Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR7KKM0XMBDHFHGEXK7DPN

The rain lashed against Quinn’s face like a thousand needles, each drop stinging her skin through the thin fabric of her trench coat. She ducked beneath the flickering glow of a streetlamp, her breath fogging in the cold air as she watched the figure ahead vanish into the alleyway. A man’s silhouette, hunched and fast, moving with the kind of urgency that didn’t belong to a Londoner after midnight. Quinn adjusted the grip on her revolver, the weight familiar in her palm. She’d followed him from the Raven’s Nest, where the scent of old whiskey and something sharper—like ozone after a storm—had clung to the air. The same scent that had clung to the suspect’s coat when she’d seized him outside the bar, his fingers twitching like he’d been holding something small and dangerous. She didn’t recognise him. No file, no record. But the way he’d looked over his shoulder before bolting, like he’d known she was there before she’d even stepped into the shadows—something about that told her he wasn’t just running from a detective. He was running from something else. The alleyway opened into a narrow passage, the rain now a solid sheet, turning the cobblestones to slick mirrors. Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles, her breath steady despite the cold. She could lose him here. The city swallowed people every night. But the way he’d moved—too sure, too precise—made her think he knew where he was going. And if he did, then so could she. She followed the sound of his footsteps, muffled now beneath the rain, until the alley dead-ended at a rusted fire escape. A single flickering bulb cast long shadows up the side of a brick building. Quinn paused, listening. Nothing. Then—footsteps on the metal stairs above her. Light footsteps, careful. She didn’t hesitate. She sprinted, her boots clicking against the metal, and grabbed the railing just as the figure reached the top. He turned, his face half-lit by the bulb, his expression a mix of surprise and something darker—relief, maybe, or recognition. Quinn lunged, her fingers closing around his wrist. He didn’t fight. Just stared at her, his breath coming fast. “You’re not from the Met,” he said, voice rough with something like exhaustion. Quinn didn’t answer. She yanked him back down the stairs, her grip bruising. He didn’t resist, but his eyes flicked to the side, like he was seeing something she couldn’t. “You’re not the only one watching,” he muttered. She didn’t let go. “Who are you?” The fire escape ended in a narrow ledge, and Quinn shoved him forward, her revolver still in her hand. He stumbled, catching himself against the brick wall. She followed, pressing her back to the cold stone, her breath fogging in the damp air. “You’re not going to like what you find,” he said, his voice low. Quinn didn’t care. She pulled out her phone, the screen lighting up her face in blue. “I’m recording. Talk.” He laughed, sharp and bitter. “You don’t understand. You’re too close.” She stepped forward, her boot connecting with his knee. He crumpled, but she didn’t let him fall. Instead, she dragged him to his feet, her revolver pressed against his ribs. “Where are we going?” He didn’t answer. Just stared at the ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Then, suddenly, he grabbed her wrist, his fingers tight around her arm. “Down.” She didn’t understand. But before she could ask, he yanked her forward, and they dropped into the darkness below. The world tilted. Quinn landed hard, her ribs protesting, but she rolled, her revolver still in her hand. The man—*Tomás*—was already moving, his body low and fast, his movements fluid despite the darkness. She followed, her pulse hammering in her ears. They were in a tunnel, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something metallic. The walls were slick with moisture, and the only light came from the faint glow of bioluminescent fungi clinging to the stone. Tomás moved like he knew this place, his steps sure, his breath steady. Quinn followed, her revolver raised. “Where are we?” He didn’t answer. Just kept moving, his hand outstretched, guiding her forward. The tunnel sloped downward, the air growing colder, the scent of damp earth turning sharp, like ozone. Then, suddenly, the tunnel opened into a cavern. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and something else—something sweet and acrid, like burnt sugar. Tomás stopped, his body tense, his eyes locked on something ahead. Quinn followed his gaze. A market. A proper market, with stalls and people moving between them, their faces half-lit by flickering lanterns. But this wasn’t any market she’d seen before. The goods on display were strange—bottles of liquid that shimmered like liquid silver, jars of something that pulsed with a faint inner light, and weapons that looked like they belonged in a fantasy novel. And then there were the people. Their faces were half-hidden, their movements too fluid, too precise. They moved like they weren’t quite solid, like they were made of something other than flesh and bone. Tomás grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her skin. “We have to go.” Quinn didn’t argue. She followed him, her revolver still raised, her breath coming fast. The market was alive with noise and movement, the scent of the strange goods thick in the air. She didn’t understand any of it. But she knew one thing—she wasn’t leaving until she did. Tomás led her through the crowd, his movements fast and sure. They ducked behind a stall, the vendor’s back turned, his face half-hidden in the shadows. Quinn watched, her revolver still raised, her breath steady. Then, suddenly, a hand clamped down on her shoulder. She spun, her revolver raised, but it was too late. The man—*Tomás*—was already moving, his body low and fast, his movements fluid despite the darkness. She followed, her pulse hammering in her ears. The market was alive with noise and movement, the scent of the strange goods thick in the air. She didn’t understand any of it. But she knew one thing—she wasn’t leaving until she did. Tomás pulled her into a narrow alleyway, the walls slick with moisture. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something metallic. He stopped, his body tense, his eyes locked on something ahead. Quinn didn’t ask. She just followed, her revolver still raised, her breath steady. The alleyway opened into a narrow passage, and they stepped into the light. A man stood in the doorway, his face half-lit by the flickering lantern. He smiled, his teeth sharp and white. “Detective Quinn. I was wondering when you’d find us.”