Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRBWR8PJA43K7BB60ZBK5B

Quinn's boots splashed through puddles as she pursued the figure ahead, rain pelting her face and soaking through her jacket. The water stung her eyes, but she didn't dare wipe it away—not when her quarry was so close. Three months of surveillance, of carefully building a case, threatened to dissolve like chalk in this downpour. The suspect darted across Charing Cross Road, narrowly missing a black cab that screeched to a halt. The driver's curse was lost in the drumming rain. Quinn followed, raising a hand in hasty apology as she cut through the spray of water kicked up by the cab's tires. "Police!" she shouted, though she knew it was futile. The word scattered in the wind, carried away like everything else in this godforsaken weather. The figure—male, slim, wearing a dark hoodie—glanced back. For a split second, their eyes met through the curtain of rain. Quinn caught a glimpse of something that looked like fear, but not the kind she usually saw when chasing suspects. This was different. Primal. As if he wasn't running from her but from something worse. They veered north toward Camden, the suspect leading her through increasingly narrow alleys. Quinn's lungs burned, but the memory of Morris kept her moving. Her partner's unexplained death had been connected to this network—this "clique" as her informants called them. People who trafficked in things that didn't show up in evidence bags or morgue reports. The rain intensified as they reached Camden Lock. The suspect suddenly ducked into what appeared to be an abandoned storefront. Quinn slowed, drawing her service weapon. The building looked condemned, windows boarded, a chain across the front door that now swung freely. Quinn hesitated at the entrance. Every instinct honed over eighteen years of police work told her to wait for backup. But backup meant paperwork, and paperwork meant explaining where her investigation had led—into territory her superiors had explicitly forbidden. She crossed the threshold, gun held in a two-handed grip. Water dripped from her cropped hair onto her collar as she moved into the darkness. The beam of her flashlight cut through dusty air, revealing knocked-over mannequins and empty display cases. A sound—footsteps on metal—drew her attention to a back corner where a service door stood ajar. Beyond it, she discovered a stairwell leading down to what must have been an old service tunnel for the Tube. "Metropolitan Police," she called out, her voice echoing in the confined space. "Show yourself." No response but the distant sound of retreating footsteps. Quinn descended the stairs, each step a decision to venture further from protocol. The stairwell opened into a wider tunnel where ancient service lights cast a sickly yellow glow over crumbling brick walls. Graffiti marked the surfaces—but not the usual tags and crude drawings. These were symbols, patterns that seemed to shift in her peripheral vision. The tunnel curved, and the sound of voices grew. Not just one or two, but many—a murmur that suggested a crowd. Quinn slowed her pace, keeping close to the wall. As she rounded the bend, her breath caught. The tunnel opened into a vast chamber—an abandoned Tube station platform transformed into something out of a fever dream. Stalls lined every available space, illuminated by strings of mismatched lights. Vendors called out their wares in languages Quinn recognized and others she couldn't place. The air was thick with the scent of incense, cooking meat, and something metallic that reminded her of blood. The Veil Market. She'd heard whispers of it during her investigation—an underground bazaar where the clique and their ilk traded. A place that supposedly moved locations with each full moon, accessible only to those who carried the right token. Yet here she was, having stumbled upon it during a simple pursuit. Quinn tucked her police ID deeper into her pocket and holstered her weapon beneath her jacket. She needed to blend in, to find her suspect without alerting the entire market to the presence of law enforcement. She moved through the crowd, eyes scanning for the hooded figure. The market's denizens parted around her, some casting suspicious glances. A woman with eyes that reflected light like a cat's. A man whose fingers seemed too long, too jointed. A child who turned to watch her pass, revealing a face that was smooth and featureless except for a single mouth. Quinn's hand instinctively moved toward her gun, but she forced it back to her side. She didn't believe in the supernatural—refused to believe, even after what happened to Morris. There were always explanations. Genetic conditions. Elaborate costumes. Hallucinations induced by whatever drugs were being peddled here. She spotted her suspect near a stall selling glass vials of luminescent liquid. He was speaking urgently to the vendor, a tall figure whose face was obscured by a hood. Quinn approached cautiously, trying to appear as just another customer. She was close enough to hear snippets of their conversation when someone gripped her arm. "You shouldn't be here, Detective." She turned sharply to find Tomás Herrera standing beside her, his warm brown eyes serious beneath his curly dark hair. The Saint Christopher medallion glinted at his throat. "Herrera." Quinn twisted her arm free. "Fancy meeting you here. Still practicing medicine without a license?" His olive skin tightened around his jaw. "Still chasing things you don't understand?" "I understand plenty. Including the fact that you're aiding and abetting criminal activity." Tomás glanced around nervously. "Keep your voice down. Do you have any idea what they'll do if they discover who you are?" "They? You mean the clique? The ones you patch up after their 'business dealings'?" Quinn's eyes flicked to where her suspect had been, but he was gone. "Damn it." "Listen to me." Tomás stepped closer, the scar on his left forearm visible as his sleeve rode up. "The man you're following—he's carrying something that doesn't belong in your world. If you take it as evidence, if you try to bring it into your station—" He broke off, shaking his head. "Is that a threat, Herrera?" "A warning. Like what I tried to give Morris." Quinn's blood went cold. "What did you just say?" Before he could answer, a commotion erupted near the far end of the market. Shouts and the sound of breaking glass. Quinn saw her suspect running again, clutching something to his chest, pursued by several figures in dark clothing. "He stole from the wrong person," Tomás said grimly. "We need to leave. Now." "I'm not going anywhere until I get answers." Quinn started toward the chaos, but Tomás caught her wrist. "There's another way out. Through The Raven's Nest. Silas keeps a passage open for emergencies." Quinn hesitated, torn between pursuit and self-preservation. The crowd was dispersing in panic, some vendors hastily packing their wares. Whatever was happening, it was disrupting the entire market. "You mentioned Morris," she said, her voice tight. "What do you know about what happened to him?" Tomás's expression softened with what looked like genuine regret. "I'll tell you everything I know. But not here. Please, Detective Quinn. Harlow. Trust me on this one thing." The use of her first name startled her. In the three years since Morris's death, she'd encountered Tomás during several investigations, always circling the edges of cases that didn't quite add up. He'd never been so familiar. The chaos was spreading. Something that sounded like gunshots—but not quite—echoed through the chamber. Quinn made her decision. "Lead the way. But if this is a trick—" "It's not." Tomás turned, moving swiftly through the thinning crowd toward a narrow passage Quinn hadn't noticed before. "The Nest is just through here. Silas will let us through the back room." Quinn followed, the worn leather watch on her left wrist a reminder of time passing. Of promises made at Morris's funeral. Of a truth she'd sworn to uncover, no matter where it led. Even if it led her beneath the streets of London, into a world that shouldn't exist.