Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY83BAYM1WFPM6HEX00ZV3Z

Run Details

Duration:
31.5s
Cost:
$0.001577
Provider:
Seed

Model input

System
You are an expert novelist with a gift for vivid, immersive prose. You write in tight third-person limited point of view with a strong narrative voice. Your prose is clean, precise, and engaging — you favor strong verbs, concrete details, and natural-sounding dialogue. You will be given a story bible (codex) containing canonical details about characters, locations, items, and lore. Use these details to ground your writing in the established world. Stay consistent with the codex. Write only the prose of the scene. Do not include titles, chapter headings, markdown formatting, or any commentary before or after the scene.
User/Human
<codex> <character id="4416" name="Detective Harlow Quinn" aliases="Quinn, Detective Quinn, Harlow" pronouns="she/her" species="Human" storyRole="Antagonist"> <eyeColor>brown</eyeColor> <hair>closely cropped salt-and-pepper</hair> <height>5'9"</height> <age>41</age> <jawline>sharp jaw</jawline> <watch>worn leather watch on her left wrist</watch> <bearing>military precision</bearing> <description>A Metropolitan Police detective with 18 years of decorated service who suspects the clique is involved in criminal activity.</description> <backstory>She lost her partner, DS Morris, during a case three years ago under unexplained circumstances that had supernatural origins she doesn't yet understand.</backstory> </character> <character id="4417" name="Tomás Herrera" aliases="Tommy, Tomás, Herrera" pronouns="he/him" species="Human" storyRole="Support"> <eyeColor>warm brown</eyeColor> <hair>short curly dark brown</hair> <height>5'10"</height> <age>29</age> <skinTone>olive skin</skinTone> <scar>scar running along his left forearm from a knife attack</scar> <medallion>Saint Christopher medallion around his neck</medallion> <birthplace>Seville, Spain</birthplace> <description>A former paramedic who provides off-the-books medical care for the clique.</description> <backstory>Born in Seville, Spain. He moved to London to work for the NHS but lost his license after administering unauthorized treatments to supernatural patients.</backstory> </character> <location id="854" name="The Raven's Nest" aliases="the Nest, Raven, Silas' bar" realm="Earth"> <signColor>distinctive green neon sign above the entrance</signColor> <secretRoom>hidden back room accessible through a bookshelf, used for clandestine meetings</secretRoom> <description>A dimly lit bar in Soho, London. The walls are covered with old maps and black-and-white photographs.</description> </location> <location id="856" name="The Veil Market" aliases="Veil Market, the Market, underground market" realm="Earth"> <currentLocation>abandoned Tube station beneath Camden</currentLocation> <entryRequirement>bone token</entryRequirement> <schedule>moves locations every full moon</schedule> <description>A hidden supernatural black market that sells enchanted goods, banned alchemical substances, and information.</description> </location> </codex> Write a fully fleshed out scene of at least 1000 words in the thriller genre. A detective is pursuing a suspect through rain-soaked city streets at night. The chase takes them from the street level down into an underground market. The detective must decide whether to follow the suspect into unfamiliar and potentially dangerous territory. Use the codex entries above as your world reference for characters and setting. Only include the prose of the scene without any markdown or commentary.

Model response

AI
Rain hammers the street so hard it blurs the neon sign above The Raven's Nest—green, flickering, a raven with a cracked beak. Detective Harlow Quinn presses her back to the alley wall, breath misting in the cold, and wipes rain from her brow. Her military precision is still there, under the chaos: shoulders squared, fingers brushing the worn leather of her watch, the one Morris used to scratch "TEN TO SIX" on her shoulder during a stakeout. Three years later, the face still reads 11:17. Inside the bar, the air smells like bourbon and sawdust. Quinn has been watching for the past hour—staked out in a car around the corner, rain soaking her coat, her bladder screaming. The target is a man named Jax, linked to the Clique, a团伙 she’s been chasing for months. Their boss, Silas, is a ghost with a voice like gravel; the Clique moves like smoke, but Jax? Jax *stinks*. Now he’s here, at the bar’s back corner, a whiskey in front of him, his eyes flicking to the door every ten seconds. Quinn shifts her weight, her boot crunching a wet cigarette butt. The bar’s walls are crammed with old maps—some with pins in red, *too* specific—and black-and-white photos: a young woman in a corset, a dockworker with a missing finger, a shadowy figure in a gasmask. She studies Jax: 6’2”, broad shoulders, a scar snaking up his neck from ear to jaw. He’s wearing a black coat, collar up, but she’d know those hands—calloused, knuckles cracked. The ones that broke Morris’s radio during that night in the warehouse, the ones that… She blinks. The memory burns, but Jax is moving now—sliding off his stool, paying the bartender with a crumpled bill, and heading for the door. Quinn moves before she thinks. She pushes off the wall, rain slapping her face, and bursts into the bar. The music (a scratchy blues record) cuts. Jax’s hand hovers over the doorknob. She can smell his cologne—sandalwood and iron—before he turns. Their eyes lock. For a second, he’s *smiling*. Then he’s gone, the door slamming behind him, and the bar goes still. “Detective?” The bartender, a woman with gray hair in a braid, slides a napkin her way. On it, scrawled in pencil: *Back alley. Fifth door left.* Quinn snatches up the napkin, nods, and bolts. The alley is a tunnel of shadows, rain pouring off fire escapes. Jax is ten steps ahead, his boots splashing through a puddle. He’s faster than he looks—bending low, ducking under a chain-link fence, cutting through a service door that sticks. Quinn lunges for it, her shoulder slamming into the wood until it creaks open. “Jax!” she barks. “Stop!” He doesn’t. She chases through a loading dock, past crates labeled *FRESH SEAFOOD* (stinking of rot), into a dark parking lot. The streets here are narrower, lined with brick townhouses, their windows shuttered against the rain. Jax turns onto a side street, and Quinn sprints, her coat flapping, her breath ragged. The city is asleep—only a drunkard by a lamppost, snoring, and a stray cat, darting across the road. “C’mon, you son of a bitch!” Quinn growls. Morris would be laughing at her—*“Harlow, you’re gonna mess up your hair,”* he’d say, but he’d be right behind her, shotgun in hand. They hit Camden High Street, the rain thinning for a second, then thickening again. Jax stops short outside a rusted iron gate—*“Underground Car Park, No Trespassing”—*and pulls a bone from his pocket. It’s white, porous, carved with spirals, and when he presses it to the gate, a section of iron *melts*, dripping like wax, revealing a black hole—staircase, leading down. Quinn skids to a stop, skidding on a wet patch of asphalt. Her chest heaves. The gate is gone. Below, she can hear voices—high, warbling, *not* human. “Veil Market,” she mutters. She’d researched it, of course—black market for the supernatural, hidden in abandoned Tube stations, moves every full moon. The Clique must be trading with the fae, with ghosts, with whatever the hell Morris ran into that night. Jax is halfway down the stairs. She can see his coat, flaring black against the stone. “Jax!” she yells again, louder. “You think running underground—” The ground rumbles. Quinn freezes. The noise comes again, a low *groan*, like metal being bent. The brick walls of the alley creak. A window shatters two doors down. She looks up—gray sky, no lightning. Then Jax is gone. And the gate is *alive*. The melted section is thickening, oozing, as if the ground itself is closing the hole. “Shit,” she says. She sprints to the gate, her hand on the iron. It’s *warm*, like it’s been sitting in the sun. The spiral carvings glow faintly, pulsing. She remembers the bone token—how they’re made from the remains of supernatural beings, porous enough to let magic through, but solid enough to hold. Jax used one to open the gate. Can she make one? She checks her pockets—keys, a pen, a crumpled warrant. No bone. The ground shakes again, harder. A crack splits the pavement, snaking toward her feet. She steps back, then forward, testing the crack. It’s only a hairwidth, but the buildings on either side are shuddering, their foundations popping loose. “Quinn!” She turns. A man stands at the end of the alley, rain soaking his dark curls, a medical bag slung over his shoulder. It’s Tomás Herrera. She’s met him once, six months ago, when he’d been brought in for questioning—treated a Clique member’s bullet wound in the back room of the Nest, then vanished before the DCI could ask questions. His olive skin glows in the streetlight, his left forearm scar (a sharp, white line) visible through his wet flannel. “What are you doing here?” she demands. Her hand drifts to her holster, but he holds up his hands, palms out. “The ground’s *ripping*,” he says, pointing. “The Veil’s thinning—only happens when something big shifts. You think the Clique’s just *trading*? Silas is *selling* souls. To the Hollow Ones.” “The Hollow Ones?” “Fae. They want the world between worlds to break. Let them in.” He takes a step closer, his eyes urgent. “You followed Jax, didn’t you? He’s not running from you. He’s running from them. They’re hungry.” Another shake—this time, the gate *explodes*, shattering into sparks. Jax’s voice echoes from below, a high, panicked shriek. Quinn’s watch beeps. 11:20. Morris’s watch used to be five minutes fast. “Tell me how to get down there,” she says. Tomás hesitates. “You don’t have a token. Without a bone, the Veil will *consume* you. The market’s not… friendly. The vendors, the guards—they see you as meat if you’re not marked.” “Then mark me,” she says. She unbuttons her coat, pulls out a photo from her pocket. It’s Morris, grinning, arm slung around her shoulder. “He would’ve followed me. And if I don’t find out what they did to him—” “Wait.” Tomás steps forward, his hand brushing hers. His skin is cool, damp. “Take this.” He pulls a small bone from his medical bag—thinner than Jax’s, but still smooth, carved with a simple cross. “Saint Christopher. It’s… old. Used to belong to my abuela. She said it keeps the dark from sticking.” Quinn takes it, her fingers closing around the bone. It’s warm, almost alive. “You know what happens if you help me?” she says. He nods. “I lose my license. Again.” He smirks, a flash of white teeth. “At least I’ll die looking for answers, instead of patching up fools who won’t tell me shit.” The ground splits wider. A gust of wind, cold as a grave, blows through the alley, carrying the sound of laughter—*not* human. Quinn tucks the bone into her pocket. “Lead the way.” Tomás turns, heading for the gate. “Just… keep close. And don’t talk to the vendors. Especially not the one with the antlers.” They step through the gate. The world *changes*. The rain stops. Below, the air is thick with the smell of jasmine and smoke—something sweet, something toxic. The walls of the Tube station are covered in moss, in ivy, in *scrawls*—ink that glows red, writing in a language Quinn doesn’t recognize. There are no lights, but the ceiling is dotted with *stars*—pale, fake, rotating slowly. People move around them: a woman with scale-covered arms, buying a vial of glowing liquid; a man with a goat’s head, herding a cage of black birds; a group of cloaked figures, their faces hidden, chanting in a low, guttural tone. Tomás takes her arm, steering her into a side alley, away from the crowd. “Four exits,” he says, pointing. “The west tunnel leads to Silas’ vault. The north one’s the food market—steer clear of the pork vendors. They sell… *meat*. The east is the spirit exchange—you don’t want to trade with ghosts. They take your memories. The south is the guardhouse. Those are the guys with the antlers. Don’t make eye contact.” A roar echoes through the station. Everyone freezes. Tomás’s face pales. “Jax broke in,” he says. “He told them you’re here. The Hollow Ones don’t like intruders.” Quinn grips the bone in her pocket. Morris’s face flashes in her mind. *“Stay sharp, Harlow. The dark’s always watching.”* She follows Tomás into the east tunnel. The walls drip with a clear, sticky fluid—*fey sap*, she thinks, from Tomás’s earlier warning. The chanting grows louder, and then she sees him: Jax, tied to a stake, his coat bloodied, a fae creature with a serpent’s body and a bird’s head standing over him, its talons dripping. “Quinn!” Jax gasps. “Stop—they’re not—” The creature turns. Its eyes are black, without pupils. It hisses, and the air *cracks*—in front of Quinn, a fissure opens, revealing darkness beyond. “Run!” Tomás yells. Quinn doesn’t move. She looks at Jax, at his blood, at the bone in her hand. Morris’s watch ticks. 11:22. The creature lunges. Quinn draws her gun—she’d stashed it in her coat, under her uniform—and fires. The bullet hits its chest, but it doesn’t flinch. It hisses again, faster, and the fissure grows. Jax struggles against his bonds. “It’s not about the Clique, Quinn! Silas made a deal—he gave them the *key*—the token from your partner’s case—” “Morris?” Quinn drops to her knees, cutting Jax’s ropes with her knife. “What did Silas do with Morris’s token?” The creature roars, and the ground *explodes*. Tomás grabs Quinn’s arm, dragging her toward the west tunnel. The crowd scatters, screams mixing with the hissing of the creature. “Silas is using Morris’s token to open the gate!” Jax yells, as they run. “The Hollow Ones will pour through—” A blade slices through the air, missing Tomás by inches. He swerves, and they duck into a side room—small, with a door that leads to a staircase. “The vault!” Tomás says. “Silas keeps the tokens there. If we destroy them—” Quinn doesn’t wait. She runs up the stairs, Tomás right behind her. The room at the top is a vault, made of steel, with a door that matches the bone tokens—spirals, glowing faintly. She pulls the bone from her pocket, presses it to the door. It fits perfectly, and the door *swallows* it, crumbling into ash. Inside, the vault is lined with shelves, each holding a token—some carved, some simple, some shaped like eyes, like hearts, like teeth. Quinn spots Morris’s token immediately: a small, white bone, etched with the initials *D.S.M*. She grabs it, her hands shaking. “Quick—there are others—” Tomás says, but the vault shakes. The walls are cracking, and the air is thick with the smell of sulfur. “The gate’s opening!” Jax yells, bursting into the room. His coat is gone, his shirt torn, blood staining his chest. “And the Hollow Ones—” A shadow falls over the door. The creature stands there, its serpent body coiled, its bird head tilted. It hisses, and the ground *collapses*. Quinn shoves Tomás and Jax toward the door. “Run! Take the token—destroy it—” “No!” Jax yells. “We need to stop the gate *before* it opens—you have to use Morris’s token—” The creature strikes, its talons slashing Jax’s throat. He crumples, blood bubbling from his mouth. Quinn stares. Then she picks up Morris’s token, runs to the door, and presses it to the wall. The initials *D.S.M.* glow red, then *burn*, then *disappear*. The vault shakes harder. The creature hisses, its eyes narrowing. Quinn turns, grabbing Jax’s body, and shoves him toward the door. “Go!” she screams. “Tell Silas—” The creature lunges. Quinn doesn’t move. She closes her eyes, and sees Morris, laughing, a cigarette in his hand. *“I got you, Harlow. Always.”* The creature’s talons pierce her shoulder. She screams, but the pain is distant. She looks down at Morris’s token, now lying in her hand, glowing brighter than before. Then the gate opens. Light spills into the vault—pale, blue, *cold*. The creature freezes, its head tilting. It opens its mouth, and something *sings*—a sound that vibrates in Quinn’s bones, in her brain, in her *soul*. Tomás is at the door, pointing a gun. He fires. The creature turns, and he runs. Quinn runs, too. She follows Tomás through the west tunnel, past the hissing crowd, past the shattering walls. Behind them, the gate closes, the vault collapses, and the creature’s scream fades. They emerge onto the street, the rain pouring down again, drenching them. The sky is lightening—dawn is coming. Tomás pulls a first-aid kit from his bag, pressing it to Quinn’s shoulder. She winces, but doesn’t pull away. “Jax—” she starts. “Dead,” he says. “I’m sorry.” Quinn nods. She looks at the bone in her hand—Morris’s token, now black, cracked. She drops it, and it shatters, turning to dust. The sun rises, painting the street gold. Tomás tosses her a towel. “You should go.” She looks up. “You’re coming with me.” He smiles. “I told you—at least I’ll die looking for answers.” Quinn nods. Her shoulder burns, but her chest is light. Morris would be proud. She stands, her hand on her gun, and starts walking. The world is still. But she knows—*knows*—that the Clique is still out there, the Veil is still thin, and the dark is always watching. But Harlow Quinn is watching, too. And she doesn’t blink.
created_at"2026-02-20T19:23:19.275Z" 2/20/2026, 7:23:19 PM
model"bytedance-seed/seed-1.6-flash-20250625"
app_id182717
external_user(null)
streamedtrue
cancelledfalse
latency430
moderation_latency(null)
generation_time31335
tokens_prompt914
tokens_completion5392
native_tokens_prompt957
native_tokens_completion5019
native_tokens_completion_images(null)
native_tokens_reasoning1342
native_tokens_cached0
num_media_prompt(null)
num_input_audio_prompt(null)
num_media_completion0
num_search_results(null)
origin"https://ncbench.com/"
is_byokfalse
finish_reason"stop"
native_finish_reason"stop"
usage0.001577475
router(null)
provider_responses
0
endpoint_id"e01a1227-001b-44d4-a376-90850668fa84"
id"021771615399428b1e926b94f741badb049b6681cf829b8fa6d4e"
is_byokfalse
latency332
model_permaslug"bytedance-seed/seed-1.6-flash-20250625"
provider_name"Seed"
status200
api_type"completions"
id"gen-1771615399-2YwcOwKnyQieftEqBp3v"
upstream_id"021771615399428b1e926b94f741badb049b6681cf829b8fa6d4e"
total_cost0.001577475
cache_discount(null)
upstream_inference_cost0
provider_name"Seed"

Evaluation details

Result Evaluator Details Meta Data
100.00% Adverbs in dialogue tags
Target: ≤10% dialogue tags with adverbs
totalTags43
adverbTagCount1
adverbTags
0"she yells again [again]"
dialogueSentences57
tagDensity0.754
leniency1
rawRatio0.023
effectiveRatio0.023
95.85% AI-ism adverb frequency
Target: <2% AI-ism adverbs (58 tracked)
wordCount2407
totalAiIsmAdverbs2
found
0
adverb"slowly"
count1
1
adverb"perfectly"
count1
highlights
0"slowly"
1"perfectly"
100.00% AI-ism character names
Target: 0 AI-default names (17 tracked, −20% each)
codexExemptions(empty)
found(empty)
100.00% AI-ism location names
Target: 0 AI-default location names (33 tracked, −20% each)
codexExemptions(empty)
found(empty)
87.54% AI-ism word frequency
Target: <2% AI-ism words (290 tracked)
wordCount2407
totalAiIsms6
found
0
word"weight"
count1
1
word"echoes"
count2
2
word"almost alive"
count1
3
word"grave"
count1
4
word"etched"
count1
highlights
0"weight"
1"echoes"
2"almost alive"
3"grave"
4"etched"
100.00% Cliché density
Target: ≤1 cliche(s) per 800-word window
totalCliches0
maxInWindow0
found(empty)
highlights(empty)
100.00% Emotion telling (show vs. tell)
Target: ≤3% sentences with emotion telling
emotionTells0
narrationSentences134
matches(empty)
78.89% Filter word density
Target: ≤3% sentences with filter/hedge words
filterCount6
hedgeCount0
narrationSentences134
filterMatches
0"watch"
1"think"
2"watch watch"
3"see"
hedgeMatches(empty)
98.45% Gibberish response detection
Target: ≤1% gibberish-like sentences (hard fail if a sentence exceeds 800 words)
analyzedSentences138
gibberishSentences1
adjustedGibberishSentences1
longSentenceCount0
runOnParagraphCount0
giantParagraphCount0
wordSaladCount0
repetitionLoopCount0
controlTokenCount0
maxSentenceWordsSeen81
ratio0.007
matches
0"The target is a man named Jax, linked to the Clique, a团伙 she’s been chasing for months."
100.00% Markdown formatting overuse
Target: ≤5% words in markdown formatting
markdownSpans39
markdownWords65
totalWords2366
ratio0.027
matches
0"stinks"
1"too"
2"smiling"
3"Back alley. Fifth door left."
4"FRESH SEAFOOD"
5"“Harlow, you’re gonna mess up your hair,”"
6"“Underground Car Park, No Trespassing”—"
7"melts"
8"not"
9"groan"
10"alive"
11"warm"
12"ripping"
13"trading"
14"selling"
15"explodes"
16"consume"
17"not"
18"changes"
19"scrawls"
20"stars"
21"meat"
22"“Stay sharp, Harlow. The dark’s always watching.”"
23"fey sap"
24"cracks"
25"key"
26"explodes"
27"swallows"
28"D.S.M"
29"collapses"
30"before"
31"D.S.M."
32"burn"
33"disappear"
34"“I got you, Harlow. Always.”"
35"cold"
36"sings"
37"soul"
38"knows"
100.00% Missing dialogue indicators (quotation marks)
Target: ≤10% speech attributions without quotation marks
totalAttributions29
unquotedAttributions0
matches(empty)
66.67% Name drop frequency
Target: ≤1.0 per-name mentions per 100 words
totalMentions121
wordCount2085
uniqueNames22
maxNameDensity1.53
worstName"Quinn"
maxWindowNameDensity3
worstWindowName"Quinn"
discoveredNames
Raven1
Nest2
Harlow3
Quinn32
Morris13
Jax26
Clique6
Silas3
Camden1
High1
Street1
Car1
Park1
Trespassing1
Tube2
Can1
Tomás19
Herrera1
You1
Hollow2
Veil2
Ones1
persons
0"Raven"
1"Nest"
2"Harlow"
3"Quinn"
4"Morris"
5"Jax"
6"Clique"
7"Silas"
8"Can"
9"Tomás"
10"Herrera"
11"You"
12"Veil"
places
0"Camden"
1"High"
2"Street"
3"Car"
4"Park"
5"Hollow"
6"Ones"
globalScore0.733
windowScore0.667
100.00% Narrator intent-glossing
Target: ≤2% narration sentences with intent-glossing patterns
analyzedSentences87
glossingSentenceCount0
matches(empty)
100.00% "Not X but Y" pattern overuse
Target: ≤1 "not X but Y" per 1000 words
totalMatches0
per1kWords0
wordCount2366
matches(empty)
100.00% Overuse of "that" (subordinate clause padding)
Target: ≤2% sentences with "that" clauses
thatCount1
totalSentences138
matches
0"into that night"
100.00% Paragraph length variance
Target: CV ≥0.5 for paragraph word counts
totalParagraphs93
mean25.44
std20.73
cv0.815
sampleLengths
085
192
290
325
462
526
68
755
84
92
1067
1131
1260
1327
1441
1516
169
173
1836
1920
2059
2115
2238
231
2480
2521
2628
273
2836
2918
3012
319
3231
3339
3452
3513
3610
3731
3822
3910
4022
418
423
4353
4455
4558
4611
4716
4820
4956
89.55% Passive voice overuse
Target: ≤2% passive sentences
passiveCount6
totalSentences134
matches
0"are crammed"
1"is gone"
2"made"
3"been brought"
4"are covered"
5"is dotted"
6"is lined"
100.00% Past progressive (was/were + -ing) overuse
Target: ≤2% past progressive verbs
pastProgressiveCount0
totalVerbs397
matches(empty)
0.00% Em-dash & semicolon overuse
Target: ≤2% sentences with em-dashes/semicolons
emDashCount44
semicolonCount3
flaggedSentences36
totalSentences138
ratio0.261
matches
0"Rain hammers the street so hard it blurs the neon sign above The Raven's Nest—green, flickering, a raven with a cracked beak."
1"Quinn has been watching for the past hour—staked out in a car around the corner, rain soaking her coat, her bladder screaming."
2"Their boss, Silas, is a ghost with a voice like gravel; the Clique moves like smoke, but Jax?"
3"The bar’s walls are crammed with old maps—some with pins in red, *too* specific—and black-and-white photos: a young woman in a corset, a dockworker with a missing finger, a shadowy figure in a gasmask."
4"She blinks. The memory burns, but Jax is moving now—sliding off his stool, paying the bartender with a crumpled bill, and heading for the door."
5"Quinn moves before she thinks. She pushes off the wall, rain slapping her face, and bursts into the bar. The music (a scratchy blues record) cuts. Jax’s hand hovers over the doorknob. She can smell his cologne—sandalwood and iron—before he turns. Their eyes lock. For a second, he’s *smiling*. Then he’s gone, the door slamming behind him, and the bar goes still."
6"The alley is a tunnel of shadows, rain pouring off fire escapes. Jax is ten steps ahead, his boots splashing through a puddle. He’s faster than he looks—bending low, ducking under a chain-link fence, cutting through a service door that sticks. Quinn lunges for it, her shoulder slamming into the wood until it creaks open."
7"She chases through a loading dock, past crates labeled *FRESH SEAFOOD* (stinking of rot), into a dark parking lot. The streets here are narrower, lined with brick townhouses, their windows shuttered against the rain. Jax turns onto a side street, and Quinn sprints, her coat flapping, her breath ragged. The city is asleep—only a drunkard by a lamppost, snoring, and a stray cat, darting across the road."
8"“C’mon, you son of a bitch!” Quinn growls. Morris would be laughing at her—*“Harlow, you’re gonna mess up your hair,”* he’d say, but he’d be right behind her, shotgun in hand."
9"They hit Camden High Street, the rain thinning for a second, then thickening again. Jax stops short outside a rusted iron gate—*“Underground Car Park, No Trespassing”—*and pulls a bone from his pocket. It’s white, porous, carved with spirals, and when he presses it to the gate, a section of iron *melts*, dripping like wax, revealing a black hole—staircase, leading down."
10"Quinn skids to a stop, skidding on a wet patch of asphalt. Her chest heaves. The gate is gone. Below, she can hear voices—high, warbling, *not* human."
11"“Veil Market,” she mutters. She’d researched it, of course—black market for the supernatural, hidden in abandoned Tube stations, moves every full moon. The Clique must be trading with the fae, with ghosts, with whatever the hell Morris ran into that night."
12"Quinn freezes. The noise comes again, a low *groan*, like metal being bent. The brick walls of the alley creak. A window shatters two doors down. She looks up—gray sky, no lightning. Then Jax is gone."
13"“Shit,” she says. She sprints to the gate, her hand on the iron. It’s *warm*, like it’s been sitting in the sun. The spiral carvings glow faintly, pulsing. She remembers the bone token—how they’re made from the remains of supernatural beings, porous enough to let magic through, but solid enough to hold. Jax used one to open the gate."
14"Can she make one? She checks her pockets—keys, a pen, a crumpled warrant. No bone."
15"She turns. A man stands at the end of the alley, rain soaking his dark curls, a medical bag slung over his shoulder. It’s Tomás Herrera. She’s met him once, six months ago, when he’d been brought in for questioning—treated a Clique member’s bullet wound in the back room of the Nest, then vanished before the DCI could ask questions. His olive skin glows in the streetlight, his left forearm scar (a sharp, white line) visible through his wet flannel."
16"Another shake—this time, the gate *explodes*, shattering into sparks. Jax’s voice echoes from below, a high, panicked shriek."
17"The vendors, the guards—they see you as meat if you’re not marked.”"
18"“Wait.” Tomás steps forward, his hand brushing hers. His skin is cool, damp. “Take this.” He pulls a small bone from his medical bag—thinner than Jax’s, but still smooth, carved with a simple cross. “Saint Christopher."
19"The ground splits wider. A gust of wind, cold as a grave, blows through the alley, carrying the sound of laughter—*not* human."
20"Below, the air is thick with the smell of jasmine and smoke—something sweet, something toxic. The walls of the Tube station are covered in moss, in ivy, in *scrawls*—ink that glows red, writing in a language Quinn doesn’t recognize. There are no lights, but the ceiling is dotted with *stars*—pale, fake, rotating slowly."
21"People move around them: a woman with scale-covered arms, buying a vial of glowing liquid; a man with a goat’s head, herding a cage of black birds; a group of cloaked figures, their faces hidden, chanting in a low, guttural tone. Tomás takes her arm, steering her into a side alley, away from the crowd."
22"The north one’s the food market—steer clear of the pork vendors."
23"The east is the spirit exchange—you don’t want to trade with ghosts."
24"She follows Tomás into the east tunnel. The walls drip with a clear, sticky fluid—*fey sap*, she thinks, from Tomás’s earlier warning. The chanting grows louder, and then she sees him: Jax, tied to a stake, his coat bloodied, a fae creature with a serpent’s body and a bird’s head standing over him, its talons dripping."
25"The creature turns. Its eyes are black, without pupils. It hisses, and the air *cracks*—in front of Quinn, a fissure opens, revealing darkness beyond."
26"Quinn draws her gun—she’d stashed it in her coat, under her uniform—and fires. The bullet hits its chest, but it doesn’t flinch. It hisses again, faster, and the fissure grows."
27"Silas made a deal—he gave them the *key*—the token from your partner’s case—”"
28"A blade slices through the air, missing Tomás by inches. He swerves, and they duck into a side room—small, with a door that leads to a staircase."
29"Quinn doesn’t wait. She runs up the stairs, Tomás right behind her. The room at the top is a vault, made of steel, with a door that matches the bone tokens—spirals, glowing faintly. She pulls the bone from her pocket, presses it to the door. It fits perfectly, and the door *swallows* it, crumbling into ash."
30"Inside, the vault is lined with shelves, each holding a token—some carved, some simple, some shaped like eyes, like hearts, like teeth. Quinn spots Morris’s token immediately: a small, white bone, etched with the initials *D.S.M*."
31"Take the token—destroy it—”"
32"Light spills into the vault—pale, blue, *cold*. The creature freezes, its head tilting. It opens its mouth, and something *sings*—a sound that vibrates in Quinn’s bones, in her brain, in her *soul*."
33"They emerge onto the street, the rain pouring down again, drenching them. The sky is lightening—dawn is coming."
34"Quinn nods. She looks at the bone in her hand—Morris’s token, now black, cracked. She drops it, and it shatters, turning to dust."
35"She stands, her hand on her gun, and starts walking. The world is still. But she knows—*knows*—that the Clique is still out there, the Veil is still thin, and the dark is always watching."
100.00% Purple prose (modifier overload)
Target: <4% adverbs, <2% -ly adverbs, no adj stacking
wordCount1698
adjectiveStacks0
stackExamples(empty)
adverbCount47
adverbRatio0.02767962308598351
lyAdverbCount6
lyAdverbRatio0.0035335689045936395
100.00% Repeated phrase echo
Target: ≤20% sentences with echoes (window: 2)
totalSentences138
echoCount0
echoWords(empty)
100.00% Sentence length variance
Target: CV ≥0.4 for sentence word counts
totalSentences138
mean17.14
std15.86
cv0.925
sampleLengths
022
121
234
38
410
522
617
718
82
923
1011
1134
1245
1325
1462
1526
168
1755
184
192
2067
2131
2260
2327
2441
2516
269
273
2836
2920
3059
3115
3238
331
3480
3521
3614
376
384
394
403
411
428
4316
445
454
462
4718
4812
499
63.04% Sentence opener variety
Target: ≥60% unique sentence openers
consecutiveRepeats3
diversityRatio0.391304347826087
totalSentences138
uniqueOpeners54
59.52% Adverb-first sentence starts
Target: ≥3% sentences starting with an adverb
adverbCount2
totalSentences112
matches
0"Especially not the one with"
1"Then the gate opens."
ratio0.018
100.00% Pronoun-first sentence starts
Target: ≤30% sentences starting with a pronoun
pronounCount26
totalSentences112
matches
0"Her military precision is still"
1"Their boss, Silas, is a"
2"She studies Jax:"
3"She blinks. The memory burns,"
4"She chases through a loading"
5"They hit Camden High Street,"
6"she mutters. She’d researched it,"
7"she yells again, louder"
8"she says. She sprints to"
9"She turns. A man stands"
10"she demands. Her hand drifts"
11"he says, pointing"
12"You think the Clique’s just"
13"They want the world between"
14"He’s not running from you."
15"He’s running from them."
16"she says. She unbuttons her"
17"She said it keeps the"
18"They step through the gate."
19"he says, pointing"
ratio0.232
53.75% Subject-first sentence starts
Target: ≤72% sentences starting with a subject
subjectCount91
totalSentences112
matches
0"Detective Harlow Quinn presses her"
1"Her military precision is still"
2"Quinn has been watching for"
3"The target is a man"
4"Their boss, Silas, is a"
5"Quinn shifts her weight, her"
6"The bar’s walls are crammed"
7"She studies Jax:"
8"She blinks. The memory burns,"
9"Quinn moves before she thinks."
10"The bartender, a woman with"
11"Quinn snatches up the napkin,"
12"The alley is a tunnel"
13"She chases through a loading"
14"Quinn growls. Morris would be"
15"They hit Camden High Street,"
16"Quinn skids to a stop,"
17"she mutters. She’d researched it,"
18"Jax is halfway down the"
19"she yells again, louder"
ratio0.813
100.00% Subordinate conjunction sentence starts
Target: ≥2% sentences starting with a subordinating conjunction
subConjCount3
totalSentences112
matches
0"Now he’s here, at the"
1"To the Hollow"
2"If we destroy"
ratio0.027
0.00% Technical jargon density
Target: ≤6% sentences with technical-jargon patterns
analyzedSentences52
technicalSentenceCount13
matches
0"She blinks. The memory burns, but Jax is moving now—sliding off his stool, paying the bartender with a crumpled bill, and heading for the door."
1"The alley is a tunnel of shadows, rain pouring off fire escapes. Jax is ten steps ahead, his boots splashing through a puddle. He’s faster than he looks—bending…"
2"She chases through a loading dock, past crates labeled *FRESH SEAFOOD* (stinking of rot), into a dark parking lot. The streets here are narrower, lined with bri…"
3"And the gate is *alive*. The melted section is thickening, oozing, as if the ground itself is closing the hole."
4"The ground shakes again, harder. A crack splits the pavement, snaking toward her feet. She steps back, then forward, testing the crack. It’s only a hairwidth, b…"
5"Below, the air is thick with the smell of jasmine and smoke—something sweet, something toxic. The walls of the Tube station are covered in moss, in ivy, in *scr…"
6"People move around them: a woman with scale-covered arms, buying a vial of glowing liquid; a man with a goat’s head, herding a cage of black birds; a group of c…"
7"She follows Tomás into the east tunnel. The walls drip with a clear, sticky fluid—*fey sap*, she thinks, from Tomás’s earlier warning. The chanting grows louder…"
8"The creature roars, and the ground *explodes*. Tomás grabs Quinn’s arm, dragging her toward the west tunnel. The crowd scatters, screams mixing with the hissing…"
9"Quinn doesn’t wait. She runs up the stairs, Tomás right behind her. The room at the top is a vault, made of steel, with a door that matches the bone tokens—spir…"
10"The creature strikes, its talons slashing Jax’s throat. He crumples, blood bubbling from his mouth."
11"The creature’s talons pierce her shoulder. She screams, but the pain is distant. She looks down at Morris’s token, now lying in her hand, glowing brighter than …"
12"Light spills into the vault—pale, blue, *cold*. The creature freezes, its head tilting. It opens its mouth, and something *sings*—a sound that vibrates in Quinn…"
96.43% Useless dialogue additions
Target: ≤5% dialogue tags with trailing filler fragments
totalTags35
uselessAdditionCount2
matches
0"she yells again, louder"
1"Tomás steps, his hand brushing hers"
0.00% Dialogue tag variety (said vs. fancy)
Target: ≤10% fancy dialogue tags
totalTags20
fancyCount9
fancyTags
0"she barks (bark)"
1"Morris would (would)"
2"she mutters. (mutter)"
3"she yells again (yell)"
4"she demands. (demand)"
5"Tomás yells (yell)"
6"Jax yells (yell)"
7"Jax yells (yell)"
8"Jax yells (yell)"
dialogueSentences57
tagDensity0.351
leniency0.702
rawRatio0.45
effectiveRatio0.316
82.9896%