Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7RMW5781QJ2CH4HP9QBH7

The rain came down in sheets, turning the streets of Soho into a slick, glistening river. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she moved with the precision of a soldier on patrol, her sharp jaw set in grim determination. The neon glow of the *Raven’s Nest* flickered weakly through the downpour, its green sign barely visible above the din of the city. She had been tailing the suspect for twenty minutes now—someone who moved like a ghost through the shadows, slipping in and out of alleys with unsettling ease. The man’s name was Elias Voss, and Quinn had enough evidence to pin a dozen crimes on him. But tonight, he was running. A sharp turn down a narrow side street, and Quinn’s pulse quickened. The rain hammered against her umbrella, which she’d abandoned moments ago, the fabric now clinging to her coat like a second skin. She adjusted her grip on her service weapon, the weight familiar in her hand. The suspect had vanished into the mouth of an alley, but Quinn knew better than to assume he was gone. He was waiting. She could feel it in the way the air itself seemed to hold its breath. She stepped forward, her boots crunching over broken glass. The alley was a labyrinth of rusted metal and peeling paint, the walls slick with rain. Then—movement. A flicker of dark fabric, a shadow slipping between the buildings. Quinn’s muscles coiled, ready to spring. She took off after him, her breath steady despite the adrenaline. The suspect led her past a boarded-up pub, its windows shattered, the sign swinging wildly in the wind. Then, another turn—this time into a narrow passage that smelled of damp stone and something older, something *wrong*. The air grew colder. The rain above them had stopped, but here, in this hidden place, the world felt suspended, as if time itself had slowed. Quinn’s fingers brushed against the cold metal of her gun. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like the way the shadows seemed to shift when she wasn’t looking. She didn’t like the way the suspect had vanished into thin air just as she reached the end of the passage. Then she saw it—a flicker of movement in the distance. A door, slightly ajar, its frame warped and blackened as if by fire. The suspect was inside. Quinn hesitated. She knew the rules. She knew the dangers of chasing a lead into the unknown. But she also knew that if she didn’t follow, she’d lose him. And if she lost him, she’d lose the case. And worse—she’d lose the chance to avenge her partner. She pushed the door open. The moment she stepped inside, the world changed. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something metallic, like old blood. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of flickering candles set into the walls. The walls themselves were lined with strange artifacts—bones, jars of black liquid, maps with symbols carved into them. And in the center of the room, standing over a table covered in more of the same, was Elias Voss. He turned as she entered, his face half-lit by the candlelight. His smile was slow, knowing. "Detective Quinn. I was wondering when you’d follow." Quinn’s hand tightened around her gun. "Where is he?" Voss chuckled, low and dark. "Who?" "The man who killed my partner." Voss’s smile faded. "Ah. That man." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You’re too late." Quinn’s blood ran cold. "What did you do to him?" Voss’s gaze flicked to something behind her. Quinn turned just in time to see a figure step out of the shadows—a man with a scar running down his forearm, his dark hair damp from the rain. Tomás Herrera. The paramedic. The one who had been treating Voss’s "patients" off the books. Herrera’s eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, Quinn saw something raw in them—fear, guilt, something worse. "You shouldn’t have come down here," he said, his voice rough. Quinn didn’t answer. She was too busy taking in the room. The walls were lined with more than just trinkets. There were symbols carved into the stone, symbols that made her skin prickle. And in the center of the room, beneath the table, something glinted in the candlelight—a bone token, the kind that granted access to places like this. Voss stood suddenly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. "You’re in over your head, Detective. This isn’t a game." Quinn didn’t back down. "Where is he?" Voss’s laugh was a dark, echoing thing. "He’s not here. But you are." The door behind Quinn slammed shut. She whirled around, her gun raised. The passage was gone. In its place was a vast, underground market—stalls lined with goods she didn’t recognize, people moving in the shadows, their faces half-hidden by hoods or masks. The *Veil Market*. Quinn’s breath came fast. She had no idea where she was. No idea how she’d gotten here. And no idea how to get out. Voss stepped closer, his voice a whisper in the storm. "You could walk away now. Or you could keep coming. But remember—this place doesn’t like visitors." Quinn’s finger tightened on the trigger. She had one choice left. She fired.