Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMC98C4YHYBCB2K7HY0XDZ

Detective Quinn's boots pounded against wet pavement as she pursued the figure ahead through Soho's neon-lit streets. Rain pelted her face, but she didn't dare take her eyes off her target. Three years of dead ends since Morris's disappearance, and finally, a solid lead – she wasn't about to lose it now. The suspect darted down an alley beside The Raven's Nest, its green neon sign casting an eerie glow across the slick cobblestones. Quinn caught a glimpse of olive skin and a Saint Christopher medallion glinting in the light. Tomás Herrera. The unlicensed medic had been on her radar for months, connected to a string of bizarre cases that reminded her too much of the night she lost her partner. "Metropolitan Police! Stop!" she shouted, knowing it was futile. Her hand instinctively brushed the grip of her service weapon, but she kept it holstered. Too many civilians around, even at this hour. Herrera glanced back, his dark curls plastered to his forehead by the rain. He vaulted over a stack of wooden crates with surprising agility. Quinn followed, her movements precise despite the slippery conditions – eighteen years on the force had taught her how to handle a pursuit. The chase led them deeper into Camden's maze-like streets. Quinn's breath came in controlled bursts, her worn leather watch tapping against her wrist with each stride. Herrera was heading northeast, toward the old Underground station. Something about his path seemed deliberate, not the panicked flight of a cornered criminal. He disappeared down the station's steps. Quinn slowed at the entrance, water dripping from her close-cropped hair as she drew her torch. The station had been closed for years, sealed off after a partial collapse. But as she descended, she noticed signs of recent activity – scuff marks on the tiles, a distinct path through the dust. At the bottom of the stairs, Herrera was nowhere in sight. The beam of her torch cut through the darkness, revealing defunct ticket barriers and peeling advertisements. A familiar tension crept up her spine – the same feeling she'd had the night Morris vanished. Something skittered in the shadows. Quinn swept her light toward the sound, catching a glimpse of movement near a maintenance door. As she approached, she noticed something odd: a symbol carved into the metal, fresh enough that traces of silver showed through the paint. Her torch illuminated Herrera's figure ahead, standing before what should have been a solid wall. He held something in his hand – what looked like a small piece of bone – and pressed it against the wall. To Quinn's astonishment, the surface rippled like disturbed water. "Detective Quinn," Herrera called out, his Spanish accent more pronounced under stress. "Go back. This isn't your world." The scar on his forearm seemed to shimmer in the torch beam. Quinn took a step forward, her jaw set. "My partner disappeared investigating cases connected to you and your associates. I'm not leaving until I get answers." "DS Morris," Herrera said softly. "I remember. But following me won't help you understand what happened to him. It will only put you in danger." The wall behind him continued to ripple, and Quinn caught glimpses of what looked like market stalls through the distortion. Music drifted through – an impossible sound in this abandoned station – along with the murmur of voices speaking in languages she'd never heard before. "Last chance, Detective," Herrera said. "The Veil Market isn't for your kind. Once you cross this threshold, there's no going back to seeing the world the way you used to." Quinn thought of Morris's empty desk, of the inexplicable details in his case file, of the years she'd spent trying to make sense of that night. She thought of all the other cases since then – the ones that didn't quite add up, the witnesses whose statements seemed just out of step with reality. "That's what I'm counting on," she said, moving forward with military precision, her torch steady despite the thundering of her heart. Herrera's expression shifted from concern to resignation. "Your choice," he said, stepping backward through the rippling wall. "But remember – you asked for this." Quinn hesitated for just a moment at the threshold, feeling the air vibrate against her skin. The rational part of her mind screamed that this was impossible, that she should call for backup and do this by the book. But Morris had played it by the book, and now he was gone. She took a deep breath and stepped through the wall. The sensation was like plunging into ice-cold water, yet she remained dry. When her vision cleared, she found herself in what appeared to be an ancient Underground platform, transformed into a sprawling marketplace. Stalls lined with bottles of glowing liquid stretched into the darkness. Vendors with too many eyes or not enough hawked their wares in whispered voices. The air smelled of incense and ozone. Herrera was already disappearing into the crowd, many of whom were decidedly not human. Quinn started after him, her hand again moving to her weapon – though she suspected her standard-issue Glock would be of little use here. As she pushed through the strange marketplace, Quinn realized she had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. The world she knew, with its familiar rules and procedures, felt very far away. But somewhere in this impossible place were the answers she'd spent three years searching for, and she intended to find them, no matter the cost.