Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY914P63SQ2TBMF8J43DTK5

The rain fell in sheets, turning the cobbled streets of Soho into a slick, treacherous mirror. Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles that had swallowed the glow of streetlamps, leaving only jagged pools of darkness between the flickering neon. She kept low, her breath shallow, the collar of her trench coat pulled tight against the cold. The suspect—a wiry man in a long, oil-stained coat—had ducked into an alley just off Greek Street, his movements sharp, deliberate. Too deliberate. Quinn didn’t slow. The stench of damp wool and rotting fruit hit her as she rounded the corner, but the alley was empty. No footprints in the mud. No discarded cigarette butts to mark his path. Just the hollow echo of her own pulse in her ears. She cursed under her breath, scanning the brick walls for any sign of movement. Then—there. A flicker of motion near the back. A door, slightly ajar, its paint peeling like dead skin. The Raven’s Nest. Silas’ bar. She’d questioned him twice before, but the owner had always been polite, unhelpful. A man who knew how to keep his mouth shut. Quinn pushed the door open with the heel of her boot. The bell above jingled weakly, drowned out by the rain. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale beer and something metallic, like old blood. The bar was empty, the stools pushed back against the counter. No one at the bar. No one in the booths. Just the hum of a jukebox playing something slow and mournful. She moved deeper into the room, her fingers brushing the cold glass of half-empty bottles. The floorboards groaned under her weight, but the suspect was gone. Vanished. Unless— A bookshelf. Just past the restrooms, tucked into the corner like it didn’t belong. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She yanked the nearest book—*The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe*—and the shelf swung inward with a groan, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. Her pulse kicked up. She’d heard rumors about this place. A back room. A secret. But no one talked about what was down there. She drew her service revolver, the weight familiar in her hand. The stairs were steep, the air growing colder with each step. At the bottom, a single bulb flickered overhead, casting long shadows across a room lined with crates and stacked boxes. And there, in the far corner, the suspect. He turned, his face half-lit by the dim glow, his eyes wide with something like panic. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, voice tight. Quinn didn’t lower the gun. “Neither are you.” He swallowed hard, his fingers twitching toward something behind him—a bag, maybe. Or a weapon. “Look, I didn’t—” “Save it.” She stepped forward, the barrel of the revolver steady. “Where’s the girl?” His face went slack. “What girl?” Quinn’s jaw tightened. She’d seen the security footage. The girl—early twenties, dark hair, bruises on her wrists—had been dragged into this bar two nights ago. And now she was gone. “Don’t play dumb,” Quinn said. “I know you took her.” The suspect’s breath hitched. Then, from the shadows behind him, a voice—low, amused. “Detective Quinn. Always so predictable.” She spun, the gun swinging toward the new voice. Tomás Herrera stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, the Saint Christopher medallion glinting against his collar. His scar ran like a dark river down his forearm, stark against his olive skin. “Herrera,” Quinn said, her voice flat. “What the hell are you doing here?” He smirked. “Same as you, I’d imagine. Looking for answers.” The suspect bolted. Quinn didn’t think. She fired. The shot echoed through the room, the bullet embedding itself in the wall just inches from the suspect’s shoulder. He froze, his breath ragged. Herrera sighed. “You’re going to get us both killed.” Quinn ignored him, her eyes locked on the suspect. “Last chance. Where is she?” The man’s hands shot up. “I don’t know! I swear!” Quinn didn’t believe him. But something in his voice—something raw—made her hesitate. Just for a second. That’s all Herrera needed. He lunged, grabbing Quinn’s wrist and twisting her arm behind her back. She grunted, the gun clattering to the floor. “What the—?” “Easy,” he muttered, his grip like iron. “You’re not the only one who knows about this place.” Quinn twisted, but he was too strong. “Let go of me.” “Not until you listen,” he said, his voice low. “That girl? She’s not the only one missing. And this place”—he jerked his chin toward the crates, the shadows—“isn’t just a bar. It’s a door.” Quinn’s stomach twisted. “To where?” Herrera’s grip didn’t waver. “Somewhere you don’t want to go.” Outside, the rain kept falling. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. Quinn looked at the suspect—still trembling, still lying. Then at Herrera, his face half-hidden in shadow. She made her choice. “Fine,” she said, her voice steady. “Take me to her.”