Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTZ3N0VY3FR5BWBRWK6P3CS

The rain hammered down on the slick pavement, turning the neon reflections into smeared watercolor streaks across the blacktop. Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she sprinted after the figure darting ahead—hood up, shoulders hunched, moving with the desperate speed of someone who knew they were being hunted. “Met Police! Stop!” The command ripped from her throat, swallowed by the drumming rain. The suspect vaulted over a low iron railing, disappearing down a narrow alley between two crumbling brick buildings. Quinn followed, her sharp jaw set, breath coming in controlled bursts. Military training kept her pace steady even as her pulse pounded in her ears. The alley stank of wet garbage and something metallic beneath it. Her quarry skidded around a corner, kicking over a stack of crates in their wake. Wood splintered under Quinn’s boots as she hurdled the mess without breaking stride. Ahead, the suspect ducked into a recessed doorway—just a shadow against darker shadows. Quinn slowed, hand hovering near her hip where her sidearm rested. The door creaked open, revealing a sliver of flickering lantern light before snapping shut again. She approached, cautious. The green neon sign above the entrance buzzed faintly—The Raven’s Nest. Not her jurisdiction, not her usual haunt. But she’d heard whispers about this place. The door didn’t resist when she pushed it open. Warmth and the murmur of low voices washed over her. The bar was half-empty, patrons hunched over drinks beneath the glow of dim bulbs. Maps and photographs covered the walls, their edges curling with age. No sign of her suspect. A bartender with a tattooed neck glanced up from polishing a glass. His gaze flicked to her damp coat, the badge clipped to her belt, then away. Quinn strode to the counter. “Man in a dark hood. Came in just now. Where’d he go?” The bartender shrugged. “Didn’t see anyone.” Her fingers tapped once against the worn leather of her watch strap. “Try again.” Silence stretched between them. Then, from the corner of the room—a scrape of chair legs. A man stood, adjusting the Saint Christopher medallion around his neck. Olive skin, a scar along his forearm. “Detective,” Tomás Herrera said, voice low. “You’re out of your depth.” She turned toward him, shoulders squared. “You know where he went.” Tomás exhaled through his nose, glanced toward a bookshelf along the back wall. A beat passed before he jerked his chin toward it. “You really want to follow him down there?” Quinn didn’t answer. She crossed the room, running her fingers along the spines of the books until she found the trigger—a slight give beneath her touch. The shelf swung inward with a whisper of well-oiled hinges. Stairs descended into darkness. The scent of damp earth and something sharper—ozone, maybe—rose to meet her. Tomás appeared at her shoulder. “Veil Market’s no place for your kind.” “And what kind is that?” “The kind that doesn’t know the rules.” She met his warm brown eyes. “Then enlighten me.” He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pressed a small bone token into her palm. The surface was carved with intricate, unfamiliar symbols. “Don’t flash that badge down there. Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to. And if you value that pretty life of yours, don’t touch anything.” Quinn curled her fingers around the token. “You coming with?” Tomás smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Someone’s gotta patch you up when this goes sideways.” The stairs groaned underfoot as they descended. The air grew thicker, humming with something she couldn’t name. At the bottom, an arched tunnel stretched into the dark, lit sporadically by flickering gas lamps. Voices echoed ahead—laughter, bartering, the occasional sharp disagreement. The scent of spices and something burnt lingered in the air. They rounded a bend, and the tunnel opened into a cavernous space—an abandoned Tube station repurposed into a sprawling market. Stalls lined the tracks, draped in rich fabrics and lit by lanterns that cast shifting shadows. Quinn’s breath caught. Vendors hawked wares that made no sense—glass vials filled with swirling mist, jewelry that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat, books bound in what looked like human skin. The crowd was a mix of ordinary-looking people and others who… weren’t. A woman with too many fingers counted coins into a merchant’s palm. A man with slit-pupiled eyes licked his lips as they passed. Tomás leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. “Told you.” She scanned the crowd, searching for the hooded figure. There—near a stall selling what appeared to be teeth strung on wire. Quinn moved forward, but Tomás grabbed her wrist. “Slow. Easy. You rush here, you end up in a stew pot.” She shook him off but adjusted her pace. The suspect glanced back once, then ducked behind a curtained-off section at the far end of the platform. A vendor blocked her path—a hunched figure with skin like tree bark. “Looking for something, darling?” Quinn sidestepped without answering. The curtain swayed ahead, beckoning. Tomás’ hand landed on her shoulder. “Last chance to turn around.” She shrugged him off and reached for the fabric. The moment her fingers brushed it, the world tilted. The market noise faded, replaced by a ringing silence. The curtain wasn’t fabric—it was cold, slick, like touching the surface of still water. Tomás cursed behind her. Quinn stepped through.