Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9Q02MNSSQEGJM6HNCY1JJ

The rain fell in sheets, turning the cobbled streets of Soho into a slick, reflective mirror. Harlow Quinn’s breath came sharp and controlled, her boots splashing through puddles that glowed faintly under the sickly yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. She kept her hands low, fingers curled around the grip of her service-issue Glock, the weight familiar against her palm. The suspect—a wiry man in a long coat, his collar pulled high—had vanished into the alley between two shuttered shops, but Quinn’s instincts told her he wasn’t gone. Not yet. She pressed herself against the damp brick wall, listening. The city hummed around her, a low, electric pulse of traffic and distant laughter spilling from some open pub. But beneath it, something else. A whisper of movement. A breath held too long. Quinn pushed off the wall and moved. The alley reeked of damp wool and something metallic, like old blood. She kept her steps light, her gaze sweeping the shadows. The suspect had doubled back, she was sure of it. He was leading her somewhere. *Why?* The question gnawed at her, but she didn’t have time to unravel it now. Not when every second he stayed ahead was another second he could disappear. A flicker of motion—there. A figure darting between two stacked crates, the hem of his coat flaring like a flag in the wind. Quinn broke into a run, her boots pounding against the wet pavement. The suspect veered left, then right, his path erratic, desperate. He knew she was close. She skidded around a corner and nearly collided with him. He twisted away, his shoulder slamming into hers hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs. Quinn staggered, her back hitting the wall with a jolt. The Glock slipped in her grip, but she caught it before it hit the ground. The suspect was already moving, his gloved hands scrabbling at the bricks above his head. A loose stone gave way, and he yanked it free, revealing a narrow gap—just big enough for a man to squeeze through. Quinn lunged, but he was gone before her fingers brushed his sleeve. She pressed her ear to the cold stone, listening. Silence. Then—distant dripping. A tunnel. Or a drain. Or something worse. Her radio crackled in her pocket, but she ignored it. No backup was coming in time. Not if she wanted to catch this bastard before he vanished into the city’s underbelly. She followed the sound of the water, her flashlight cutting a thin beam through the dark. The air grew thicker, heavier, like the city itself was holding its breath. The beam caught something—a rusted iron grate, half-buried in the muck. Beneath it, a ladder descended into blackness. Quinn hesitated. She knew the rules. The Veil Market wasn’t on any map. It wasn’t supposed to exist. But her suspect was down there, and if she didn’t follow, he’d slip through her fingers like smoke. She holstered the Glock—it wouldn’t do her much good down there—and drew her baton instead. The metal was cold in her hand, reassuring. She gripped the ladder and descended. The drop was longer than she expected. Her boots splashed into stagnant water, the stench of rot and something older, something *wrong*, clawing at her throat. She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face. The flashlight flickered, casting long, wavering shadows against the damp walls. Then she saw it. A tunnel, but not like any she’d seen before. The walls were lined with strange symbols, etched deep into the stone. The air hummed, low and vibrating, like a held breath on the edge of a scream. And at the end of the tunnel, a flickering orange glow. Quinn moved forward, her baton raised. The tunnel opened into a cavernous space, the ceiling lost in darkness. Stalls lined the walls, their wares displayed under flickering lanterns—bottles of swirling liquid, bundles of herbs that seemed to pulse with life, bones carved into shapes that made her stomach twist. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and something sweet, like rotting fruit. And people. Dozens of them. Some human, some not. Their eyes tracked her as she stepped forward, their whispers rising like a tide. She ignored them. Her suspect was ahead, weaving through the crowd toward a figure draped in a tattered cloak. They exchanged words—too low for her to hear—but the suspect’s posture shifted, his shoulders tensing. He was being watched. *By whom?* Quinn’s radio crackled again. “Detective Quinn, status update.” She didn’t answer. A hand clamped down on her shoulder. She spun, baton swinging, but it was too late. The grip was iron, the voice smooth as oil. “You don’t belong here, detective.” She recognized him. Tomás Herrera. The paramedic. The one who’d been treating the wrong kind of patients in the wrong kind of places. “Let go of me,” Quinn said, her voice low. Herrera’s grip didn’t budge. “This isn’t your fight.” “It is if he’s involved.” A muscle twitched in Herrera’s jaw. “You don’t know what you’re walking into.” “Neither do you,” she shot back. Behind them, the suspect bolted. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She wrenched free and took off after him, her boots splashing through the muck. The crowd parted like water, their murmurs rising into a chorus of disapproval. She ignored them all. The suspect was nearly to the far wall, where a heavy curtain hung like a veil. He yanked it aside and vanished. Quinn reached the curtain and pulled it back. A narrow staircase spiraled downward, the air growing colder with each step. She descended, her flashlight beam cutting through the dark. The walls were slick with moisture, the symbols here deeper, more urgent. And then—light. A chamber. A circle of standing stones, their surfaces carved with the same symbols from the tunnel. At the center, a figure knelt, his hands pressed to the ground. The suspect was there too, his face pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps. And then the ground *moved*. The stones shifted, the earth groaning like a living thing. The figure at the center let out a sound—half-laugh, half-scream—and the suspect staggered back, his eyes wide with terror. Quinn raised her baton, but it was too late. The earth swallowed him whole. Silence. Then—dust. Quinn stood frozen, her pulse hammering in her throat. The figure at the center turned, his face half-hidden in shadow. “You shouldn’t have followed,” he said. She didn’t lower her baton. “Who are you?” The figure stepped forward, the lantern light catching the edge of a smile. “Someone who knows what you’re looking for.” Behind him, the stones began to glow. Quinn’s radio crackled again. “Detective Quinn, respond.” She didn’t. She was already backing away, her eyes locked on the figure in the circle. This wasn’t just a case anymore. This was something else. And she was in too deep to turn back.