Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRERW1HAEZDPVFB001S6QZ

The neon glow of the Raven’s Nest pulsed like a dying heartbeat above the slick pavement. Detective Quinn wiped rain from her brow, her fingers brushing the worn leather watch on her wrist. The air smelled of damp stone and something sharper—burnt coffee, maybe, or the metallic tang of old blood. She’d been tailing Tomás Herrera for hours, ever since he’d vanished from the station after refusing to cooperate with her. The man had a scar that cut like a knife along his forearm, and a medallion of Saint Christopher dangling from his neck, as if he’d been saved from something worse than the law. Quinn didn’t trust him. Not after what happened to DS Morris. A flicker of movement caught her eye. Herrera stepped into the glow of a flickering streetlamp, his dark curls damp, his olive skin glistening. He didn’t look back. Quinn followed, her boots crunching on broken glass, her breath steady despite the chill in the air. The streets narrowed, the buildings looming like skeletal fingers. She could hear the distant murmur of voices, the clink of glass, the low hum of a crowd she couldn’t see. Then Herrera was gone, slipping into a side alley, his shadow swallowed by the darkness. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She turned the corner, her pulse hammering in her ears. The alley was narrow, the walls slick with rain. She could feel the weight of her gun in her holster, the cold metal pressing against her hip. Herrera moved fast, his steps light, but Quinn wasn’t built for patience. She caught up to him in the dim light of a flickering gas lamp. He was leaning against a rusted dumpster, his back to her, his breath shallow. “You’re in trouble,” she said, her voice low. He didn’t turn. “I’m not the one who should be asking questions.” Quinn stepped closer, her boot brushing against the edge of a broken bottle. “You’re selling something. Something dangerous.” A laugh, sharp and bitter, cut through the air. “You’re not the first to think so.” She reached for him, her fingers brushing his arm. “Then you’re not the only one who’s been caught.” Her hand closed around his wrist. Herrera’s skin was warm, his pulse a steady rhythm beneath her touch. He didn’t fight her, but his breath hitched. “Let me go.” “Not until you tell me what you’re selling.” His eyes flicked to hers, dark and wary. “You don’t want to know.” Quinn’s grip tightened. “I’m not asking.” The alley felt smaller now, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something old, something *wrong*. Herrera’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s not just a market. It’s a prison.” Quinn’s grip loosened, just enough. “What?” He turned then, his face illuminated by the flickering gas. “The Veil Market. They don’t just sell things there. They *collect* them.” Her breath caught. “You’re talking about the clique.” A smirk touched his lips. “You know about them?” “Morris told me something. Before he—” “Before he died?” Herrera’s voice was a blade. “Yeah. He did.” Quinn’s jaw tightened. “What did he say?” Her fingers dug into her palm. “He said the clique wasn’t just a group. It was a *hunting*. And they didn’t care who they took.” The words hung between them, heavy and final. Herrera stepped back, his scar glinting in the light. “You’re not supposed to know that.” Quinn’s pulse roared in her ears. “Then why are you telling me?” His eyes burned into hers. “Because you’re next.” The alley door creaked open behind her. Quinn spun, her gun drawn, just as a figure stepped into the light—a man with a face like a mask, his voice a rasp. “Detective Quinn. I was hoping you’d show up.” Herrera’s hand shot out, grabbing Quinn’s wrist. “Run.” She didn’t hesitate. She fired. The shot echoed through the alley, the bullet tearing into the man’s shoulder. He staggered, blood blooming across his chest, but he didn’t fall. “You shouldn’t have come,” he wheezed. Quinn didn’t answer. She turned back to Herrera, her breath ragged. “We need to go.” Herrera’s eyes were wide, his voice barely a whisper. “The secret room. It’s behind the bookshelf.” Quinn didn’t need to be told twice. She grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh. Herrera stumbled, his breath coming in sharp gasps. “We can’t stay here.” “No,” Herrera agreed, his voice rough. “But we can’t leave yet.” The alley door slammed shut behind them, the sound like a door closing on a secret. Quinn’s grip tightened on Herrera’s arm, her knuckles white. The Veil Market was waiting. And whatever it held, it wasn’t safe.