Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAC02FXGJT1B97PQQRN54M

The rain hammered down in sheets, turning the pavement slick as Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles. She kept her pace steady, the leather of her coat pulled tight against the cold. The suspect—some low-level dealer, probably—had bolted into the shadows near the old Tube station entrance, his hood pulled low. She didn’t recognise him, but that didn’t matter. The scent of damp concrete and something metallic clung to the air, sharp enough to make her nostrils flare. A flicker of movement near the rusted metal grate. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She lunged, fingers curling around the edge, hauling herself down into the dark. The moment her boots hit the uneven stone, she knew she was in the wrong place. The air smelled wrong—wet earth, something sour, like old coins left in a grave. Her flashlight cut through the gloom, illuminating the warren of tunnels ahead. The suspect was already moving, his footsteps echoing off the damp walls. Quinn adjusted her grip on her baton, the weight familiar in her palm. She didn’t like this. Not one bit. A narrow alley opened up ahead, the walls lined with flickering lanterns—oil, not electric. The kind of place that didn’t belong in London anymore. The suspect ducked into a side passage, his coat flapping behind him like a flag of surrender. Quinn followed, her breath steady despite the adrenaline. Then she saw the sign. A jagged green neon glow pulsed above a door half-hidden by peeling wallpaper. *The Raven’s Nest*. The name sent a prickle down her spine. She’d heard whispers about places like this—underground, off the grid, where things didn’t follow the rules. But she wasn’t here for the gossip. She was here for the suspect. The door creaked open under her touch. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the low hum of voices. A bar stretched along one wall, its shelves lined with bottles she didn’t recognise. A few figures sat in the shadows, their faces half-lit by the dim glow of candles. The suspect was already disappearing into the back, his movements too quick, too sure. Quinn stepped inside, her boots sinking slightly into the uneven floor. A man behind the bar—a gaunt figure with a scar running down his cheek—glanced up, his eyes narrowing. "Evening, Detective," he said, voice smooth as oil. "You’re not usually this deep underground." She didn’t answer. She didn’t have time. The suspect was already through a door marked with a faded *Private* sign. Quinn followed, her pulse hammering in her ears. The back room was smaller, the air heavier. A table stood in the centre, its surface littered with papers and a half-empty glass of something amber. A man sat in the chair, his back to her. Tomás Herrera. She recognised the medallion around his neck, the one she’d seen in old photos—Saint Christopher, ironically enough. He turned just as she stepped in. His dark eyes locked onto hers, unblinking. "Detective Quinn," he said, voice calm. "I was wondering when you’d show up." She didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her cuffs. "Where is he?" Herrera’s lips curled, just slightly. "Who?" "The dealer. The one you were selling to." A beat of silence. Then, quietly: "You’re not here for that." Quinn’s fingers twitched. She knew better than to trust him. But she also knew she was running out of time. "I’m here for the truth," she said. "And right now, I don’t have it." Herrera stood, slow and deliberate. "Then you’ll have to take it from me." The door behind her creaked open. A woman stepped in, her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. She carried a knife, its blade catching the light. "Detective," she said, voice low. "You shouldn’t have come." Quinn didn’t look at her. She kept her eyes on Herrera. "Where is he?" Herrera exhaled, long and slow. "He’s not here anymore." The woman’s hand tightened on the knife. "He’s gone. And so are you, if you’re not careful." Quinn’s breath hitched. She could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on her. She wasn’t here to play games. She was here to find answers. She took a step forward, her voice steady. "Then tell me where he went." Herrera’s gaze flicked to the woman, then back to Quinn. "You’re not ready for what you’ll find." Quinn didn’t flinch. "I’m ready." The woman laughed, sharp and bitter. "You don’t know that." The air between them thickened. Quinn could feel the tension, the unspoken threat. She wasn’t leaving without answers. Not now. She reached into her coat, her fingers brushing against the cold metal of her baton. "I’ll take what I need." Herrera’s eyes widened, just for a second. Then he spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Then you’ll have to go through me." The woman’s hand tightened on the knife. "Or her." Quinn didn’t hesitate. She moved.