Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRA9WFRD115E3EJPK300NH

Rain pounded the city streets, the relentless downpour turning the pavement into a slick, treacherous mirror. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted through the deluge, her shoes slapping against the wet concrete. Ahead, a dark figure darted through the shadows, the suspect she'd been chasing for weeks. "Herrera!" Quinn shouted, her voice nearly drowned out by the hammering rain. "Stop!" But Tomás Herrera, the enigmatic medic with ties to London's underworld, showed no signs of slowing. He veered sharply to the right, disappearing down a narrow alleyway. Quinn followed, her heart pounding in her chest. The alley was cramped, the walls pressing in on either side. Overflowing dumpsters and stacks of cardboard boxes turned the path into an obstacle course. Herrera navigated the debris with practiced ease, his olive skin glistening with rain and sweat. Quinn pursued doggedly, her breathing coming in sharp gasps. Her foot caught on a discarded bottle, sending her stumbling. She caught herself on a grimy brick wall, the rough surface scraping her palm. "Bloody hell," she muttered, pushing off and continuing the chase. Herrera reached the end of the alley and hesitated, glancing back at Quinn. She caught a glimpse of the distinctive scar running along his left forearm before he turned and vanished around the corner. Quinn reached the junction a moment later, skidding to a halt. She found herself staring at an abandoned Tube station, its entrance boarded up and covered in faded graffiti. But the door, once firmly sealed, now stood ajar, the heavy padlock hanging open. The detective hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to proceed with caution. She fingered her worn leather watch, a nervous habit she'd picked up after her partner's death. DS Morris had been lured into an ambush under similar circumstances. Quinn couldn't shake the feeling that history was repeating itself. But the need for answers overrode her trepidation. Herrera had information she needed, a vital piece in the puzzle of the supernatural underworld that had consumed her life. With a deep breath, Quinn pushed the door open and stepped inside. The abandoned station was dark and musty, the air heavy with the stench of mildew and decay. Quinn descended the stairs cautiously, her footsteps echoing in the empty space. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she noticed a faint glow emanating from the far end of the platform. She approached, her hand resting on the butt of her service pistol. The light was coming from a hidden passageway, cleverly concealed behind a false wall. Quinn squeezed through the narrow opening, finding herself in a tunnel that sloped gently downward. The tunnel was ancient, the rough-hewn walls and uneven floor speaking to centuries of use. Quinn pressed on, the light growing brighter and more distinct. She could hear voices now, the sound of hushed conversations and the clink of glass and metal. The tunnel opened into a vast chamber, a hidden market that bustled with activity. Stalls and carts lined the walls, each offering an array of magical wares. Enchanted jewelry, glowing elixirs, and arcane trinkets were displayed in paranoid, insatiable detail, designed to lure both the desperate and the curious. Quinn blinked, her mind struggling to process the scene before her. She caught a glimpse of Herrera across the crowded floor, his distinctive medallion glinting under the flickering lights. He was deep in conversation with a hooded figure, their features obscured by a dark cloak. They seemed to be arguing, Herrera's usually composed face twisted with anger. Quinn pushed through the throng, ignoring the startled glances and muffled curses. She needed to get closer, to hear what they were saying. But as she approached, a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, spinning her around. A massive brute of a man loomed over her, his face crisscrossed with scars. "This is a private market," he snarled, his voice thick with menace. "You don't belong here." Quinn reached for her badge, her standard response to situations like this. But something stopped her, a prickle of warning running down her spine. Admitting she was a detective here, in the heart of London's supernatural black market, would be akin to signing her own death warrant. "I'm just looking for a friend," she said instead, hoping her voice sounded steadier than she felt. "I don't want any trouble." The brute's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on her shoulder. "You've got three seconds to turn around and walk away," he growled. "Before I make you." Quinn's mind raced, calculating her options. She could fight, but the odds were stacked against her. And even if she managed to subdue this guard, there was no guarantee she'd make it out of the market alive. But leaving now meant losing Herrera, and the answers he represented. The decision hung in the balance, the fate of her investigation resting on a knife's edge. Quinn took a deep breath, her choice made. She just hoped it was the right one.