Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9XAYVXAW6X1RHDWC1WK71

Rain lashed the Soho streets, turning gutters into raging streams. Detective Harlow Quinn shoved through the green neon glow of The Raven's Nest's sign, her boots splashing black water. Ahead, Tomás Herrera bolted from the alley mouth, collar up, Saint Christopher medallion glinting under sodium lamps. Quinn's hand flew to her radio. "Suspect fleeing east on Dean Street. Herrera, Tomás. Short curly hair, olive skin. Arm scar. Repeat, visual on Herrera." Dispatch crackled back. "Units en route, Quinn. Ten minutes." Ten minutes. She cursed under her breath, lungs burning as she sprinted. Military precision snapped her strides into rhythm—left foot, right, coat flapping like a broken wing. Her worn leather watch ticked against rain-slick skin. Tomás veered sharp into Greek Street, shoulders hunched against the downpour. He glanced back, warm brown eyes widening in the flash of headlights. No hesitation—he pumped legs harder, darted across traffic. Horns blared. A taxi fishtailed, brakes screaming. Quinn followed, leaped the bonnet. Tires hissed inches from her calves. "Stop, Herrera! Police!" He didn't break stride. Ducked into an alley reeking of piss and rotting bins. Quinn cornered in, pistol drawn low. Shadow swallowed him—gone around the bend. "Control, he's in the alley off Greek. Pedestrians clear." Puddles exploded under her soles. She rounded the corner, glimpsed his silhouette vaulting a low fence into Meard Street. Heart hammered her ribs. Salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her sharp jaw. Brown eyes narrowed on the chase. Tomás hit pavement running, coat tails whipping. Soho's maze blurred—pub fronts shuttered, umbrellas inverted in wind. He cut north, towards Oxford Street's roar. Quinn matched pace, breath steady despite the stitch clawing her side. Eighteen years on the force forged this—pursuit like breathing. "Herrera! You're done patching up your mates off-books. Lost your license for a reason!" He threw a look over his shoulder, lips curling. No words. Just acceleration. Oxford Street swallowed them. Midnight crowds thinned by rain, umbrellas bobbing like buoys. Tomás wove through knots of pissheads spilling from clubs, elbowed a bloke staggering with kebab in hand. "Sorry, mate!" Tomás barked, shoving past. Quinn closed gap. "Met Police! Out the way!" Punter swung wild, meaty fist clipping her shoulder. She powered through, collarbone throbbing. Tomás hit the tube entrance stairs—Tottenham Court Road station—but veered left, not down. Surface buses hulking ghosts in the wet. North he ran, into Fitzrovia. Quinn's radio spat static. "Control, pursuit northbound. Oxford towards Regent's Park. Backup?" "Negative. Gridlock from the storm. You're solo." Bloody perfect. She holstered pistol, freed hands for speed. Rain stung eyes, blurred vision. Tomás's medallion swung like a pendulum as he dashed across Euston Road, dodging a red double-decker sluicing rainwater. Camden loomed—markets shuttered, locks Market's stalls dripping. He plunged into the locks, iron bridges groaning overhead. Canal water churned black below. Quinn vaulted a railing, boots skidding on cobbles. "Herrera! Former paramedic, yeah? Seville boy gone rogue. DS Morris sends regards!" He faltered half-second—name hit home?—then vaulted another fence, into the abandoned yard. Chain-link rattled. Over he went, landed rolling. She hurdled after, wire snagging her coat. Rip of fabric. No time to check. Camden's underbelly beckoned—graffiti-slashed walls, derelict arches. Tomás hit the old tube stairs. Disused entrance, boarded up years back. No—boards pried loose, swinging like broken teeth. He squeezed through, vanished into dark. Quinn skidded halt at the top. Wind howled through the gap. Rain pooled at her feet, trickling down concrete steps into void. Radio hissed. "Quinn? Status?" "Lost visual. Camden, abandoned tube off Chalk Farm Road. He's gone under." Pause. "Evac and secure, Detective. That line's condemned. Cave-ins reported." She peered into black. Faint echo—footsteps? Distant murmur of voices. Not rats. Not wind. Her watch glowed 00:47. Partner's ghost flickered in mind—DS Morris, vanished three years back in shadows like these. Unexplained. Supernatural whispers she buried deep. Finger hovered over radio. Call it off. Backup never comes. Write report tomorrow: suspect evaded into derelict tube. Clique laughs it off. But Tomás Herrera patched supernaturals. Off-books. Raven's Nest meetings in hidden rooms. Maps on walls that weren't just old pubs. She flicked torch on. Beam pierced gloom—steps slick with slime, descending spiral into earth. Graffiti twisted into symbols: eyes, bones, spirals that made neck hairs rise. Decision coiled in gut. Follow into the pit—unfamiliar, rumours of squatters, worse. Or let him slip, hunt tomorrow under daylight rules. Torch swept stairs. Footprint gleamed wet at bottom—his boot tread. "Control, hold evac. Entering pursuit." Static swallowed reply. Quinn descended. Steps creaked under weight. Air thickened—dank, laced with incense, ozone. Torch beam jittered, caught rusted rails curving left. Voices swelled. Not English. Accents tangled—Eastern European, guttural clicks, sibilants. Tunnel opened. No station platform. Instead, sprawl of stalls under jury-rigged lanterns. Gas lamps hissed blue. Tables groaned under vials glowing green, amulets pulsing red, blades etched with runes. Veil Market. Whispers from informants clicked: bone token entry, moves full moon. Camden depths tonight. Crowd parted. Hooded figures, eyes gleaming unnatural. Scales on skin. Horn stubs. A woman with feathers for hair bartered fangs. Tomás melted into throng ahead, shoulder bumping a stall. Jars rattled—something inside thrashed. Quinn froze at threshold. Pistol hand twitched. No badge cuts ice here. Her brown eyes scanned exits—three tunnels, all black. Vendor locked gaze—pale face, black teeth. "Token, copper?" She patted pockets. Empty. Herrera had flashed bone at entry—saw it now, tucked in his palm. Path snaked deeper. Tomás paused at crossroads stall, haggled low with tattooed brute. Scarred forearm flexed, knife mark silver under light. Quinn edged forward, torch dimmed. Crowd pressed—elbow from clawed hand, hiss from scaled lips. "Lost?" Feather-woman sidled close, breath like compost. Quinn's jaw tightened. "Looking for a friend." Feather-woman cackled. "Friends don't run." Tomás slipped payment—glinting coin?—and plunged right tunnel. Voices chased him: "Fresh heartblood, half-price!" Quinn followed, pulse thunder. Stall brushed arm; fur brushed back. Something slithered underfoot. Tunnel narrowed. Lanterns thinned. Echoes bounced—drips, murmurs, a scream cut short. Herrera's medallion caught light ahead. He glanced back, eyes wide. Spotted her. "Quinn! Back off. You don't belong." She closed in. "Neither do you, doc. Treating fangs and claws without license. Clique's doctor, eh?" He backed into chamber. Low ceiling dripped. Central table: bones, powders, a heart still twitching. Guards materialized—two hulks, eyes milky. "No token. No trade." Tomás raised hands. "She's Met. Let her pass. Or explain the bodies." Hulks rumbled. Quinn's fingers itched for steel. Radio dead down here. Veil Market pulsed alive. Stalls hawked eyes in jars, whispers of curses. A pixie-thing darted, wings buzzing. Alchemical steam curled, promising forget or flight. Quinn weighed it. Radio upstairs worked. Backup eventually. Herrera cornered here, maybe. But partner’s face flashed—swallowed by dark like this. Unexplained origins. She stepped forward. Hulks parted grudging. Tomás bolted again, through archway hung with skins. Quinn pursued. Torch beam danced on walls slick with ichor. Deeper. Market sprawled endless—alcoves peddling dreams in bottles, futures in entrails. Bargains hissed: "Skin your sins for gold." A stall rat—boy with gills—tugged her coat. "Token trade? Pretty eyes for bone." She shook free. Tomás ahead, haggling urgent at potion cart. "Double strength. Now." Vendor poured viscous red into vial. "Hunt or hunted?" "Both." Tomás swigged, corked rest. Eyes sharpened—unnatural gleam. He dashed left, into fog bank rolling from cauldron row. Quinn coughed through haze. Lungs burned chemical. Visions flickered—ghosts? Morris's face, screaming silent. No time. She burst through. Platform cavern yawned. Tracks rusted, but alive with carts pushed by shades. Central auction: chained beast, scales iridescent, bellowing. Tomás vaulted barrier, into bidder crowd. Shouts erupted: "Two ounces soul-dust!" Quinn climbed after, coat snagging barbs. Crowd surged—tails lashed ankles, claws grazed skin. "Herrera!" He spun at her voice, vial glinting. Neck cord taut. "Last warning, Detective. Turn back." "Why run? Guilty conscience?" "Survival." He nodded shadows. Figures closed—clique mates? Raven's Nest crew, faces twisted hungry. Quinn drew pistol. "Down. Now." Click-clack weapons. Not guns—crossbows? Bolts tipped glowing. Standoff hummed electric. Rain drummed distant above. Market throbbed heart-like. Her watch ticked. Decision crystallized. Radio backup? Too late. Retreat? Partner's unsolved shadow mocked. Finger tightened trigger. Tomás edged back. "You follow, you stay." Crowd chanted low. Beast roared cage-shake. Quinn advanced one step.