Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXR1Y3D1NQS7B098EMR4QF

Rain slicked the London streets into black mirrors under the sodium glow of streetlights. Detective Harlow Quinn's lungs burned as she pushed harder, the sound of her dress shoes pounding against wet pavement matching the frantic rhythm of her heart. Three blocks ahead, the suspect—a wiry man in a dark hoodie—glanced back before darting down an alleyway between two brick buildings. Quinn cut across the road, ignoring the blare of a taxi's horn as it skidded to avoid her. Her worn leather watch strap dug into her wrist with each pump of her arms. Forty-one years old and she still chased punks through downpours like a rookie. Some habits never died. The alley reeked of bins and stagnant water. Graffiti snaked across the walls in angry colors. The suspect was halfway down, his movements becoming more desperate as he approached the dead end. "Metropolitan Police! Stop!" Quinn's voice cut through the rain. "You're only making this worse." The man didn't slow. He reached the brick wall at the alley's end and slammed his palm against a section that looked no different from the rest. A section of bricks swung inward, revealing darkness beyond. Quinn's training screamed trap. Her gut screamed something else entirely. She'd seen impossible things since Morris died—things that defied explanation, things that had cost her partner his life under circumstances the official reports still couldn't properly explain. Without breaking stride, she plunged through the opening after him. The passage descended steeply, concrete steps slick with moisture. The air changed—grew thicker, charged with something ozone-like. The sounds of the city faded behind her until only their footsteps and breathing remained. Her hand went to the grip of her pistol out of habit, though she'd already drawn it during the street chase. The stairs opened into what appeared to be an abandoned Tube station. Tiles lined the curved walls, some fallen away to expose rough brickwork beneath. Old advertisements for products that hadn't existed in decades peeled from the walls. But this wasn't abandoned. People moved through the space—dozens of them, their faces shadowed, their clothes ranging from modern streetwear to what looked like period costumes. Booths lined the platform, selling things Quinn couldn't properly identify. Vials of glowing liquid, bound books with no titles, animal parts that shouldn't exist anymore. The air smelled of incense, damp earth, and something metallic underneath it all. Her suspect was already across the platform, pushing through a crowd gathered around a stall selling what looked like antique medical equipment. Quinn started after him, but something caught her eye—two figures standing near the tunnel entrance. One was a tall man with olive skin and curly dark hair, a Saint Christopher medallion visible against his neck. He was examining a woman's arm, his movements practiced and careful. The woman's skin glowed with a faint green light where he touched it. "Another five minutes, and you'd have lost the hand," the man said, his accent Spanish but his English perfect. "I told you not to handle raw goblin blood without protection." "I didn't have a choice," the woman replied, her voice tight with pain. "The market moves tomorrow." The man—Tomás Herrera, if the file Quinn had been building was accurate—nodded. "Always a choice. Always consequences." Quinn's attention snapped back to her suspect. He was approaching what looked like a ticket barrier, but instead of a gate, there was a stone archway carved with symbols that seemed to shift when she tried to focus on them. A figure in dark robes stood beside it, hand outstretched. The suspect reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and pale. A token carved from bone. The robed figure examined it, then nodded and stepped aside. The suspect slipped through the archway and vanished. Quinn stood frozen at the edge of the platform. Her police training had prepared her for armed suspects, high-speed pursuits, hostage situations. Nothing had prepared her for underground markets that sold impossible things to people who weren't quite human. Nothing had prepared her for bone tokens and archways that led elsewhere. A woman with silver eyes and too many fingers brushed past her, pausing to stare. "Police shouldn't be here." Quinn's hand tightened on her pistol. "I'm investigating a crime." The woman laughed, a sound like stones rattling together. "Everything here is a crime somewhere. That's the point." Across the platform, Herrera looked up from his patient. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. Recognition flickered in his expression before he deliberately turned away, focusing back on the glowing wound. The archway waited. Beyond it, her suspect was getting away. Beyond it lay answers to questions she'd been asking for three years, since Morris died in that warehouse with symbols carved into the floor and his blood spelling out words that made no sense. But she had no bone token. No invitation. Nothing but a badge and a gun that suddenly felt inadequate against the impossible things moving through the shadows of this place. The robed guardian watched her, face hidden within the depths of their hood. Waiting.