Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94H7TBJ8Q75W1E205RW7BY

Rain slicked the Soho street, transforming the asphalt into a shimmering black mirror reflecting garish neon. Detective Harlow Quinn’s breath hitched in her throat, a raw sting from the damp chill air. Her lungs burned. She pumped her legs, the worn leather of her watch pressing into her left wrist, a rhythmic counterpoint to the thud of her boots on wet pavement. Tomás Herrera wove through the dwindling late-night crowds, a blur of dark jacket and dark, curly hair. He moved with a dancer’s grace, slipping between drunken revellers stumbling out of bars, navigating overflowing bins with an almost preternatural ease. Each time Quinn closed the gap, he would accelerate, vanishing behind a parked delivery van or a snatch of scaffolding, only to reappear a block ahead, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting under a streetlamp. A sharp turn off the main thoroughfare plunged them into a narrower alley, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and exhaust fumes. The alley walls rose high, brick faces slick with moisture, channelling the wind into icy gusts. Quinn’s closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her forehead. Her sharp jaw was set. She spotted Tomás again, a fleeting shadow darting across a patch of damp concrete. He veered left, ducking down an even tighter passage, barely wider than his shoulders. Quinn’s military precision in her movements kept her pace relentless. She pushed herself harder, the memory of Morris a cold, sharp shard in her gut. Not again. Not this time. The passage opened into a forgotten square, a tangle of overgrown weeds and broken paving slabs. A lone, flickering lamppost cast long, distorted shadows. Tomás didn’t hesitate. He headed straight for what appeared to be a derelict antique shop, its windows boarded over, a faded, peeling sign hanging crookedly above a grimy door. The air here carried a different scent—something metallic, something earthy, overlaid with a faint sweetness, like dried herbs. Tomás reached the shop door, fumbling into his pocket. He pulled out a small, bone-white object, smooth and dark in the dim light. He pressed it against a specific point on the doorframe, near a barely visible, intricate carving. A low, grinding hum emanated from deep within the building. The door, previously a solid block of rotting timber, slowly swung inward with a groan. A sliver of impossibly bright, multi-coloured light spilled from the darkness beyond, illuminating the scar running along Tomás’s left forearm as he stepped through. He glanced back, his warm brown eyes meeting Quinn’s for a split second, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths, before the door swung shut again. The grinding hum faded, leaving only the distant city murmur and the relentless drumming of rain. Quinn reached the door, her chest heaving, water streaming down her face. She slammed her palm against the weathered wood, then tried the heavy iron handle. Locked. Solid. The wood yielded nowhere. She circled the derelict shop, scanning the walls, searching for any other entry point. Nothing. Just brick and boarded windows. The scent of unseen herbs lingered, now mixed with something acrid, almost like ozone. A low, guttural murmur echoed faintly from inside, alien to the sounds of London. She returned to the door, pressing her ear against the warped wood. The hum had stopped, replaced by a cacophony of hushed voices, a rustling, and an occasional, high-pitched tinkling, like miniature bells. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor resonated through the ground beneath her feet, a rhythmic pulse. She pulled out her tactical torch, playing its beam over the doorframe. The carving Tomás had touched stood out, intricate knotwork swirling into grotesque faces, their mouths gaping in silent screams. A faint, lingering warmth radiated from the spot where the bone token had pressed. This wasn’t a common bolthole. This was something else. Her mind flashed back to Morris, to the blank looks on the faces of the investigating officers, the dead ends, the official silence. The unexplained circumstances. A shiver, not from the cold, snaked down her spine. The logical part of her brain screamed to call for backup, to wait, to follow established procedure. But the memory of Morris, the gnawing suspicion that had haunted her for three years, whispered a different command. She knew Tomás Herrera was connected. He was part of the clique she suspected. This was her chance. She pulled back from the door, a decision solidifying in her gaze. She would find another way in. Quinn’s gaze lifted, sweeping the surrounding buildings, the architecture, the shadowed gaps between the structures. The abandoned Tube station beneath Camden. That meant tunnels. An extensive network. A shiver of unease ran through her, but she ignored it, pushing it down. Her focus narrowed, honed to a razor's edge. She found a loose drain grate half-hidden by a collapsed bin and a pile of sodden cardboard boxes a few yards down the alley. A foul, metallic smell rose from the dark opening below. She knelt, yanked the grate aside, and peered into the blackness. The faint murmur from the derelict shop seemed to intensify, drawn into the earth, echoing from the darkness beneath her. Quinn took a deep breath, the damp city air filling her lungs. She looked for a moment at the rain-lashed street, then down into the abyss. The decision made itself.