Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX6YT0GEZ7VGVB21X4BY2Z

Rain sliced down in silver needles, turning Soho’s cobbled lanes into slick veins of reflected neon. Harlow Quinn’s leather boots slipped once on the edge of a drain cover, but she caught herself with a grunt, breath bursting white in the cold. Her coat flapped behind her like the wings of some bedraggled bird of prey. Ahead, a shadow darted between two narrow alleys—just a flicker under the weak halo of a sodium lamp—but she knew it was him. The same figure she’d seen two nights ago at the perimeter of Silas’ bar, whispering into a mobile, eyes darting like a startled fox. She wasn’t sure what he had. Only that he’d left The Raven’s Nest too fast after seeing her walk in, that he hadn’t belonged there the way the regulars did—the ones who knew how to drink in silence, who didn’t ask questions about the bookshelf that never seemed to line up right with the others. Her wrist throbbed where the strap of her watch dug in. Eighteen years on the force, and she still felt it—the phantom weight of Morris’ hand on her shoulder the last time she saw him alive. Just before the fog swallowed him whole in that godforsaken warehouse in Deptford. No body. No explanation. Just a puddle of black oil on the floor and a single feather, too large to belong to any bird she knew. She rounded the corner, water sluicing off her collar. The figure was gone. The alley ended in a rusted iron gate, chained but bent at the base. Fresh scrape marks on the concrete. She dropped to one knee, fingers grazing the spot where someone—recently—had wrenched through. Her torch beam cut through the dark. Footprints. Small, narrow. Sneakers, soaked through. They led down. A set of broken steps, half-collapsed and slick with algae, disappeared beneath street level. The air here tasted stale, metallic—like old pennies and damp earth. She hesitated only a second. Then she was moving, one hand braced against the crumbling brick wall, the other gripping her service weapon. The beam flickered. She tapped it. It steadied. The steps spiraled into blackness. The sound of dripping water echoed below, layered with something else—muffled voices, a low thump of music, the clink of glass. Not police business. Not civilian. This was something else. At the bottom, a tunnel stretched ahead, arched brickwork slick with condensation. And there, ten feet ahead, stood a man—hood drawn low, shoulders tight. He faced a blank stretch of wall, then reached into his coat. Pulled out a small, yellowed object. A bone token. Pressed it into a recess Quinn hadn’t even seen. The wall slid open with a groan, revealing a cascade of dim, coloured light—amber, violet, crimson—spilling from within. Voices rose in a dozen languages, some guttural, some singing. The scent hit her next. Spices she couldn’t name, copper, incense, something sweet and rotten underneath. Her fingers tightened on the grip of her gun. She waited until the man disappeared, until the wall began to glide shut. Then she lunged, shoulder first, into the narrowing gap. She stumbled into a vast, cavernous space—an abandoned Tube station, the kind they’d decommissioned in the ‘80s. But this was no relic. Lanterns dangled from rusted tracks above, casting swaying halos over stalls carved from stone and scrap metal. People—humans, mostly, though some weren’t quite right—bargained over vials of glowing liquid, bundles of dried roots, locks of hair sealed in jars. A woman with eyes like polished jet offered her a cracked mirror that whispered when touched. A man in a long coat bartered for a caged bird with too many wings. Quinn kept her head down, hand tucked in her coat, not touching the gun—not yet. But every instinct screamed at her to draw. She spotted him again, slipping toward a stall draped in black cloth. The vendor wore a mask of stitched leather, fingers long and unnaturally jointed. The man reached under the counter. Exchanged the bone token. Took something small, wrapped in waxed paper. Quinn moved closer, weaving through the crowd. The air thickened. Static prickled her scalp. Someone bumped her shoulder. She turned—too fast—and found herself staring into the face of a boy who had no reflection in the polished brass bowl beside him. She backed away. Breath steadied. Focused. Then, just ahead, the suspect turned. Saw her. His eyes widened. He bolted—ducking between two stalls, knocking over a basket of dried moths that burst into blue flame when they hit the ground. Quinn cursed, drawing her weapon as people scattered. She followed, vaulting over a low counter, boots skidding on scattered gravel and ash. He ran toward the far end of the platform, where the rails descended into deeper darkness. Another doorway there—half-collapsed, guarded by a figure in a long, hooded coat, arms crossed. Armed? Probably. But the man wasn’t stopping. He shoved past the guard, disappearing into the tunnel beyond. Quinn slowed. Her pulse hammered in her jaw. She holstered her weapon—visibility would only get her killed down there. Instead, she reached into her jacket, pulled out her own bone token. Found on Morris’ desk the day after he vanished. She’d kept it. Studied it. Never known what it meant—until now. The guard turned. Hood low. No face beneath. “You don’t belong here,” the figure said, voice like stone grating on stone. “I’m not looking for trouble,” Quinn said. “Just him.” “The detective always wants the one who runs,” the guard mused. “But the market sees your kind. It knows your hunger. You follow one rabbit, you’ll find a warren of things you can’t name.” “I’ve seen worse,” she said. “Not like this.” She stepped forward, holding up the token. “Morris gave me this.” The guard stilled. Then, slowly, the head tilted. “You’re the one he shielded.” She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. After a long silence, the guard stepped aside. “Fifteen minutes. Then the passage seals. And you’re lost.” She didn’t thank him. Just passed through. The tunnel narrowed quickly, walls closing in, lights sparse and flickering. The air grew colder. Her breath fogged. She could hear him ahead—panting, stumbling—knowing he was trapped. Then a voice, not his. “You shouldn’t have come down here, Detective.” She stopped. From the shadows stepped a man—mid-thirties, curly dark hair, olive skin, a scar running down his forearm. He wore a leather satchel slung over one shoulder, and around his neck, a metal medallion. Saint Christopher. Protector of travelers. “You’re Herrera,” she said, hand drifting toward her gun. “The one who treated your partner,” he said. “Before they took his license. Before they erased his records.” “Where’s the suspect?” “Gone. Through the inner gate. You won’t catch him now.” Herrera studied her. “But I know why you’re here. It’s not him you’re chasing. It’s what Morris saw. What he couldn’t prove.” Her fingers curled. “You helped him.” “I warned him. Like I’m warning you. Some doors stay shut for a reason.” Behind him, a low hum rose from the dark—like the growl of something ancient, waking. Quinn took a step forward. “Then show me what’s behind it.”