Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8PFZZKW1BHBHPP2JHW2J9

The neon glow of the Raven’s Nest flickered like a dying ember against the slick pavement. Detective Quinn’s boots splashed through the puddles as she pressed forward, her breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. The air smelled of damp stone and something sharper—burnt oil, maybe, or the metallic tang of fear. Tomás Herrera had led her here, but Quinn had never trusted a man who moved like a shadow through the dark. She ducked beneath the flickering sign, the bar’s entrance just ahead, its door hanging ajar. The scent of stale whiskey and something older—something *wrong*—waved out from the dim interior. Quinn’s pulse hammered in her throat. She had no reason to believe Tomás was leading her into a trap, but the way he’d spoken of "the Nest" made her skin prickle. *Silas*, she thought. *Silas and his clique.* The name coiled in her gut like a snake. She stepped inside, the door slamming shut behind her with a wet *thud*. The bar was a cavern of flickering light and half-empty glasses, the walls lined with maps and photographs that seemed to shift when she blinked. A low murmur rose from the crowd—voices, laughter, the occasional sharp intake of breath. Quinn’s eyes landed on Tomás, standing near the bar, his dark curls damp from the rain. He turned, his scar glinting under the neon, and his gaze locked onto hers. "You’re late," he said, voice low. Not a question. Quinn’s fingers tightened around the strap of her holster. "You didn’t have to wait." Tomás shrugged, but his eyes never left hers. "The market’s moving tonight. Veil’s shifting." She exhaled through her nose, the scent of damp earth and something metallic sharp in her lungs. "Where’s he taking you?" A beat. Then, quietly: "The secret room." Quinn’s jaw clenched. She had no right to question him, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a trap. The clique didn’t operate in plain sight. They didn’t. Tomás gestured toward the back, where a bookshelf stood against the wall. "Come on. You’ll see." Quinn hesitated, but the weight of the case pressed down on her. She had to know. She followed him through the crowd, the scent of something *off* growing stronger—the faintest hint of ozone, like the air before a storm. The bookshelf creaked as Tomás pushed it aside, revealing a narrow passage. The air inside was thick, the walls slick with condensation. Tomás flicked a switch mounted on the wall, and the hidden room lit up. It was small, barely more than a storeroom, but the shelves were lined with jars, vials, and strange artifacts. A figure sat at a small table, hunched over a ledger, their back to them. Quinn’s breath hitched. *Silas.* She stepped forward, her boots making a soft *thud* against the floor. "Herrera," she said, voice steady despite the way her stomach twisted. "What the hell are you doing here?" Tomás didn’t answer. He just stood there, his scar glinting in the dim light, watching her. Silas turned slowly, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering glow. "Detective Quinn. I was wondering when you’d show up." Quinn’s mind raced. Tomás had led her here. He’d known. And Silas—*Silas* was the one who’d taken her partner. The one who’d left DS Morris’s body in the rain, his throat slit, his eyes hollow. Silas leaned forward, his voice a low rasp. "You’re not welcome here, Quinn. But you’re welcome to listen." Tomás stepped between them, his voice cutting through the tension. "She’s here because she’s got questions. And she’s got answers." Silas’s gaze flicked to Quinn. "Then let’s hear them." The air between them crackled. Quinn’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She had no proof. No way to prove what she suspected. But she had *Morris.* Silas’s smile was a blade. "You’ll find out soon enough." And then the lights went out.