Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8CZ2G8DDFPFQHC9R72RKE

The rain hammered down like God’s own broom sweeping the streets clean. Harlow Quinn pulled her collar tighter, the fabric stiff with damp, her breath fogging in the cold air. The neon glow of The Raven’s Nest flickered ahead, its green sign bleeding into the downpour like a bruise. She didn’t slow. The suspect—some wiry bloke in a too-long coat—had ducked inside moments before her, but Quinn wasn’t letting him slip through her fingers again. Not after three years of chasing ghosts. She pushed through the sticky door, the scent of stale beer and something metallic—copper, maybe—hitting her first. The bar was half-empty, the usual crowd of suits and shadowy figures hunched over drinks. Quinn scanned the room, her sharp jaw set. No sign of him. Then—a movement near the back. A bookshelf. Too neat. Too obvious. She strode toward it, her boots splashing through puddles of spilled liquor. The wood groaned as she pressed her palm against it. Cold. Wrong. She knocked twice—sharp, military precision—and the shelf swung inward like it was waiting. Darkness swallowed her whole. A draft rushed out, carrying the stink of damp earth and something older, something that made her skin prickle. Quinn drew her service revolver, the weight familiar in her grip. The hidden room yawned before her, a narrow passage descending into blackness. A single flickering bulb cast long shadows on the stone steps. She hesitated. Footsteps echoed from below. Light. Hurried. The suspect was already down there. Quinn exhaled through her nose, the breath fogging in the cold. She holstered the gun, unsnapped her torch instead, and descended. The air grew thicker, heavier, like the city’s breath itself was pressing down on her. The walls were slick with moisture, the torchlight revealing graffiti—symbols she didn’t recognise, some looking like claw marks, others like twisted sigils. The passage twisted, then opened into a cavernous space. The Veil Market. Stalls lined the edges, their wares glowing faintly in the dim light—bottles of swirling liquid, bundles of herbs that smelled like decay, bones strung together like wind chimes. The air hummed with something electric, something *wrong*. Quinn’s fingers twitched toward her gun again. And then she saw him. The suspect—face pale, eyes darting—was weaving through the crowd, shoving past a stall selling what looked like jars of eyeballs. Quinn moved fast, cutting him off before he reached the far end. “Police,” she barked, her voice cutting through the murmur of haggling voices. “Hands where I can see them.” He froze, then turned slowly. A smirk twisted his lips. “You’re not supposed to be here, Detective.” Quinn’s torch flickered over his face. “Neither are you.” A laugh, sharp and brittle. “This ain’t your jurisdiction.” “Neither’s yours,” she shot back. “What’s down here?” His smirk faltered. “Business.” She didn’t buy it. Not for a second. The market was a den of thieves, witches, and worse. And he was running from something—or someone. A hand clamped onto her shoulder. Quinn spun, torch swinging up—just in time to see the glint of a knife. The blade flashed. She sidestepped, the edge grazing her arm. Pain flared, hot and bright. She drove her elbow into his gut, then twisted, slamming him against a stall. Glass shattered. Something wet splattered her face. The suspect gasped, doubling over. Quinn pressed her forearm to his throat, pinning him. “Talk,” she growled. His eyes rolled back. “Fine. Fine—it’s not me you’re after.” Quinn’s grip tightened. “Who, then?” A voice cut through the chaos. “Detective Quinn.” She turned. A man stood at the edge of the torchlight, his olive skin slick with sweat, a medallion glinting at his throat. Tomás Herrera. The paramedic. The one who’d been asking too many questions. His dark eyes locked onto hers. “You shouldn’t have followed him.” Quinn’s finger twitched toward her gun. “Step away from him.” Tomás didn’t move. “He’s not your problem.” “Neither are you.” A beat. The market seemed to hold its breath. Then Tomás exhaled, slow and steady. “You’re in over your head.” Quinn’s torch flickered. The shadows stretched long and hungry. She knew he was right. But she wasn’t backing down.