Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR44NN04YAJTJJW3VXQ6EG

The rain came down in sheets, turning the London streets into a slick, neon-lit maze. Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she sprinted, her breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. The suspect—lean, fast, and now ducking into a narrow alley—had the look of someone who knew these backstreets better than she did. Her radio crackled. "Quinn, you still on him?" Dispatch’s voice cut through the static, but she didn’t answer. No time. The alley twisted, then spilled into a wider street where the glow of a green neon sign flickered above a battered door. *The Raven’s Nest.* She’d heard whispers about this place—off-duty cops, shady deals, things that didn’t add up. The suspect vanished inside. Quinn slowed, her hand brushing the grip of her sidearm. The door groaned as she pushed it open, the scent of stale beer and old paper hitting her like a wall. The bar was half-empty, a few patrons nursing drinks in the dim light. No sign of her target. A man behind the counter—tall, gaunt, with a face like weathered stone—watched her with cold eyes. "We don’t like cops in here, Detective." She ignored him, scanning the room. A bookshelf against the far wall stood slightly ajar. The hidden room. Her pulse kicked up. She moved toward it, fingers tightening around her weapon. The bookshelf swung open before she reached it. A figure stepped out—Tomás Herrera, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting under the low light. His warm brown eyes flicked to her badge, then back to her face. "You’re not welcome here." "Move aside, Herrera." He didn’t budge. "You’re chasing the wrong man." "Then who am I chasing?" A beat of silence. The rain outside drummed against the windows. Tomás exhaled, then stepped back, revealing the dark passage beyond. "If you go down there, you won’t come back the same." Quinn didn’t hesitate. She slipped past him, descending a narrow staircase into the bowels of the city. The air grew thick, humid, laced with the scent of damp earth and something sharper—metal, maybe, or ozone. The stairs ended in a tunnel, its walls lined with flickering lanterns. Voices murmured ahead, a low hum of activity. She emerged into a cavernous space, the abandoned Tube station transformed. Stalls stretched in every direction, their wares glowing under dim, eerie light—jars of swirling liquid, bundles of herbs that pulsed faintly, bones carved with strange symbols. The Veil Market. Her suspect stood near a stall, haggling with a vendor whose face was obscured by a hood. Quinn started forward, but the crowd shifted, blocking her path. A hand clamped onto her shoulder. She spun, ready to strike— Tomás stood there, his expression grim. "You don’t know what you’re walking into." "Then tell me." He shook his head. "Some doors don’t close once they’re opened." The suspect glanced back, locking eyes with her. Then he turned and melted into the crowd, disappearing between stalls. Quinn broke into a run, shoving past a group of cloaked figures. The market seemed to stretch endlessly, the walls shifting as she moved. A stall selling what looked like human teeth blocked her path. She vaulted over the counter, scattering jars. The suspect was ahead, ducking into a side tunnel. Quinn followed, her boots pounding against the damp stone. The tunnel sloped downward, the air growing colder. The sounds of the market faded behind her. Then the tunnel opened into a wider chamber. The suspect stood in the center, his back to her. But he wasn’t alone. Figures emerged from the shadows—tall, gaunt, their movements too smooth, too precise. Their eyes gleamed in the dark. Quinn’s breath hitched. She’d seen things like this before. Three years ago. The night Morris died. The suspect turned, his face twisting into something inhuman. "You shouldn’t have followed me, Detective." Her hand went to her gun. But the figures were already moving.