Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRFXX2WT78Y17ANVM52WXY

The rain hammered down in relentless sheets, bouncing off puddles that reflected flickering neon signs. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted through the slick streets of Soho, her boots pounding against cobblestones, breath echoing in her ears. She kept her eyes fixed on the figure ahead — a silhouette she’d seen too often lately, slipping between shadowed alleys with the fluid ease of someone who knew every hidden corner. Lights from a distant pub flickered, casting wavering shadows that danced around her. She clenched her jaw as her pulsing muscles dragged her closer. The suspect darted into a narrower alley, and Quinn followed without hesitation. The quiet of the backstreets swelled with the sound of rain. Each step splashed against wet stone, echoing through the silence until the suspect slipped into the mouth of an alley tucked behind an unassuming brick wall. Thoroughly soaked, Quinn pressed her back against the cold bricks, cautious. A faint glow of phosphorescent green flickered beyond the alley’s entrance. She paused, listening. No sounds — just the steady drizzle and her own ragged breathing. Then she heard it — the faint, shuffling footsteps behind her. She spun, hand on her holster, scanning the damp darkness. No one there. Just the empty alley, the rain, the distant hum of the city. A faint movement caught her eye — a shadow detaching from the wall. The suspect. The figure froze, turned, and looked over his shoulder. He held something in his hand — a small, irregular package wrapped in battered cloth. His eyes darted nervously. “Stop!” Quinn called, voice sharp, echoing off wet bricks. “You’re cornered.” He hesitated, then took a quick step back and vanished deeper into the alley. She cursed, pushing after him. The alley twisted, narrowing into a cul-de-sac, dead-ended behind a series of abandoned warehouses. No sign of him. Quinn’s boots skidded on the slick surface as she bounded to the end, then finally slowed. Above her, the flickering neon sign for The Raven’s Nest buzzed intermittently. The bar’s distinctive green glow seeped through grimy windows. Her intuition told her he might have ducked inside — that, or vanished into the night. She considered her options. Turning back seemed pointless. She was already in unfamiliar territory, and the suspect’s trail led here. Her hand hovered near her sidearm, nerves tightening. The city’s shadows seemed deeper here, darker than before. A faint clink echoed in the silence, sharp and unnatural. She froze, listening. From a side door, faint voices hummed, muffled by the rain. The bar. Probably a bad idea. She knew what kind of place it was — the kind of watering hole only locals and secrets knew. Still, nothing else made sense. Maybe he’d gone inside. Her instincts warred. Follow or wait? She tightened her grip on her weapon and stepped cautiously toward the entrance. The door swung open quietly as she approached, revealing a dimly lit interior. Ambient noise from a murmuring crowd filled the space, punctuated by clinking glasses and hushed conversations. The scent of stale beer and something sharper — maybe whiskey — clung to the air. She slipped inside, pressing against a wall near the door. The room was shadowed and sparse, with flickering bulbs casting sporadic pools of light. A few patrons sat scattered across worn booths, faces hidden behind cigarette smoke and fogged glass. Her eyes searched for the suspect, then caught movement near the bar. A tall figure, hoodie pulled low over his face, leaned in, speaking quietly to the bartender. Behind him, a door led to the back room, hidden behind a bookshelf. She stiffened, watching. The figure’s hand flashed upward briefly, clutching something small. Her heart hammered. She was in deep now. She took a step closer, only to see the figure stiffen. He turned suddenly, eyes locking with hers. Recognition flickered — a fleeting glimpse of desperation, then resolve. He reached into his pocket, fingers twitching. Quinn drew her weapon, voice low and measured. “Don’t.” The figure hesitated, then slowly raised both hands, palms open. No sudden moves. He looked like he knew he was caught, but that he also had nothing left to hide. The bar’s air thickened with silence, tense and expectant. Quinn moved forward, weapon steady. “Drop whatever you’re holding. Now.” A faint smile curled the man’s lips as he pulled out a small, faded medallion — the Saint Christopher, worn but intact. He held it out, trembling just enough to betray him. “No tricks,” she said softly. “Just tell me what’s going on.” He exhaled, eyes flickering with something like relief or resignation. “You don’t want to follow me down there,” he finally said, voice rough. “It’s a hell of a lot worse than you think.” She tightened her grip. “Start talking.” He hesitated, then slowly lowered his hands. “The market. The Veil Market. It’s not just about the stuff — that’s hard enough to grasp. They’re hiding something deeper, something they’re not supposed to sell. If you go in — you won’t come out.” The weight of his words settled over her. She glanced toward the door he’d pointed at earlier, behind the bar. The back room, hidden behind the bookshelf, loomed like a gateway to chaos. “What’s inside?” He shrugged, eyes dark. “Some things are better left unknown. The market moves every full moon, and then it’s gone again, like it was never there. But once you’re inside... it’s a rabbit hole.” She took a step closer, weapon still aimed. “I can’t ignore this. If you’ve seen it, then I have to see for myself.” His gaze dropped briefly to the floor, then nodded slowly. “Be careful. Once you step through that door, you’re in their world. It changes you.” Quinn held his gaze for a moment longer, then shifted her attention to the back room. Her fingers tightened around her weapon, resolve hardening. She had a choice: follow the suspect into the shadows of that underground market or turn back into the night, losing him forever. But the risk was already in the air, thick with rain and secrets waiting to be unmasked.