Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRHXX3Z9SVT0NJCR9YC9YC

The rain hammered against the pavement in jagged rhythms, each drop a tiny fist striking the asphalt. Quinn’s breath fogged in the cold air as she ducked into a narrow alley, her leather boots splashing through puddles that glowed sickly yellow under the flickering streetlights. The scent of wet concrete and something older—damp stone, rusted iron—clung to the air, thick as smoke. She’d lost him at the crossroads of Shaftesbury Avenue, but the scent of his cologne, sharp with bergamot and something metallic, still clung to the damp air. Not expensive. Not quite cheap either. The kind of scent a man who knew how to disappear might wear. Quinn’s gloved fingers tightened around the grip of her revolver, the weight familiar, reassuring. She’d left the baton at the last checkpoint. Too heavy for the tight spaces ahead. A shadow moved at the far end of the alley. She tensed, then relaxed when a rat scuttled across the pavement, its fur matted with rain. No. Not him. Just the city breathing. She turned left at the next junction, her sharp jaw set, her salt-and-pepper hair slicked back from the downpour. The streets here were narrower, the buildings leaning in like they were listening. A neon sign flickered—*The Raven’s Nest*—its green glow bleeding through the rain. The kind of place that didn’t belong on a map. Quinn hesitated. The bar was too obvious. Too *open*. But the alley behind it was a dead end, its back wall crumbling, the entrance to something darker. She pushed through the door, the bell above it chiming weakly, drowned out by the rain. The interior was a maze of dim light and shadows, the air thick with the smell of aged whiskey and something older—ink, maybe, or old paper. A man at the far end of the bar glanced up, his eyes widening before he turned back to his drink. Quinn didn’t slow down. The back room was hidden behind a bookshelf that didn’t quite line up. She pried it open with her shoulder, the wood groaning like a warning. Inside, the air was colder, the scent of damp earth and something sour—like old coins left in a pocket. A man stood in the center of the room, his back to her. He was tall, his dark hair slicked back, a silver chain glinting at his throat. Quinn’s pulse quickened. That was him. The one she’d been chasing since the docks. He turned, and she saw the knife in his hand before he did. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, his voice low, smooth. “This isn’t a police station.” Quinn didn’t lower her gun. “I know where you’re going.” His laugh was sharp, humorless. “You don’t know shit.” She stepped forward, the muzzle of her revolver steady. “I know you’re heading to the Veil Market. And I know you’re selling something that isn’t yours.” His fingers twitched around the knife. “You’re in over your head, detective.” “Not anymore.” She fired. The shot echoed in the small space, the bullet kicking up dust from the floorboards. The man staggered, but he didn’t fall. He lunged instead, the knife flashing. Quinn sidestepped, her boot catching his wrist. He grunted, the knife clattering to the floor. She grabbed his collar, yanking him against the wall. His breath was hot against her ear. “You don’t know what you’re messing with,” he hissed. She pressed the barrel of her gun to his temple. “I know enough.” A door at the far end of the room creaked open. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A scar ran down his left forearm, pale against his olive skin. “Tomás,” the man snarled. The figure stepped forward, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting in the low light. “Let him go.” Quinn didn’t move. “Who the hell are you?” The man—Tomás—didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a syringe. “He’s not worth it.” The knife-wielding man laughed, low and bitter. “You always were soft, Tommy.” Tomás didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, the syringe held steady. “You’re bleeding.” The man’s eyes flicked to the wound in his side, then back to Quinn. “Get out of here.” Quinn didn’t listen. She shoved the man away and stepped back, her gun still raised. “I’m not leaving.” Tomás exhaled, his breath steady. “Then you’re going to have to deal with him.” The knife-man lunged again, faster this time. Quinn fired, the shot ringing out. He stumbled, but he didn’t stop. He grabbed her wrist, twisting, and she dropped her gun. Pain flared up her arm as he wrenched it behind her back. “You’re making a mistake,” he growled. Tomás moved like a shadow. One swift motion, and the syringe was pressed against the man’s neck. “You’re not worth the trouble.” The man went still. His eyes rolled back, his body going limp in Quinn’s grip. She let him fall, her breath coming fast. Tomás holstered the syringe, his expression unreadable. “You should go.” Quinn wiped her wrist on her coat, the blood smearing across the fabric. “Where’s the Veil Market?” Tomás didn’t answer. He stepped back, his gaze flicking to the door. “You’re not ready for that.” A low hum filled the air, vibrating through the floorboards. Quinn’s ears picked up the sound first—a distant, rhythmic thrum, like a heartbeat. Then the walls began to shift, the bookshelf groaning as something unseen pushed against it. Tomás grabbed her arm, yanking her toward the door. “Now.” The bookshelf exploded inward, a tunnel of darkness yawning open behind them. The hum grew louder, a chorus of voices rising from the depths. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She followed.