Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX1T9XRS6YKZR8AQSCKAD8

The rain hammered down like a thousand tiny fists, turning the Soho pavement into a slick, black mirror. Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles deep enough to soak her socks, but she didn’t slow. The suspect—lean, wiry, moving like a rat with a firecracker up its arse—ducked around a corner, his dark jacket flapping behind him like a broken wing. She didn’t need to see his face. She knew that gait, the way his left shoulder hitched just a fraction higher than the right. *Tomás Herrera.* The paramedic who’d lost his license after patching up things that bled the wrong colour. The one who’d been seen slipping into *The Raven’s Nest* three nights running, always just before closing, always with that same nervous twitch in his fingers. Quinn’s lungs burned, but she pushed harder. The streetlights bled yellow smears across the wet tarmac, turning the chase into a series of stuttering snapshots: a discarded takeaway carton skidding under her sole, the neon glow of a kebab shop sign reflecting in a puddle, the suspect’s shadow stretching long and distorted before vanishing into an alley. She skidded around the corner, her palm slapping against the brick wall to steady herself. The alley reeked of stale urine and fried food, the kind of stink that clung to the back of your throat. At the far end, a rusted fire escape zigzagged up the side of a building, its metal groaning under the weight of the rain. No sign of Herrera. Quinn exhaled through her nose, sharp and controlled. *Too easy.* Then she saw it—the manhole cover, half-pried open, its edges glistening with fresh scratches. A dark, wet hole yawned beneath it, the kind of drop that made your stomach lurch just looking at it. The rain hissed into the darkness like a nest of snakes. She crouched, fingers brushing the cold metal. No time to call for backup. No time to second-guess. Herrera was slipping through her fingers, and if he reached whatever hole he was crawling into, she’d lose him for good. Quinn holstered her torch, gripped the edges of the manhole, and lowered herself into the black. The drop was shorter than she expected—maybe six feet—but the impact still jarred her knees. The air down here was thick, stale, like the inside of a lung that hadn’t taken a breath in decades. Her boots splashed into an inch of standing water, the sound echoing off unseen walls. The beam of her torch cut through the dark, revealing a narrow tunnel of cracked tile and peeling posters, their edges curled like dead leaves. *Camden Tube station.* Or what was left of it. She moved fast, her breath steady despite the adrenaline fizzing in her veins. The tunnel sloped downward, the tiles giving way to bare concrete, the posters to graffiti—symbols she didn’t recognise, jagged and angular, like something scratched into stone by desperate hands. The air grew colder. The rain above was just a distant murmur now, replaced by the drip-drip-drip of water from some unseen leak. Then she heard it—a scuffle, the clatter of something metal hitting the ground. Quinn killed her torch and pressed herself against the wall, listening. Voices. Low, urgent. Not Herrera’s. “—told you not to bring them here.” “He’s got a buyer. Said it’s clean.” “Clean?” A laugh, sharp as broken glass. “You ever seen clean come out of *that* place?” Quinn’s fingers twitched toward her baton. She didn’t need to see them to know they weren’t human. Not all of them, anyway. She risked a glance around the corner. The tunnel opened into a cavernous space, its ceiling lost in shadow. Stalls lined the walls, their wares lit by flickering lanterns that cast long, wavering shadows. Jars of things that pulsed with an inner light. Bundles of herbs that smelled like burnt sugar and copper. A table covered in what looked like teeth—too many, too sharp, arranged in neat little rows. And in the centre of it all, Herrera. He stood with his back to her, his hands raised like he was trying to calm a wild animal. The man in front of him was tall, his skin stretched too tight over his bones, his fingers too long, too many joints. His eyes—pale, pupil-less—locked onto Herrera’s face. “You’re late,” the tall man said. His voice was like dry leaves skittering across pavement. Herrera swallowed. “Had a tail.” The tall man’s gaze flicked past Herrera, straight toward Quinn. She didn’t hesitate. She stepped out, her baton already drawn, her voice cutting through the market’s murmur like a blade. “Police. Hands where I can see them.” The market froze. Then the tall man smiled. His teeth were too white, too numerous. “Oh,” he said. “This is going to be *fun*.” Herrera’s shoulders tensed. “Quinn, don’t—” She didn’t look at him. Her focus was on the tall man, on the way his fingers twitched, on the way the air around him seemed to *shimmer*, like heat rising off asphalt. “Last warning,” she said. “Step away from him.” The tall man tilted his head. “Or what, Detective? You’ll *arrest* me?” A laugh rippled through the market. Not human. Not even close. Quinn’s grip tightened on her baton. She’d faced down armed robbers, cornered killers, stared into the eyes of men who had nothing left to lose. But this—this was different. The air hummed with something electric, something *wrong*. The stalls around her creaked, their wares shifting as if stirred by an unseen wind. Herrera’s voice was low, urgent. “Quinn, you don’t know what you’re walking into.” She didn’t take her eyes off the tall man. “Then tell me.” A beat of silence. The tall man’s smile widened. Herrera exhaled, sharp and frustrated. “This isn’t your world. You go any further, you’re not coming back.” Quinn’s jaw tightened. She’d lost Morris to the unknown. She wasn’t about to let another lead slip through her fingers because she was afraid of the dark. She took a step forward. The tall man’s fingers curled, his nails blackening, lengthening. “Oh, Detective,” he purred. “You have *no idea* what you’ve just done.”