Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYPTVC0JE2QY6ACZ4BQ4WV

Rain hammered the pavement in sheets, turning the London street into a river of reflected neon and shadow. Harlow Quinn's boots slapped against wet cobblestones as she rounded the corner, her breath coming in sharp bursts that fogged in the cold November air. Fifty metres ahead, a figure in a dark jacket darted between parked cars and vanished down a service alley. She pushed harder. Her legs burned. Three years of desk work and sleepless nights had stolen the edge off her stamina, but adrenaline bridged the gap. The alley narrowed between brick walls slick with rain and grime. Overflowing bins spilled rubbish across the ground, and she caught her heel on a discarded takeaway container, stumbled, caught herself against a drainpipe. The figure was already at the far end, turning left. The distinctive glint of a Saint Christopher medallion caught the streetlight for just a moment before he disappeared from view. She knew that medallion. Tomás Herrera. The paramedic who'd lost his license under mysterious circumstances. The one who kept turning up in her investigation like a bad penny, always on the periphery, never close enough to question. Her hand found the wall and she steadied herself. The service road behind the row of shops was empty, but a fire escape ladder rattled somewhere above. She looked up. Nothing. The rain drove into her eyes and she blinked it away, wiping her face with the back of her hand. A clang echoed from below ground. Quinn froze. She swept her torch beam across the pavement. A rusted grate sat flush against the curb, water pooling around its edges. Fresh scratches marked the metal where something had recently pried it open. She knelt, examining the grooves. The scratches were too clean, too deliberate. Someone had forced this recently. Minutes ago. She grabbed the grate with both hands and pulled. It resisted, then gave with a screech of metal against stone. A dark opening yawned beneath, and the smell hit her immediately. Stale air, something metallic, and beneath that, an undertone she couldn't name. Something that made the fine hairs on her arms stand at attention. The ladder descended into darkness. Her torch beam couldn't find the bottom. Her radio crackled at her hip. She ignored it. Control could wait. Morris had waited, three years ago, and by the time backup arrived— She pushed the thought aside and swung her legs into the hole. The ladder rungs were cold and slick under her palms. She counted as she descended. Ten rungs. Fifteen. Twenty. The street sounds above faded to nothing, replaced by the echo of dripping water and the distant rumble of something larger. Trains, maybe. The Underground ran through these tunnels, but this didn't feel like any Tube station she'd ever used. Her foot found solid ground. The torch beam revealed a brick tunnel stretching in both directions, the ceiling low enough that she'd have to crouch if she walked down the centre. Old pipes ran along the walls, some rusted through, others wrapped in layers of tape and something that looked organic. Vines, perhaps, though nothing should grow this far underground. Water splashed ahead. Footsteps. She killed the torch and pressed herself against the wall. The darkness was absolute. Her breathing sounded too loud, her heartbeat louder still. She waited. Counted to thirty. A light flickered in the distance. Orange, wavering, like fire rather than electricity. It moved closer, then stopped. "We know you're there, Detective." The voice echoed through the tunnel, distorted by the acoustics until she couldn't pinpoint its source. Herrera. His accent carried the soft lilt of Seville beneath the London vowels he'd adopted. Quinn stayed silent. Her hand drifted to the holstered weapon at her hip. "You're a long way from your jurisdiction. The Met doesn't patrol these tunnels." A pause. "They don't even know these tunnels exist." She heard movement behind her and spun. Nothing. When she turned back, the orange light had moved. It was closer now, and she could make out a figure holding what looked like a lantern, though the flame inside burned without flickering, steady as an electric bulb. Herrera stood twenty feet away, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his jacket soaked through. He looked calmer than any man should look while being pursued by an armed detective through unfamiliar territory. "You've been following me for three weeks," he said. "I thought tonight might be the night you finally made your move." "Hands where I can see them." He raised his hands slowly. The lantern dangled from his left hand, casting strange shadows across his olive skin. The scar on his forearm stood out in the orange glow, a pale ridge against darker skin. "You're not going to shoot me, Detective Quinn. Not down here." He gestured at the walls, the ceiling, the darkness beyond. "You have questions. About the Wilcox case. About your partner." Her grip on the weapon tightened. "How do you know about Morris?" "I know a lot of things. It's part of the job." He lowered his hands. "Come with me. I'll show you something. Then you can decide if you want to keep following me or if you'd rather forget this night ever happened." "I'm not going anywhere with you." "Then stay here. In the dark. In the cold." He turned and began walking away, the lantern swinging gently at his side. "But you followed me this far for a reason. Something happened to DS Morris that you can't explain. Something that doesn't fit into any report you've ever filed. I can help you understand it." Quinn watched him go. The orange light grew smaller in the distance. Her training said to call for backup, to secure the scene, to do this by the book. But the book had failed her three years ago. The book had left her with a dead partner and questions that kept her awake at 3 AM, staring at the ceiling and wondering if she was losing her mind. She could turn back. Climb the ladder, return to the street, pretend this tunnel didn't exist. File a report about losing a suspect in an alley. Go back to her desk and her cold coffee and her growing certainty that something was deeply, fundamentally wrong with the world she thought she knew. Or she could follow the man with the Saint Christopher medallion into the darkness and see what waited at the other end. The lantern light was nearly gone now, just a flicker in the distance. Quinn moved forward.