Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPJV5V4CMJBX4ZAHJY64DE

The rain came down in sheets, turning the London streets into a slick, reflective maze. Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she rounded the corner, her breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. The neon glow of a pub sign flickered ahead—*The Raven’s Nest*—its green light bleeding into the wet pavement. She didn’t slow. The suspect had ducked inside, but the back alley was her only shot at cutting him off. Her fingers twitched near her holster. The weight of her service weapon was a familiar comfort, but the rules blurred when the chase led underground. She’d lost too many already. Morris’ face flashed in her mind—pale, wide-eyed, the last time she’d seen him alive. She shoved the memory down. The alley reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke. A fire escape ladder dangled just out of reach, rusted rungs glistening. Quinn jumped, fingers scraping metal before she hauled herself up. The suspect’s shadow flickered ahead, boots pounding against the rooftop. She followed, her own steps silent, practiced. A gap yawned between buildings. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She leapt, landing hard on the other side, knees bending to absorb the impact. The suspect glanced back, eyes wide in the dim light. He was young, wiry, his dark curls plastered to his forehead. Not the usual lowlife she chased. Something about him was off—too calm, too sure of himself. He vaulted over a low wall, disappearing into the darkness below. Quinn cursed, sprinting to the edge. A rusted ladder led down into a narrow service tunnel, the kind that spiderwebbed beneath the city. The air smelled of damp concrete and something sharper—copper, maybe, or ozone. She hesitated. The tunnel was a dead end. It had to be. But the suspect had gone in without hesitation. Quinn adjusted her grip on her torch, the beam cutting through the gloom. The walls were slick with moisture, graffiti scrawled in jagged lines. A symbol caught her eye—a circle with a line through it, the same one she’d seen scrawled near Morris’ body. Her stomach twisted. The tunnel sloped downward, the air growing thicker, warmer. The sound of distant voices echoed ahead, muffled but urgent. A flicker of light—candles, maybe, or lanterns—danced against the walls. Quinn’s pulse hammered in her throat. She knew this place. Or at least, she’d heard whispers. The Veil Market. She’d dismissed the rumors as urban legends—superstitious nonsense from the kind of people who saw ghosts in every shadow. But the suspect had led her here like he knew exactly where he was going. The tunnel opened into a cavernous space, the ceiling lost in darkness. Stalls lined the walls, their wares hidden beneath tattered cloths. The scent of herbs and burning incense clogged the air, mingling with the metallic tang of something older, something wrong. A man with too many teeth grinned at her from behind a counter, his fingers toying with a string of what looked like human teeth. Quinn’s hand drifted toward her radio before she remembered—no backup. Not here. Not where the rules didn’t apply. The suspect was already moving deeper into the market, weaving between stalls with the ease of someone who belonged. Quinn followed, her boots silent on the packed earth. A woman in a tattered shawl hissed as she passed, her eyes milky white. "You don’t belong here, copper," she spat. Quinn ignored her. The suspect was getting away. She ducked beneath a low-hanging lantern, its flame burning an unnatural blue. The crowd thickened, bodies pressing in around her. A hand brushed her arm, fingers cold as ice. She jerked away, but the touch was already gone. The suspect glanced back, his expression unreadable. Then he turned and slipped between two stalls, vanishing into the shadows. Quinn broke into a run, shoving past a group of cloaked figures. The market seemed to shift around her, paths twisting, stalls rearranging themselves. She skidded to a halt in front of a dead end—a wall of crates stacked high. No sign of the suspect. A low chuckle echoed from the darkness. "Looking for someone?" Quinn spun. The suspect leaned against a stall, arms crossed, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting in the dim light. Tomás Herrera. The name clicked into place. Paramedic. Off-the-books. The kind of guy who knew how to disappear. "You’re under arrest," Quinn said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline. Herrera smirked. "For what? Running?" "For whatever you’re hiding." She took a step forward. "And for whatever happened to my partner." The smirk faded. Herrera’s fingers tightened around the medallion. "You don’t know what you’re walking into, Detective." Quinn’s torch flickered. The shadows around them seemed to deepen, pressing in. She could turn back. Call for backup. Pretend she’d never seen this place. But Morris’ face was still there, in the back of her mind. And the symbol on the wall was the same one she’d found on his body. She adjusted her grip on her torch. "Then I guess I’ll find out."