Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRA9FP221C0GVGECRV34AJ

The rain hammered against the pavement, each drop a tiny fist pounding the streets. Quinn’s coat pulled tight around her, the leather damp beneath her fingers. She didn’t slow down. The suspect’s taillights had vanished into the labyrinth of Soho’s back alleys, swallowed by the downpour. She cut left, ducking under a flickering streetlamp. The neon glow of *The Raven’s Nest* pulsed green above a boarded-up door. No one inside. The scent of stale beer and old wood clung to the air, but the place was empty. Just like the suspect’s trail had been. A wrong turn. Quinn’s jaw tightened. She pulled out her phone, the screen glowing blue in the dark. No signal. The city’s pulse—cars, voices, distant laughter—faded into the storm. She was alone. Then, a sound. Not the rain. Not the wind. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Quinn spun, hand already on her holster. A figure stepped from the shadows, dark coat slick with rain. Not the suspect. Someone else. Someone watching. “You’re not supposed to be here,” the figure said, voice low. Quinn didn’t recognise the accent. Spanish, maybe. Or something older. “Neither are you,” she replied, fingers brushing the grip of her pistol. The man—no, not a man—stepped closer. His face was half-hidden beneath the brim of a worn hat. A scar ran along his left forearm, pale against his olive skin. A medallion glinted at his throat. “You’re not police,” he said. “You’re not asking.” He tilted his head. “I could call someone. Let them know you’re down here.” Quinn exhaled through her nose. “Who?” “Does it matter?” She didn’t answer. The rain had softened the edges of the city, turning the streets into a blur of reflections. The man watched her, unblinking. Then, a movement. A flicker of movement behind him. Something dark. Something *wrong*. The man’s eyes flicked to the side. “You should go.” Quinn didn’t move. “Where’d he go?” The man’s lips twisted. “You don’t want to know.” A shadow detached itself from the wall. Tall. Too tall. The suspect stepped into the dim light, coat dripping. His face was a mask of amusement. “Detective,” he said, voice smooth as oil. “I was wondering when you’d catch up.” Quinn’s pulse spiked. She knew that voice. Knew the way he moved. Knew the game he played. The man in the hat stepped between them. “He’s not alone.” The suspect laughed. “Then let’s see who you’ve brought.” Quinn didn’t hesitate. She drew her pistol, the cold metal biting into her palm. “Drop the act.” The suspect’s smile didn’t waver. “Or what? You’ll shoot me?” She didn’t answer. The rain hammered down, the world narrowing to the three of them. The man in the hat shifted, blocking her view. A knife glinted in his hand. “You’re making a mistake,” he said. Quinn fired. The shot echoed through the alley. The suspect staggered, blood blooming on his coat. But he didn’t fall. He just laughed, longer this time. “You’re not the only one with friends.” The man in the hat lunged. Quinn rolled, coming up with her gun raised. The suspect was already moving, faster than she expected. He grabbed her wrist, twisting. The pistol clattered to the ground. “You’re good,” he said, voice close to her ear. “But you’re not fast enough.” She kicked him in the ribs. He grunted, but didn’t let go. His grip was iron. “Let go.” “Not until you answer my question.” “What’s that?” “Why?” She didn’t understand. “Why what?” “Why are you here?” The rain fell harder. The world tilted. The man in the hat was still between them, knife glinting. The suspect’s breath was hot against her cheek. “Because someone’s dying,” she said. The suspect’s grip loosened. Just for a second. Quinn drove her elbow into his solar plexus. He gasped, stumbling back. She snatched up her pistol, spinning toward the man in the hat. “Run,” the man said. She didn’t listen. The suspect was already moving again, faster. She fired. Missed. He grabbed her arm, yanking her toward the shadows. “You’re not leaving,” he said. She twisted free, slamming her fist into his jaw. He crumpled, but didn’t stay down. The man in the hat was gone. Vanished into the rain. Quinn didn’t wait. She ran. The alley opened into a narrow staircase. Down. Always down. The suspect was ahead, his footsteps echoing on the metal steps. She followed, her breath ragged. The staircase ended in a door. Wooden. Old. The suspect pushed it open, stepping into the dark. Quinn hesitated. Then she followed. The door slammed shut behind her. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something older. Something *wrong*. The walls were lined with shelves, dusty and forgotten. A hidden door. A secret. The suspect was already moving, his footsteps silent on the stone floor. Quinn’s pulse roared in her ears. She raised her pistol, the beam cutting through the dark. “You’re not leaving,” he said again. She didn’t answer. The door at the end of the corridor was just a flicker in the dark. A light. A way out. Or a trap. She stepped forward.