Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB55BAHA322GJXM1WGKV4K

The neon glow of the Raven’s Nest pulsed like a dying heartbeat against the storm-wracked sky, its green sign flickering as if the wind itself had a will of its own. Detective Harlow Quinn adjusted the strap of her raincoat, the leather watch on her wrist ticking away the seconds with the relentless precision of a man who had long since stopped believing in luck. The rain lashed her face, turning the world into a blur of wet pavement and the occasional flash of something moving too fast to be human. She had been chasing Tomás Herrera for hours now, her breath coming in shallow bursts through the damp fabric of her mask. The man was slippery, always slipping. He’d led her from the grimy backstreets of Soho to the flickering glow of the Raven’s Nest, where the air smelled of stale beer and something older—something that clung to the walls like a second skin. Quinn had followed him inside, her boots sinking into the plush carpet as she sidestepped a group of men who exchanged glances like they’d just remembered they were being watched. “You’re not supposed to be here,” a voice murmured from the shadows, low and rough. Quinn turned just in time to see Tomás Herrera step into the light, his scar running along his left forearm like a brand. He wore a stained apron over a dark shirt, his olive skin glistening with rainwater. “You’re not supposed to be following me.” “You’re selling something,” Quinn said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline pounding in her veins. “Something that shouldn’t be out in the open.” Herrera smirked, tossing a small, wrapped bundle onto the bar. “And you’re not supposed to be asking questions.” The bundle was heavy, the paper torn at the edges. Quinn reached for it, her fingers brushing against something cold and smooth. The moment her hand closed around it, the air around her hummed, a low vibration that made her teeth ache. She pulled back, her grip tightening. “What is it?” Herrera’s expression darkened. “You don’t want to know.” Before she could press further, the door at the back of the bar swung open with a groan, and a figure stepped out into the rain. Quinn’s breath caught. It was a man in a long coat, his face obscured by the brim of a hat, but his posture was unmistakable—sharp jaw, the way his shoulders hunched just slightly too close to the ground. Silas. “Quinn,” he said, his voice smooth as oil. “I was beginning to think you’d given up.” She didn’t lower the bundle. “You’re selling to the wrong people.” Silas chuckled, stepping closer. “And you’re the wrong cop.” The back door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the empty bar. Quinn’s pulse spiked. She had to move. Now. Herrera grabbed her arm, his grip iron. “You’re not going anywhere.” “Let go,” Quinn snapped, her voice cutting through the rain. He didn’t. Instead, he pulled her toward the bookshelf lining the wall behind the bar. The wood groaned under the weight of something heavy, and then the shelf shifted, revealing a narrow passage. A hidden door. Herrera pushed Quinn inside before she could react. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and something metallic, like old blood. The passage sloped downward, the walls slick with condensation. Quinn’s flashlight flickered, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to twist and writhe on their own. “This isn’t safe,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Herrera didn’t answer. He was already moving, his footsteps echoing against the cold stone. Quinn followed, her boots kicking up dust that settled like ash in the dim light. The passage opened into a larger chamber, its ceiling lost in darkness. The air here was heavier, charged with an energy that made her skin prickle. And then she saw it. A table, draped in a black cloth, surrounded by figures in long coats and hoods. Their faces were hidden, but their movements were precise, almost mechanical. At the center of the table sat a man—older, his face gaunt, his eyes hollow. He raised a hand, and the air around him shimmered, warping like heat off pavement. Herrera stepped forward, his voice low. “This is what you wanted to know.” Quinn’s stomach twisted. She had seen enough. She had seen what happened when the wrong people got their hands on the wrong things. She had seen what happened to her partner. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her throat. Herrera turned to her, his expression unreadable. “You can’t leave.” “Why not?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bone token—a small, jagged piece of bone, polished to a shine. It glinted under the dim light, catching the faintest of reflections. “This is how we get out,” he said. “But you’ll have to trust me.” Quinn hesitated. The token was the key to the Veil Market, the underground black market beneath Camden. It was dangerous. It was illegal. But she had no choice. She took the token from his hand, her fingers brushing against the cold, ancient bone. The moment she did, the passage behind them groaned, the hidden door shifting back into place. The chamber fell silent, the figures at the table vanishing into the shadows. Herrera led her down a different path, this one narrower, the walls lined with rusted pipes and flickering gas lamps. The air grew colder, the rain outside turning to sleet. Quinn’s breath came in ragged gasps, her flashlight beam cutting through the darkness like a blade. “Where are we going?” she asked, her voice raw. Herrera didn’t answer. He just kept walking, his footsteps echoing against the stone. Quinn followed, her heart pounding in her chest. She had no idea where they were going. She had no idea what waited for them at the end of this tunnel. But she knew one thing for certain. She wasn’t leaving until she found out the truth.