Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXG8K19VS8RS88TDXEEVA2

Rain lashed against Detective Harlow Quinn's face as she sprinted down the slick pavement, her worn leather watch strap digging into her wrist. The suspect's dark silhouette darted between pools of orange streetlight, footsteps splashing through puddled reflections of neon signs. "Met Police! Stop!" The figure vaulted over a low iron fence without breaking stride. Quinn's sharp jaw clenched as she followed, her military-trained muscles propelling her over with practiced efficiency. Her salt-and-pepper hair clung to her forehead, the cold water tracing the lines of her face. Ahead, the runner ducked into an alley choked with steam from overflowing drains. Quinn unholstered her weapon but kept it lowered - she needed answers more than a body. "Tommy Herrera! We can talk this out!" The only response was the clatter of a metal dumpster knocked over in desperation. She rounded the corner just in time to see him vanish through a rusted service door. The peeling paint revealed faded Underground roundels beneath - this was no maintenance entrance. Quinn hesitated at the threshold, her breath coming hard. The door yawned open into pitch blackness, the stench of damp concrete and something coppery wafting out. From the depths came the distant murmur of voices and the clink of glass. Her fingers tightened on her pistol grip. Four rapid gunshots echoed from the stairwell. She ducked instinctively, but no bullets whizzed past - the sounds had come from below. A warning. She counted to three and stepped into the darkness. The stairs descended at a steep angle, the metal treads vibrating with some unseen activity below. Quinn moved with deliberate silence, keeping to the wall where the steps were less likely to creak. The faint green glow at the bottom resolved into flickering candlelight. The abandoned Tube platform looked nothing like Transport for London maintained. Makeshift stalls lined the curved tiles, their tarpaulins flapping in the subterranean draft. Patrons in hoods and masks exchanged items with furtive gestures. A hulking figure by the tracks was reloading what looked like a Civil War-era revolver. Herrera's silhouette disappeared behind a curtain of hanging furs. Quinn edged along the platform, avoiding eye contact as she passed a table displaying vials of luminous liquid. Her shoulder bumped a stack of ancient books, sending one tumbling to the ground with a thud. Every conversation within twenty feet stopped dead. A vendor with too many teeth leaned across his counter. "No badge down here, rozzer." His breath smelled of rotten meat and cloves. Quinn kept walking, pulse hammering in her throat. The scars on her forearm itched where the knife had gone in three years ago, the night Morris died in that warehouse full of symbols no academy training had prepared her for. She reached the fur curtain and threw it aside. Herrera stood frozen amid shelves of dubious medical equipment, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting in the lantern light. Three others in the room immediately reached for weapons - a curved dagger, a taser made from what looked like a cattle prod, and something that hummed with unnatural energy. "Who let the watchdog in?" A woman with violet eyes cocked the hammer on an antique derringer. Herrera's olive skin had gone pale. "Jesus, Quinn. You followed me here?" "I'm not here to arrest you, Tommy." Quinn kept her hands visible but didn't lower her guard. "I need to know who's supplying the Fentanyl cut with ghost ash. It's killing humans and supernaturals alike." The derringer didn't waver. "That's Market business. You've got no jurisdiction." "We all read the papers." Herrera's fingers brushed his scarred forearm. "Twelve dead last month. Kids." The hum of the strange weapon intensified as its wielder stepped forward. Quinn recognized the stance - someone who'd killed before and wouldn't lose sleep over another body. "Walk away, detective." The voice grated like stones in a tin can. "Before we add your bones to the charm shop." Quinn's boot scraped against something on the floor - a shard of mirror. In its reflection, she saw the vendor with extra teeth moving silently behind her, a garrote woven from silver wire gleaming in his hands. She exhaled slowly, calculating angles of fire. The exit was blocked. The rules of engagement had changed the moment she'd stepped through that door. Her finger found the trigger guard. Herrera's hand shot out, his medic's reflexes faster than the others. "Enough." He turned to Quinn, his dark brown eyes urgent. "There's an apothecary near the old Bakerloo junction. Ask for the bishop's chess set. But if you're not gone in sixty seconds, I can't protect you." The derringer twitched. "You vouching for filth now, Tommy?" "Who patched you up after the werewolf brawl?" His fingers tightened around the medallion. "Sixty seconds, Quinn. Clock's running." She backed toward the curtain, watching every twitch of every trigger finger. The Market's ambient noise rushed back in as she cleared the threshold - a dozen deals resumed as if the confrontation never happened. Above ground, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Quinn holstered her weapon and checked her watch. The face had cracked during the chase, the hands frozen at 11:34. She turned up her collar against the chill and headed for the nearest call box. Bakerloo junction would have to wait until daylight. The things that haunted these streets weren't all afraid of the sun.