Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY82Q5ACXXTSH098V1XH1T6

Rain slashes down, stripping the street of light. Quinn’s boots squelch through puddles, each step a metronome against the roar. The suspect—lean, dark coat flapping—cuts left, colliding with a lamppost. He staggers, snatches a newspaper from a vendor’s stand, and presses it to his head. The vendor yells, but Quinn’s already on him, shoulder checking his ribs. He grunts, drops the paper, and sprints. His boots click on a grate—storm drain, she bets—scrabbling for purchase on the wet metal. She doesn’t call out. Let him know she’s coming. Let him run. After 18 years, she knows the rhythm of a man in a chase: the split second before he overreaches, the way his breath hitches when he thinks he’s safe. He turns down an alley. Trash bins number two, three—knocked over, lids clattering. He dips behind a wall, and Quinn skids to a halt, flashlight flaring. The wall’s a patchwork of brick and weathered wood, but at its base, a bookshelf juts out, crowded with tattered novels. *Not a bookshelf*, she thinks. *A door.* The suspect’s hand brushes the top shelf, and—*creak*—it swings open, revealing a staircase spiraling down. She flicks the flashlight off. Heat bleeds from her palms, not from fear, but from the press of her service weapon. The air below smells of damp stone and something sweeter—rot? No. Incense. She counts to ten, listens. A distant *clink*—a glass, maybe. Then silence. Quinn eases the bookshelf open wider, slips through. The steps are narrow, worn, slick with moss. At the bottom, she pauses, eyes adjusting. The space is taller than a cellar, wider than a subway tunnel. Light glows from cracks in the walls—fairy lights, maybe, or magic. She follows it, her boots silent on stone. The market hits her before she sees it: a hum, a murmur, the sharp tang of something metallic. She rounds a corner, and it unfolds—stalls lined up like a street market, but for beaks that click, scales that glint, antlers that brush the ceiling. A vendor with a goat’s head grinds herbs in a mortar; a woman with skin like water holds up a glowing ring, its light shifting from blue to gold. And there he is, halfway across, talking to a man with a wolf’s head. The suspect’s coat is gone, now—just a dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, a scar snaking up his forearm. *Tomás*, she realizes. The paramedic. The one who treats the clique. But why run? Tomás turns, his eyes meeting hers. He freezes, then snatches a small bone from his pocket—carved, ridged—and holds it up. The wolf-man leans in, speaks too fast. Tomás shoves the bone into a slot in a stall, and the wall ripples, vanishing like water. He dives through, and the wall snaps back, solid. Quinn sprints. The crowd parts, murmuring, as she weaves between stalls. A goblin hisses, swiping at her ankle—she kicks, sends it sprawling. A vampire in a black coat hisses, blocking her path. “Move,” she growls, and he steps aside, eyes flicking to the bone in her pocket—her only token, the one Morris gave her before… before. She reaches the wall where Tomás vanished. The surface is smooth, cold, no slot. She presses her palm to it, feels a faint vibration. *Magic*, she thinks. But not the kind she’s filed reports on. The kind that ate Morris. A hand closes around her wrist. She twists, slams her elbow into the attacker’s gut. He howls—half man, half dog—and she breaks free. The bone in her pocket burns. Not a physical burn, but a ache, like her watch’s metal has seared into her skin. She checks it: the leather’s cracked, the face fogged. 11:17. Tomás is gone. But she hears him—low, rapid speech—in a back corner, where stalls are shielded by tattered curtains. She picks her way through, boots crunching on glass. The curtain at the back is thin—she parts it, and her breath catches. The room is smaller than the market, dimly lit by a single torch. Tomás is here, standing over a table. On it: a vial, glowing green, and a phone—bright, illuminating the face. He’s talking, his Spanish thick and fast. “—she’ll be here by midnight. You know what happens if she finds out—” Quinn steps forward, weapon raised. “Drop it, Tomás.” He freezes. Slowly, he turns. His saint Christopher medallion glints against his olive skin. “Detective,” he says, calm. “You shouldn’t have followed.” “Where is it?” she snaps. “The thing from the old warehouse. The one that killed Morris.” Tomás shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She slams the barrel of her gun into the vial. It shatters, green liquid seeping into the wood. Tomás’ eyes widen. “That was my last painkiller. For my shoulder.” “Dialogue later,” she says. “I want answers.” A noise from the door. She spins, but it’s only a rat, scurrying. Tomás is already moving, reaching under the table. She pulls the trigger—once, twice. The bullet grazes his arm. He grunts, the scar on his forearm stretching wider, blood welling. “Stop!” he says, and for a second, his voice breaks. “You think I wanted this? He made me—” A thud from the street above. Then a *rumble*—the bookshelf sliding open. Quinn’s head snaps up. Tomás takes the chance, dives past her, and sprints for the door. She turns, sees the torch flicker out. The market is loud again—shouts, laughter, the clatter of stalls. Tomás is halfway across, weaving through the crowd. She checks her watch. 11:23. Morris’ last words echo: *“Quinn, they’re not just people. You can’t—”* Can’t what? Look away? She leans into a sprint, overtaking a harpy who squawks at her. Tomás is ahead, now, almost at the staircase. She calls out, but he doesn’t hear—too close to the light. She’s two steps behind when he vanishes through the bookshelf. The world freezes. Quinn skids to a halt, hand on the shelf. The top book is a romance novel, its cover faded. She pushes it. The shelf swings open. Below, the market is dim, but she can see Tomás haggling with a stranger—a man with no eyes, his sockets glowing. Tomás hands over the bone token, and the wall ripples again. Quinn takes a step back, then forward, into the dark. Behind her, the bookshelf slides shut. And far below, in the deepest part of the market, a low, wet laugh echoes. Rain slashes down, but it doesn’t reach her.