Step away from the door." The kid froze. Then, without turning, he laughed—a wet, rattling sound. "You’re gonna wanna let this one go, Detective." She took another step. "Not happening. Hands where I can see them." The lock clicked. The door swung open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The kid bolted down the steps before Quinn could react. She cursed, holstering her weapon. No way she was letting him disappear into whatever hellhole waited below. The stairs were slick, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and something older—copper, maybe, or ozone. The kid’s footsteps echoed ahead, but the darkness swallowed him whole. Quinn pulled out her phone, thumbing the flashlight app. The beam cut through the gloom, illuminating peeling paint and graffiti that wasn’t in any language she recognized. At the bottom, a tunnel stretched left and right. The kid’s footsteps had faded. Quinn exhaled, listening. A distant hum vibrated through the walls—machinery? Voices? She turned left, following the sound. The tunnel opened into a cavernous space, the ceiling lost in shadow. Stalls lined the walls, their wares hidden under tarps or locked behind rusted cages. A few figures moved in the dim light, their shapes wrong—too tall, too thin, their limbs bending at angles that made Quinn’s stomach clench. One turned, its face a smooth, featureless oval. It tilted its head, then melted back into the crowd. The kid was nowhere in sight. A woman with silver-streaked braids stepped into Quinn’s path, her smile too wide, too many teeth. "Lost, are we?" Quinn’s hand drifted toward her gun again. "I’m looking for someone." The woman’s grin didn’t waver. "Aren’t we all?" She held out a palm. "Token." Quinn blinked. "What?" The woman’s fingers twitched. "No token, no passage. Rules are rules." Behind her, the crowd shifted, murmuring. Quinn’s pulse spiked. She didn’t have a token. She didn’t even know what the hell a token was. But the kid was here somewhere, and she wasn’t leaving without answers. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her badge. "Metropolitan Police. Step aside." The woman’s smile faltered. The crowd stilled. Then, from the shadows, a voice—raspy, amused. "Oh, Detective. You really shouldn’t have followed him down here." Quinn turned. The kid stood a few paces away, his hood thrown back now, his face pale in the dim light. Behind him, a man with a scarred face and a Saint Christopher medallion leaned against a stall, arms crossed. Tomás Herrera. Former paramedic. Off-the-books medic for the clique Quinn had been watching for months. Her fingers curled into fists. "You’re under arrest." Herrera pushed off the stall, his expression unreadable. "For what, exactly?" "Obstruction. Conspiracy." Quinn’s voice was steel. "Murder." The crowd murmured again, louder this time. Herrera didn’t flinch. "You’re out of your depth, Detective." The kid shifted, his gaze darting between them. "Tommy—" Herrera held up a hand. "She’s not leaving." Quinn’s jaw tightened. She could feel the weight of the crowd, the wrongness of the air. She was alone down here. No backup. No witnesses. But she wasn’t backing down. She took a step forward. "Try and stop me."