Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMC989KMWXK522CDGRHB1G

The rain came down in sheets, turning the London streets into a slick, reflective maze. Detective Harlow Quinn moved with military precision, her boots splashing through puddles as she kept her eyes locked on the figure ahead. Tomás Herrera—*Tommy*—was fast, his dark curls plastered to his forehead, his olive skin glistening under the flickering streetlights. He glanced back, just once, and Quinn saw the panic in his warm brown eyes before he ducked into a narrow alley. She didn’t hesitate. The alley reeked of wet pavement and stale beer, the walls slick with grime. Quinn’s breath came sharp and controlled, her fingers brushing the worn leather strap of her watch as she adjusted her grip on the slick railing of a fire escape. Herrera was already halfway up, his Saint Christopher medallion bouncing against his chest with each desperate climb. She followed, her sharp jaw set, salt-and-pepper hair damp against her scalp. At the top, Herrera vaulted over a low wall, landing hard on the other side. Quinn didn’t break stride. She cleared the wall with practiced ease, her boots hitting the ground with a wet *thud*. The rooftops stretched ahead, a jagged skyline of chimneys and satellite dishes, all glistening under the storm. Herrera was heading for the edge—toward the next building, toward the drop. Quinn’s pulse hammered in her throat. She’d chased enough suspects to know when one was cornered. And Herrera was running like a man who had nowhere left to go. Then he disappeared. Not over the edge. Not down a drainpipe. He was just… *gone*. Quinn skidded to a stop at the rooftop’s lip, her breath fogging in the cold air. Below, the street was a blur of headlights and neon, the rain distorting the shapes into something almost surreal. But there, at the mouth of an alley, was a flicker of movement—a shadow where there shouldn’t have been one. She descended the fire escape two steps at a time, her mind racing. Herrera wasn’t just a suspect. He was connected—*too* connected—to the clique, to the cases that had been eating at her for months. The ones that didn’t add up. The ones that left bodies drained of blood, or worse, *changed*. The alley ended at a rusted metal door, half-hidden behind a tangle of overgrown ivy. It was ajar, the hinges groaning softly in the wind. Quinn hesitated for the first time. The air here was different—thicker, charged, like the moment before a storm broke. She could turn back. Call for backup. Follow protocol. But protocol had never brought her closer to the truth about what happened to Morris. She pushed the door open. The stairs beyond were narrow and steep, the walls damp and covered in peeling paint. The air smelled of earth and something older—something metallic and faintly sweet, like copper and ozone. Quinn descended slowly, her hand resting on the grip of her service weapon. The steps spiraled downward, deeper than any basement should have gone, until they opened into a cavernous space. The Veil Market. Quinn had heard whispers of it—rumors of a black market that moved with the moon, selling things that shouldn’t exist. But seeing it was different. The abandoned Tube station had been transformed. Stalls lined the tracks, their wares glowing under the dim, flickering lights: vials of shimmering liquid, bundles of herbs that pulsed with an eerie light, weapons that hummed with something like electricity. The air thrummed with voices, low and urgent, the language a mix of tongues she didn’t recognize. And there, weaving through the crowd, was Herrera. Quinn stepped forward, her boots silent on the damp stone. The market’s patrons barely glanced at her—some were human, or close enough, but others… others had eyes that reflected the light wrong, or skin that shifted like smoke. She kept her gaze locked on Herrera, her fingers flexing around the grip of her gun. He was heading for a stall at the far end, one draped in black silk. The vendor, a gaunt figure with too many fingers, handed him something small and pale—a bone token, Quinn realized with a jolt. Herrera clutched it in his fist, then turned toward a shadowed archway at the back of the station. Quinn followed. The archway led to a tunnel, the walls lined with flickering torches that cast long, wavering shadows. The air grew colder with each step, her breath misting in front of her. Herrera was ahead, his pace slowing, his shoulders tense. He knew she was there. “Herrera!” Quinn’s voice echoed down the tunnel. “Metropolitan Police. Stop where I can see you.” He didn’t stop. But he did slow, his hands raising slightly, the bone token still clutched in his fingers. “You shouldn’t have followed me, Detective.” “Why’s that?” Quinn kept her voice steady, her eyes scanning the tunnel. The walls here were different—smooth, almost polished, like the inside of a vein. “What’s down here, Herrera?” He turned then, his warm brown eyes wide, his scarred forearm tense. “You don’t want to know.” “Try me.” Herrera exhaled sharply, his breath unsteady. “You’re already in too deep. You just don’t know it yet.” He held up the token. “This is the only way out. But you can’t take it from me. You have to *earn* it.” Quinn’s grip tightened on her gun. “What the hell does that mean?” Before Herrera could answer, the torches flickered. The shadows at the edges of the tunnel *moved*, stretching toward them like living things. A low, guttural sound echoed from the darkness, something between a growl and a whisper. Herrera’s face paled. “We’re out of time.” Quinn didn’t wait for an explanation. She lunged forward, grabbing for the token. Herrera twisted away, but not fast enough—her fingers closed around his wrist, the bone cold against her skin. The shadows surged forward, and for a heartbeat, Quinn saw *them*—pale, gaunt faces in the dark, eyes black and endless. Then Herrera yanked her forward, into the unknown.