Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR5XY13HW0M57RWV86BWET

The rain came down in sheets, turning the pavement into a slick mirror under the flickering streetlights. Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she sprinted, her breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. The suspect—Tomás Herrera—was fast, his dark curls plastered to his forehead as he dodged through the late-night crowd spilling out of a pub. A Saint Christopher medallion bounced against his chest with every stride. Quinn’s fingers twitched near her sidearm, but she didn’t draw. Not yet. Not in this mess of drunken laughter and umbrellas. Herrera cut left down a narrow alley, his scarred forearm flashing as he shoved a dumpster aside. The metal groaned against the wet brick. She followed. The alley stank of stale beer and piss. Herrera vaulted over a pile of discarded crates, his boots skidding on the slick cobblestones before he righted himself. Quinn didn’t slow. She leapt after him, her military precision keeping her balanced even as her lungs burned. Herrera glanced back, his warm brown eyes locking onto hers for a split second—no fear, just calculation. Then he was gone, ducking under a rusted fire escape and vanishing into the shadows. Quinn cursed under her breath. She pressed against the alley wall, scanning the darkness. A faint scuffle of footsteps echoed ahead, then silence. She adjusted the worn leather watch on her wrist, the second hand ticking too loud in her ears. Herrera wasn’t just running. He was leading her somewhere. She moved forward, her hand brushing the cold metal of her gun. The alley opened into a wider street, the neon glow of a sign reflecting off the wet pavement. *The Raven’s Nest.* The green light flickered like a dying ember. Quinn’s jaw tightened. She knew this place. Silas’ bar. A front for something darker. Herrera stood in the doorway, his chest heaving. He didn’t run. Didn’t bolt. Just waited, like he’d planned this all along. “Detective,” he said, wiping rain from his face. “You’re gonna want to see this.” Quinn didn’t lower her guard. “Step away from the door, Herrera. Hands where I can see them.” He smirked, the scar on his forearm glinting under the neon. “Or what? You’ll shoot me in front of half of Soho?” He tilted his head toward the bar. “They’re already watching.” She didn’t look. Didn’t need to. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She could feel eyes on her—hidden, curious, maybe hostile. Herrera took a step back, his boots splashing in a puddle. “You want answers about Morris? Then come inside.” Quinn’s pulse spiked. *Morris.* The name hit like a punch to the gut. She hadn’t said a word about him. Not to Herrera. Not to anyone outside the force. Herrera knew. And that meant he was deeper in this than she’d thought. She hesitated, her fingers flexing near her weapon. The rain drummed against the pavement, drowning out the distant hum of the city. Herrera didn’t move. Just waited, like he had all the time in the world. Then he turned and walked into the bar. Quinn exhaled through her nose. She could call for backup. Could wait. But Morris’ face flashed in her mind—his laugh, the way he’d always stolen her coffee, the last time she’d seen him alive. Unexplained. Supernatural. *Answers.* She followed. The Raven’s Nest was warmer than she expected, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and old paper. The walls were lined with maps and photographs, their edges yellowed with age. A few patrons glanced up as she entered, their expressions unreadable. Herrera led her toward the back, past a bookshelf that looked heavier than it should. He pressed a hidden latch. The shelf swung open. Quinn’s hand went to her gun. “What the hell is this?” Herrera didn’t look back. “Shortcut.” Beyond the bookshelf, a narrow staircase descended into darkness. The air grew colder, damp with the scent of earth and something else—something metallic, like old blood. Quinn’s boots thudded against the stone steps. Herrera moved ahead, his Saint Christopher medallion catching the dim light. “You’re taking me to the Veil Market,” she said. Herrera paused, glancing over his shoulder. “You know about it?” “Enough.” She didn’t elaborate. The market was off the books, off the grid. A place where things that shouldn’t exist were bought and sold. And if Herrera was leading her there, he wasn’t just a suspect. He was a guide. The staircase ended in a tunnel, the walls slick with moisture. A faint glow pulsed ahead, casting long shadows. Herrera slowed, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Market moves every full moon. Tonight’s your lucky night.” Quinn’s skin prickled. The tunnel opened into a cavernous space, the ceiling lost in darkness. Stalls lined the walls, their wares hidden under tattered cloths. A bone token—carved with strange symbols—hung from a chain at the entrance. Herrera plucked it from the air and slipped it around his neck. “You’ll need this,” he said, tossing her a second one. Quinn caught it. The bone was cold, heavier than it looked. She didn’t put it on. “What’s down here, Herrera?” He smirked. “Everything you’re not supposed to find.” A figure stepped out of the shadows—a woman with silver-streaked hair, her eyes reflecting the dim light like a cat’s. She looked Quinn up and down, then nodded to Herrera. “You brought a cop.” “She’s not here to bust anyone,” Herrera said. “She’s looking for the same thing we are.” Quinn’s grip tightened on the bone token. “And what’s that?” The woman’s lips curled. “The truth.” Herrera turned to her, his expression serious for the first time. “Morris didn’t just die, Quinn. He was taken. And if you want to know who took him, you’re gonna have to trust me.” The market hummed around them, the air thick with whispers and the clink of unseen coins. Quinn’s pulse hammered in her throat. She could turn back. Could call this in, bring the full force of the Met down on this place. But Morris’ face wouldn’t leave her mind. Neither would the way Herrera had said *taken.* She slipped the bone token over her head. Herrera nodded. “Then let’s go.”