Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ9JX9VBB1W4HRVYAF072B

The rain came down in sheets, turning the London streets into a slick, shimmering maze. Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she rounded the corner, her breath sharp in the cold air. The neon glow of a pub sign—*The Raven’s Nest*—flickered ahead, its green light bleeding into the wet pavement. She didn’t slow. The suspect had ducked into the alley beside it, his dark coat flapping like a crow’s wing as he vanished into the shadows. Her fingers twitched near her holster. The radio at her shoulder crackled, but she ignored it. Backup would take too long. She’d lost him once already tonight—wouldn’t happen again. The alley reeked of stale beer and wet stone. Quinn’s pulse hammered in her throat as she pressed against the wall, edging forward. A dumpster loomed ahead, its lid half-open. She kicked it shut. The clang echoed, but no movement. No sound except the drumming rain. Then—a scuffle. A boot scraping concrete. She spun. The suspect stood at the alley’s end, silhouetted against the dim glow of the street beyond. He didn’t run. Just watched her, his face unreadable in the dark. Quinn’s jaw tightened. "Metropolitan Police. Hands where I can see them." A beat. Then he bolted. She cursed, sprinting after him. The alley spilled into a narrow side street, the pavement slick underfoot. He was fast—faster than she expected—but she closed the gap, her lungs burning. Ahead, the suspect veered left, disappearing down a set of stairs leading underground. Quinn skidded to a halt at the top. The stairs descended into darkness, the air rising from below thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something metallic, like old coins. A sign hung crookedly above the entrance: *Camden Tube Station—Closed for Repairs.* She hesitated. This wasn’t right. The station had been abandoned for years. A shout echoed from below. The suspect. Quinn exhaled, sharp and controlled. She adjusted her grip on her torch, thumbing it on. The beam cut through the dark, illuminating graffiti-scarred walls and a tunnel stretching into blackness. No trains. No tracks. Just a yawning void. She stepped down. The air grew heavier with each step, the silence pressing in like a fist. The torchlight flickered over peeling posters and rusted turnstiles. Then—voices. Low, murmuring. The clink of glass. Quinn killed the light. Ahead, a faint glow pulsed in the dark. She moved toward it, her boots silent on the damp concrete. The tunnel opened into a cavernous space, the ceiling lost in shadow. Stalls lined the walls, their wares hidden under tarps and flickering lanterns. Figures moved between them—some human, some not. A woman with too many fingers bartered over a jar of swirling smoke. A man in a long coat examined a set of teeth strung on a necklace. The Veil Market. Quinn’s stomach twisted. She’d heard whispers of this place—had dismissed them as urban legends. But here it was, real as the rain still dripping from her coat. The suspect was nowhere in sight. She edged forward, keeping to the shadows. A stall to her left displayed vials of liquid that glowed like embers. The vendor, a gaunt man with hollow eyes, watched her pass. "Looking for something, love?" Quinn ignored him. Her gaze flicked over the crowd, searching. Then—movement. A flash of dark fabric near the far wall. The suspect. She pushed through the throng, dodging a cart piled with what looked like animal bones. The air hummed with energy, raising the hairs on her arms. A child—no, not a child, something with too-large eyes—grabbed at her sleeve. "You don’t belong here." Quinn shook it off. The suspect was slipping through a narrow archway, into another tunnel. She followed, her pulse roaring in her ears. The tunnel sloped downward, the walls slick with moisture. The voices faded behind her. The air grew colder. Then—light. A single lantern hung from the ceiling, casting long shadows. The suspect stood beneath it, his back to her. Quinn drew her baton. "Turn around." He did. Slowly. His face was younger than she expected—early twenties, maybe. Dark eyes, sharp cheekbones. A scar ran along his jaw. "You’re not here for me," he said. Quinn’s grip tightened. "Hands. Now." He lifted them, palms out. "You don’t understand what you’re walking into." "Try me." A pause. Then—footsteps. Not his. Coming from the tunnel behind her. Quinn turned. Three figures emerged from the dark. Tall. Too tall. Their faces were wrong—stretched, like melted wax. One grinned, revealing rows of needle-thin teeth. The suspect exhaled. "Told you." Quinn’s breath hitched. She’d faced gangsters, killers, men with guns. But this—this was different. The lead figure tilted its head. "Detective Quinn. We’ve been expecting you." Her blood turned to ice. The suspect stepped forward. "Run. Now." She didn’t need to be told twice.