Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPREJG6QNT7RG6ZN7MG3Y0

The rain came down in sheets, turning the London streets into a slick, shimmering maze. Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she rounded the corner, her breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. The neon glow of Soho’s signs blurred through the downpour, casting long, wavering reflections on the wet pavement. There. A figure darted ahead, weaving between the late-night stragglers huddled under awnings. Tomás Herrera—his dark curls plastered to his forehead, the Saint Christopher medallion bouncing against his chest. He glanced back, eyes wide, before ducking into a narrow alley. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She broke into a sprint, her leather jacket slick with rain, the worn strap of her watch digging into her wrist. The alley reeked of damp brick and stale beer, the walls pressing in as she followed. Herrera’s footsteps echoed ahead, quick and uneven. Then—silence. Quinn skidded to a stop, water spraying from her boots. The alley dead-ended at a rusted fire escape, the ladder just out of reach. No sign of Herrera. She spun, scanning the shadows. A flicker of movement near the ground—a grate, slightly ajar. She crouched, fingers curling around the cold metal. The hinges groaned as she lifted it, revealing a ladder descending into darkness. The stench of damp earth and something sharper—ozone, maybe—hit her nose. Below, the faintest hum of voices, the clink of glass. The Veil Market. Quinn’s jaw tightened. She knew the rumors. Knew the kinds of things that moved in the dark, the kinds of deals that got made beneath the city. Herrera was no ordinary suspect. If he’d gone down there, he wasn’t running from the law—he was running *to* something. Her radio crackled at her hip. "Quinn, you copy? We’ve got eyes on Herrera’s last known location—" She silenced it with a sharp jab of her thumb. No backup. Not for this. The ladder rattled under her weight as she descended, the darkness swallowing her whole. The air grew thicker, warmer, laced with the scent of burning herbs and something metallic. Her boots hit packed earth, and she straightened, blinking against the sudden glow of flickering lanterns. The market stretched before her, a labyrinth of stalls carved into the abandoned Tube tunnels. Vendors hawked wares from shadowed alcoves—vials of swirling liquid, bundles of dried roots, knives with blades that shimmered like oil on water. The crowd was a mix of faces, some human, some… not. A woman with too many teeth smiled at her from behind a stall of glass jars, each one containing a floating, pulsing light. Quinn kept her expression neutral, her hand resting near her holster. Herrera was here somewhere. She could feel it. A stall to her left sold what looked like human teeth, strung on leather cords. The vendor, a gaunt man with sunken eyes, leaned forward. "Looking for something, love? Protection? A little *persuasion*?" She ignored him, pushing deeper into the crowd. A group of figures in long coats brushed past her, their laughter low and guttural. One turned, his face half-hidden by a scarf, and for a second, his eyes glowed yellow. Quinn’s pulse kicked up. She’d seen things before—things that didn’t make sense. Things that got good cops killed. Ahead, a flicker of movement. Herrera, slipping between two stalls, his scarred forearm catching the light as he adjusted his grip on something small and dark. She followed. The tunnel narrowed, the ceiling pressing lower. The voices faded behind her, replaced by the distant drip of water and the scuttle of unseen things in the dark. Herrera glanced back once, his expression unreadable, before ducking through a narrow archway. Quinn hesitated. The air here was different—thicker, charged. The walls were lined with symbols carved into the stone, their edges worn but still sharp. A warning. Or an invitation. She stepped through. The space beyond was small, circular, lit by a single lantern hanging from the ceiling. Herrera stood in the center, his back to her, his fingers working at the clasp of the medallion around his neck. "You’re not supposed to be here, Detective." Quinn’s hand hovered over her weapon. "Neither are you." He turned slowly, the medallion now in his palm. It wasn’t just a Saint Christopher. The metal was etched with symbols, the kind she’d seen on the walls outside. "You don’t understand what you’re chasing." "I understand enough." She took a step forward. "You’re running. That means you’re guilty." Herrera’s laugh was bitter. "Guilty of what? Saving lives? Or just saving the wrong ones?" The lantern flickered. Shadows stretched long across the walls, twisting into shapes that didn’t belong. Quinn’s skin prickled. "Where’s the rest of them?" "Gone." Herrera’s voice was flat. "And if you’re smart, you’ll go too." A sound echoed from the tunnel behind her—a wet, clicking noise, like something dragging itself across stone. Quinn’s breath hitched. She’d heard that sound before. Three years ago. The night Morris died. Herrera’s eyes locked onto hers. "You need to leave. *Now.*" The clicking grew louder. Closer. Quinn’s fingers closed around the grip of her gun. She could turn back. Could call for backup. Could pretend she’d never seen any of this. Or she could follow.