Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPMDK0MMWNANGPH8FW7X43

The rain came down in sheets, turning the London streets into a slick, reflective maze. Detective Harlow Quinn moved with the precision of a soldier, her boots splashing through puddles that pooled in the cracks of the pavement. The neon glow of Soho’s signs bled into the wet darkness, casting everything in an eerie, watery light. Her breath came in controlled bursts, fogging the air in front of her as she scanned the alleyways, her sharp jaw set in determination. She’d been tailing the suspect for blocks—ever since he’d bolted from *The Raven’s Nest* like a man with something to hide. And Quinn knew a thing or two about men with things to hide. The suspect—Tomás Herrera, if her sources were right—was fast, but she was faster. He had youth on his side, but she had experience. And right now, experience was winning. She could see him ahead, his dark curls plastered to his forehead, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting under the flicker of a streetlamp as he glanced back over his shoulder. His olive skin was pale in the cold, his breath ragged. He wasn’t built for running. Not like her. Quinn adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist, its strap damp from the rain. She didn’t need to check the time to know she was closing in. Herrera ducked into a narrow side street, his boots skidding on the wet cobblestones. Quinn followed, her pulse steady, her mind calculating. She knew these streets—had walked them a hundred times in the day, a hundred more at night. But something was off. The air smelled different here, thick with something metallic and old, like rust and wet stone. The rain seemed to fall harder, heavier, as if the sky itself was pressing down. Then she saw it. A grate in the pavement, half-hidden beneath a tangle of discarded pallets and rotting cardboard. The metal was rusted, but the hinges looked new. Herrera didn’t hesitate. He kicked the grate open with a grunt, the sound of metal scraping against stone echoing through the alley. He dropped inside without a second glance. Quinn slowed, her instincts screaming. This wasn’t right. She knew Camden’s underbelly—knew the abandoned Tube stations, the forgotten tunnels, the places where the city’s secrets festered. But this? This was something else. She crouched at the edge of the hole, peering into the darkness below. The scent of damp earth and something older, something *wrong*, wafted up. A ladder descended into blackness, the rungs slick with moisture. No light. No sound. Just the steady drip of water and the distant hum of the city above. Quinn exhaled sharply. She could call it in. Wait for backup. But backup wouldn’t get here in time. Herrera would be gone, swallowed by whatever lay beneath the streets. And she couldn’t let that happen. Not after what happened to Morris. She swung her legs over the edge, her boots finding the first rung. The metal groaned under her weight, but it held. The descent was slow, deliberate. The air grew colder with every step, her breath misting in front of her. When her feet finally touched solid ground, she paused, letting her eyes adjust. The tunnel stretched before her, its walls lined with ancient brickwork, the mortar crumbling in places. Flickering torches—*actual torches*—cast long, dancing shadows along the curved ceiling. The light revealed a series of archways, each leading deeper into the labyrinth. And beyond them, the murmur of voices. The clink of glass. The unmistakable hum of a market. Quinn’s fingers twitched toward her sidearm, but she didn’t draw it. Not yet. She moved forward, her steps silent, her senses sharp. The tunnel opened into a vast chamber, its ceiling lost in darkness. Stalls lined the space, their wares displayed under the dim glow of lanterns and candles. But these weren’t ordinary goods. Jars of swirling, iridescent liquid sat next to bundles of dried herbs that pulsed with an unnatural light. A man in a long coat haggled over a vial of something black and viscous, while a woman with too many teeth examined a necklace of what looked like *teeth*—but not human. Quinn’s stomach twisted. She’d seen things in her time on the force. Things that didn’t make sense. Things that *couldn’t* make sense. But this? This was something else entirely. She spotted Herrera ahead, weaving through the crowd. He wasn’t running now. He moved with purpose, nodding at vendors, exchanging quiet words with a few. He was known here. Trusted. Quinn kept her distance, her military bearing making her stand out among the market’s denizens. She pulled her collar up, trying to blend in, but the weight of stares pressed against her skin. A man with milky-white eyes watched her from behind a stall of what looked like *eyeballs* floating in brine. A child—if it *was* a child—with too-long limbs and a grin full of needle teeth giggled as she passed. Herrera stopped at a stall near the back, its table covered in small, intricately carved bones. The vendor, a gaunt figure with fingers like spider legs, handed him a single token—a small, yellowed bone etched with strange symbols. Herrera slipped it into his pocket and turned toward a set of stairs leading further down. Quinn’s pulse quickened. She had a choice to make. Follow him deeper into this nightmare, or retreat and call for backup—knowing full well that by the time anyone arrived, the market would be gone. Just like the last time. Just like Morris. She thought of her partner’s face the last time she’d seen him. The way his eyes had gone wide, the way his voice had cracked when he’d said, *"Quinn, something’s wrong with this one."* Then the static in her radio. The silence. She stepped forward. The stairs descended into a narrower tunnel, the air growing thicker, heavier. The sounds of the market faded behind her, replaced by the distant drip of water and the occasional scuttle of something unseen. The walls here were damp, the brickwork slick with condensation. The torchlight flickered, casting monstrous shadows that seemed to move on their own. Then she saw it. A door. Not a modern one—this was ancient, its wood blackened with age, its iron hinges rusted. A symbol was carved into its surface, something that made her eyes ache if she looked at it too long. Herrera stood in front of it, the bone token in his hand. He pressed it into a slot in the door, and the wood groaned as it swung open. Beyond it, light. Warm, golden light. And voices. Quinn pressed herself against the wall, her breath shallow. She could hear Herrera speaking, his voice low, urgent. Another voice answered—deeper, older. A voice that sent a chill down her spine. *"You’re late, Tomás."* Quinn didn’t wait to hear more. She stepped forward, her hand on her gun. The door was still open. The light spilled out, inviting. She crossed the threshold.