Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAA97PABK7A0VAERT4D8MK

The rain fell in sheets, turning the cobblestones of Soho into a slick, treacherous mirror. Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she pressed forward, her breath steady despite the adrenaline. The suspect—a wiry man in a long coat—had vanished into the labyrinth of alleys behind The Raven’s Nest, but she’d caught a glimpse of him ducking into the shadows near the bar’s back door. She didn’t hesitate. The door was slightly ajar, the neon sign of the Nest flickering green above like a dying beacon. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale beer and something metallic—blood, maybe, or just the iron tang of old pipes. The place was nearly empty, save for a lone figure hunched over a table in the corner, nursing a drink. Quinn didn’t slow. She pushed through the door at the back, the one that led to the kitchen, but it was locked. A deadbolt, rusted but sturdy. She didn’t waste time. A sharp kick sent the wood splintering, and she was through, her service pistol drawn. The corridor beyond was narrow, the walls lined with yellowed maps and photographs of faces she didn’t recognize. The suspect had left a trail—drops of water, a smudge of mud on the floor—but the deeper she went, the more the air changed. The hum of the city above faded, replaced by something darker, something that prickled at the back of her neck. The hidden room was just ahead, concealed behind a bookshelf that swung open with a groan when she pressed her palm against it. Inside, the space was cramped, lit by a single flickering bulb. A table, a chair, and a narrow door at the far end—no doubt leading down. The suspect was already halfway through it, his coat flaring like a flag in the dim light. Quinn didn’t call out. She didn’t need to. The moment he saw her, he turned, his face pale beneath the brim of his hat. “You don’t want to go down there,” he said, voice tight. Quinn didn’t lower her gun. “Neither do you.” He hesitated, then bolted. She fired a warning shot over his head, the crack echoing like thunder in the small space. The bullet ricocheted off the wall, sending dust raining down. The suspect didn’t stop. He yanked open the door at the end of the room and disappeared into the darkness below. Quinn exhaled sharply. The stairwell was narrow, the steps slick with moisture. She descended carefully, her boots silent on the concrete. The air grew colder, thicker, like she was breathing through wet wool. At the bottom, a tunnel stretched before her, lit by flickering lanterns that cast long, shifting shadows. The scent of damp earth and something else—something electric, like ozone after a storm—filled her lungs. She moved forward, her pulse steady. The suspect was ahead, his coat flaring like a beacon in the dim light. He turned a corner, and she lost sight of him for a moment. When she rounded the bend, the tunnel opened into a vast cavern. Stalls lined the walls, their wares displayed under the glow of strange, pulsing lights. Bottles of swirling liquid, bundles of herbs, trinkets that seemed to hum with energy. The Veil Market. A woman with silver-streaked hair looked up from her stall, her eyes sharp. “You’re not supposed to be here, detective.” Quinn didn’t lower her gun. “Where’s he going?” The woman tilted her head. “Who?” “The man in the coat.” A slow smile spread across the woman’s face. “Oh, him. He’s got a date with the wrong kind of trouble.” Quinn ignored her. She pushed forward, weaving through the stalls. The market was alive with whispers, with the clink of coins and the murmur of deals being made. She kept her eyes on the suspect, who was now moving deeper into the cavern, toward a cluster of figures gathered around a roped-off area. A man stepped into her path, blocking her way. He was tall, his coat lined with what looked like bones. “You’re not welcome here,” he said, voice low. Quinn didn’t flinch. “Move.” He didn’t. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a knife. Quinn fired. The bullet took him in the shoulder, spinning him around. He collapsed, his knife clattering to the ground. The market erupted into chaos. People screamed, stalls were overturned, and the suspect—her suspect—vanished into the crowd. Quinn cursed. She holstered her gun and pushed through the chaos, her eyes scanning the faces. She needed to find him before he slipped away. Before he led her into something she couldn’t come back from. Then she saw him. He was near the back of the cavern, standing in front of a stall that sold bundles of dried herbs and strange, glowing stones. A man with a scar running down his left forearm—Tomás Herrera—was speaking to him, his hands moving in quick, urgent gestures. Quinn’s breath caught. She knew that scar. She’d seen it in the files. He was one of the clique’s healers, the one who patched up their wounds when the police couldn’t reach them. The suspect leaned in, whispering something to Tomás. The healer nodded, then turned and saw Quinn. His eyes widened. “Detective,” he said, his voice steady despite the panic in his gaze. Quinn didn’t lower her gun. “Where is he going?” Tomás hesitated. “He’s not who you think he is.” “Bullshit.” Tomás’s jaw tightened. “He’s not with them. He’s trying to get out.” Quinn’s finger twitched on the trigger. “Then why is he running?” Tomás looked past her, toward the chaos unfolding in the market. “Because they’re coming.” A sound echoed through the cavern—a deep, resonant hum, like the tolling of a bell. The lights flickered, and the air grew heavier, pressing down on Quinn like a physical weight. She turned just in time to see them. Figures emerged from the shadows, their forms shifting, their edges blurred. They moved like smoke, like mist given shape. Quinn’s breath hitched. She’d seen things like this before—in the files, in the whispers of the force. Supernatural. Impossible. Tomás grabbed her arm. “You need to go. Now.” Quinn wrenched free. “Not without him.” The figures were closer now, their voices a chorus of whispers that slithered into her ears. She couldn’t make out the words, but she understood the meaning. *Turn back. You don’t belong here.* She raised her gun, but the weapon felt suddenly useless. The suspect was still near the stall, his back to her, his hands raised in surrender. Tomás was shouting, his voice lost in the growing cacophony of the market. Quinn’s mind raced. She had two choices: follow the suspect into the unknown, or turn back and let him slip away. She made her decision. “Cover me,” she barked at Tomás. He didn’t argue. He pulled a small vial from his coat and hurled it at the ground. A burst of blue flame erupted, casting an eerie glow over the market. The figures hesitated, their forms flickering like candles in the wind. Quinn didn’t wait. She lunged forward, grabbing the suspect by the collar and dragging him toward the tunnel. Behind them, the market erupted into chaos. Screams filled the air, the stalls collapsing in on themselves. Tomás was still shouting, his voice a distant echo in the tunnel. Quinn and the suspect burst into the stairwell, the narrow steps slick beneath their boots. She didn’t slow. She didn’t look back. She just kept moving, her grip tight on the suspect’s arm, her breath ragged in her lungs. At the top, she shoved him through the door and into the hidden room of The Raven’s Nest. The suspect stumbled, catching himself against the table. Quinn slammed the door shut behind them, her back pressed against the wood, her heart pounding. The suspect turned to her, his face pale. “What now?” Quinn didn’t answer. She was too busy listening. The sounds of the market were fading, but the hum—the deep, resonant hum—was still there, vibrating through the soles of her boots. She reached for her radio, her fingers fumbling in the dark. She needed backup. She needed to get out of here. But as she pressed the button, the hum grew louder. The door behind her groaned, the wood splintering under unseen pressure. Quinn’s blood ran cold. She turned to the suspect. “You said you wanted out.” He nodded, his eyes wide. “Then you’re coming with me.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the bookshelf. Behind it, the kitchen. Behind that, the door to the alley. They had to move. Now.