Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRDBVYAJCW7V07N6CT9W53

The rain came down in sheets, turning the pavement to slick black glass beneath Quinn’s boots. She kept her pace steady, the heel of her shoe clicking against the wet asphalt like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. The suspect—some low-level dealer, probably—had cut through the alley behind the pub, his hood pulled tight against the downpour. Quinn didn’t bother with a hood. She didn’t need one. The rain washed away the scent of her cologne, the faint metallic tang of her gun, but it couldn’t erase the trail of his panic. She turned the corner just as he vanished into the dim glow of a neon sign—green, jagged letters spelling out *Raven’s Nest*. The bar’s entrance yawned open, steam curling from the cracks in the door like a breath of something warm and dangerous. Inside, the air smelled of stale beer and something older, something that clung to the back of her throat like smoke. The suspect didn’t hesitate. He pushed through the door and was swallowed by the shadows. Quinn followed, her gloved fingers brushing the doorframe as she stepped inside. The bar was a relic, its wood paneling warped with age, the tables scarred from decades of elbows and spilled drinks. A few patrons lingered near the back, their faces half-lit by the flickering neon. None of them looked up. They knew the rules here. The suspect, however, didn’t. He froze mid-step, his shoulders hunched like he expected a bullet to punch through his chest at any moment. Quinn didn’t give him time to think. She stepped forward, her boots thudding against the floor. "You’re coming with me," she said, her voice cutting through the hum of the bar like a blade. The suspect’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with something between fear and recognition. "Detective," he breathed, his voice raw. "I didn’t—" "Shut up." She didn’t wait for an explanation. She didn’t need one. The way he’d bolted, the way he’d chosen this place—it all pointed to one thing. He was deeper in than he let on. And that meant she was too. The patrons at the tables didn’t move. They didn’t breathe. They just watched, their expressions unreadable. Quinn kept her eyes on the suspect, but her peripheral vision picked up the way the shadows seemed to shift, just slightly, as if something was watching from the edges of her vision. The suspect tried to bolt again, but Quinn was faster. She grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket. He yelped, but the sound was lost in the rain and the thud of her heart in her chest. "You’re not getting out of this," she said, her voice low, dangerous. "Not here. Not now." The suspect’s eyes darted to the back of the bar, where a door stood slightly ajar. Quinn followed his gaze. The wood was dark, the hinges rusted. It looked like any other back room. But the way the suspect’s body tensed told her it wasn’t. "Let’s go," she said, her grip tightening. She didn’t know what was back there. She didn’t care. She just knew she wasn’t leaving until she had answers. The suspect didn’t resist as she dragged him toward the door. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his fingers clawing at her arm. "You don’t know what you’re walking into," he whispered, his voice trembling. Quinn didn’t slow down. "I know exactly what I’m walking into," she said. "And it’s you." The door creaked open, revealing a narrow hallway. The air inside was cooler, thicker, like the breath of something that had been held too long. The walls were lined with bookshelves, their spines worn and brittle. The suspect hesitated, his eyes darting to the left, where a single book seemed to shift slightly, as if it had been moved. Quinn didn’t miss it. She stepped forward, her hand resting on her gun. "Move." The suspect didn’t argue. He followed, his boots scuffing against the floor. The hallway twisted, the bookshelves pressing in closer on either side. Quinn’s pulse hammered in her ears, the sound of her own breath filling the silence between them. Then, without warning, the bookshelf on the left shifted inward. A hidden door swung open, revealing a staircase descending into darkness. The suspect froze, his eyes wide. "You can’t go down there," he said, his voice barely a whisper. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, her hand reaching for the railing. The wood was cold beneath her fingers, the metal of the railing slick with moisture. "I can and I will," she said, her voice steady, unyielding. The suspect’s eyes flicked to her watch, the leather strap worn thin from years of use. "You don’t know what you’re doing," he said, his voice filled with a desperation that grated against her nerves. Quinn didn’t look back. She descended the stairs, one step at a time, her boots echoing in the darkness. The air grew colder, thicker, until it felt like she was breathing in the very essence of the night. The suspect followed, his footsteps heavy behind her. Then, the stairs ended. She stepped into a room, the light flickering to life above her head. The walls were lined with stalls, each one filled with goods that shouldn’t exist. Bottles of liquid that shimmered like liquid silver. Skulls that glowed faintly in the dark. Books bound in leather that looked old enough to remember the first men who walked the earth. The suspect stopped behind her, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "You’re in the Veil Market," he said, his voice filled with a mix of awe and terror. Quinn didn’t turn around. She kept her eyes on the stalls, her fingers tightening around the grip of her gun. "I know," she said, her voice low, dangerous. "And I’m not leaving until I have what I came for." The suspect didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The way he stood there, the way his body trembled, told her everything she needed to know. She was in too deep now. There was no turning back. A figure emerged from the shadows, his face obscured by the flickering light. "Detective Quinn," he said, his voice smooth, dangerous. "I was wondering when you’d show up." Quinn didn’t flinch. She kept her eyes on him, her fingers tightening around her gun. "I’m here for answers," she said, her voice steady, unyielding. "And I’m not leaving without them."