Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTY2CKDHQ30K3EFTDDS1GKD

The rain hammered down, turning the slick pavement of Soho into a mosaic of neon reflections. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted down the narrow alley, her breath misting in the cold air. Ahead, a figure darted around a corner, their coat flapping like a bat’s wing. She adjusted her grip on her flashlight, the beam cutting through the downpour. “Stop! Metropolitan Police!” The suspect didn’t slow. They skidded around another corner, vanishing into the shadows. Quinn swore under her breath, her boots splashing through puddles as she followed. Her sharp jaw tightened, her salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her scalp. The worn leather watch on her wrist ticked away the seconds, a constant reminder of time slipping through her fingers. She rounded the corner, her flashlight catching glimpses of the suspect’s movements—a flash of a hood, the glint of something metallic in their hand. The alley narrowed, the walls closing in like a trap. She pushed harder, her military precision driving her forward. The suspect was heading toward The Raven’s Nest, the green neon sign above the entrance flickering weakly in the storm. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be!” The suspect lunged through the bar’s door, slamming it shut behind them. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She barrelled into the door, the wood groaning as it swung open. The dimly lit interior of The Raven’s Nest greeted her, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and damp leather. Patrons glanced up from their drinks, their faces shadowed by the low light. “Where’d they go?” No one answered. She scanned the room, her flashlight cutting through the haze. The suspect was gone. Her eyes darted to the back of the bar, where the bookshelf stood slightly ajar. Her jaw clenched. She didn’t have time for games. She strode toward the bookshelf, her boots leaving wet prints on the wooden floor. She shoved it aside, revealing the hidden back room. The air inside was colder, a draft creeping through a crack in the wall. She stepped in, her flashlight catching the edge of a trapdoor in the floor. “Damn it.” She crouched, her fingers finding the metal handle. The trapdoor was heavy, the hinges protesting as she lifted it. A narrow staircase descended into darkness, the faint echo of footsteps drifting up from below. She hesitated for a moment, her fingers brushing the worn leather of her watch. The memory of her partner, Morris, flashed in her mind—his face pale, his eyes wide with fear as he vanished into the unknown. Her jaw tightened. She wouldn’t lose another one. The staircase creaked under her weight as she descended, the beam of her flashlight cutting through the gloom. Moisture seeped through the stone walls, the air thick with the smell of earth and decay. The footsteps ahead grew louder, echoing through the narrow passage. The staircase opened into a cavernous space, the walls lined with stalls and makeshift booths. The place was alive with activity, figures moving in the shadows, their faces obscured by hoods and masks. The Veil Market. She stepped into the fray, her flashlight drawing wary glances. The stalls were crammed with strange artifacts—jars filled with glowing liquids, bones carved into intricate shapes, books bound in what looked like human skin. The air buzzed with whispered conversations, the clink of coins, the rustle of parchment. She scanned the crowd, searching for the suspect. Her flashlight caught the edge of a hooded figure slipping between two stalls. “Stop!” The figure froze, then bolted. Quinn swore, shoving her way through the crowd. The market seemed to close in around her, the stalls forming a labyrinth of shadows. She pushed past a vendor selling vials of shimmering powder, their curses trailing after her. “Out of the way!” She caught sight of the suspect again, their hood slipping as they sprinted toward a set of arched tunnels. Quinn followed, her flashlight bouncing off the damp walls. The tunnels branched off in every direction, the sound of footsteps echoing from all sides. She paused, her breath ragged, and listened. The footsteps grew fainter, disappearing into the maze. Her jaw tightened. She couldn’t lose them now. She chose a tunnel at random, the beam of her flashlight carving a path through the darkness. The air grew colder, the walls slick with moisture. The sound of dripping water filled the silence, the occasional whisper of movement making her pause. The tunnel opened into a small chamber, the walls lined with shelves filled with jars and books. The suspect stood in the center, their back to her. “End of the line.” The figure turned slowly, their hood falling away to reveal a face she recognized. “Tommy?” Tomás Herrera looked at her with warm brown eyes, his short curly hair damp from the rain. He wore a Saint Christopher medallion around his neck, the scar along his left forearm catching the light. “Harlow. Didn’t expect to see you down here.” “What the hell are you doing running from me?” He smirked, though there was a tension in his shoulders. “I wasn’t running from you. I was running *to* something.” “Care to elaborate?” He glanced over her shoulder, his face hardening. “Not here. Not now.” She followed his gaze, catching movement in the shadows. Figures emerged from the tunnels, their faces obscured, their hands clutching weapons. “Tommy...” “I’ll explain later. Right now, we need to move.” She hesitated, her fingers brushing the worn leather of her watch. The memory of Morris flashed again, his face pale, his eyes wide. “Trust me,” Tommy said, his voice low. She nodded. “Lead the way.”