Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRGRKJ0YX8M2ZX3N34DVD3

The rain came down in sheets, turning London’s streets into a slick, black mirror. Neon signs bled into puddles, smearing the pavement with fractured light. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through the mess, her breath sharp in the cold air. The suspect had cut down a narrow alley, vanishing behind a dumpster slick with rainwater. She didn’t slow. Her fingers twitched near her sidearm, but she kept it holstered—for now. The alley spat her out onto a quieter street, where the glow of a green neon sign flickered above a battered door. *The Raven’s Nest.* She knew the place. A dive bar with a reputation for harboring the wrong kind of crowd. The door swung shut just as she reached it. She yanked it open, the warmth inside hitting her like a wall. The air smelled of whiskey and damp wool. A few heads turned, eyes narrowing at the intrusion. Quinn ignored them, scanning the room. No sign of her suspect. A man behind the bar wiped a glass with a rag that had seen better days. "You lost, love?" She didn’t answer. Her gaze locked onto a bookshelf against the far wall. It looked too deliberate, too staged. She crossed the room in three strides, fingers brushing the spines of old books. One of them—a leather-bound volume with no title—gave under her touch. The bookshelf swung inward with a groan. Beyond it, a narrow staircase descended into darkness. Quinn exhaled through her nose. She checked her watch—worn leather, the face scratched but still ticking. No backup. No time. She stepped through. The stairs creaked under her weight, the air growing thicker with each step. The walls were damp, the scent of earth and something older clinging to the stone. At the bottom, a dimly lit tunnel stretched ahead, lit by flickering bulbs strung along the ceiling. The distant hum of voices carried toward her. She moved forward, her boots silent on the packed dirt. The tunnel opened into a cavernous space—an abandoned Tube station, its tiles cracked and peeling. Stalls lined the platform, draped in shadows, their wares hidden beneath tarps and flickering lanterns. The air smelled of incense and something metallic, like old coins left in the rain. This was the Veil Market. Quinn’s pulse kicked up. She’d heard whispers of this place—black-market deals, things that didn’t belong in the world of men. Her suspect stood near a stall at the far end, talking to a figure wrapped in a long coat. The suspect’s hands moved quickly, shoving something into his pocket before turning toward the shadows. She didn’t hesitate. Quinn stepped onto the platform, her presence drawing glances from the figures lurking in the stalls. A woman with too many rings on her fingers eyed her with open suspicion. A man in a tattered suit smirked, revealing teeth that looked too sharp. The suspect bolted. Quinn broke into a run, weaving between stalls. A vendor hissed as she knocked over a display of glass vials, the shattering sound lost in the chaos. The suspect ducked behind a curtain of beads, disappearing into a side tunnel. She followed, the beads clattering against her shoulders. The tunnel twisted, the air growing colder. The sounds of the market faded behind her. Then, ahead—a door, half-rotted wood hanging off its hinges. She kicked it open. The room beyond was small, lit by a single bulb swinging from the ceiling. The suspect stood in the corner, breathing hard, his back pressed against the wall. His eyes flicked to the door, then back to her. "End of the line," Quinn said, her voice steady. The suspect swallowed. "You don’t know what you’re walking into." She stepped closer, her hand resting on her holster. "Then enlighten me." He didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze darted past her, to the shadows pooling in the corners of the room. Quinn tensed. The air smelled wrong—too still, too thick. A voice slithered out of the dark. "Detective Quinn. We’ve been expecting you." She turned. A figure stepped into the light. Tall, wrapped in a coat that seemed to drink in the dim glow. His face was all sharp angles, his smile too wide. "You shouldn’t have followed him here." Quinn’s fingers tightened around her gun. "Who the hell are you?" The figure chuckled, the sound like dry leaves scraping stone. "A friend of your old partner, actually." Her breath caught. "Morris." The figure inclined his head. "He sends his regards." The suspect took the moment to lunge for the door. Quinn sidestepped, blocking his path. "Not so fast." The figure in the coat sighed. "This doesn’t have to be difficult, Detective. Walk away. Forget you saw any of this." Quinn’s jaw tightened. "Not a chance." The figure’s smile faded. "Then you leave us no choice." The shadows at his feet twisted, rising like smoke. Quinn’s instincts screamed. She raised her gun—but the figure was already moving, faster than should’ve been possible. His hand closed around her wrist, cold as a corpse. She yanked back, but his grip was iron. The suspect bolted past her, vanishing into the tunnel. The figure leaned in, his breath reeking of something sour. "You should’ve listened." Quinn drove her knee into his gut. He grunted, doubling over just enough for her to wrench free. She didn’t wait. She ran.