Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMGQGMMVMC3F9CS9W1ZXY9

Detective Harlow Quinn pushed through the crowded sidewalk, her boots splashing in the puddles on the rain-soaked pavement. Ahead, Tomás Herrera's olive-skinned form bobbed and weaved between startled pedestrians. The rain had started an hour ago—in the clammy depths of Silas' bar, The Raven's Nest, where Quinn had first picked up Herrera's trail. Now thunder rumbled overhead, an ominous basso profundo that promised an intensifying downpour. Quinn cursed under her breath and quickened her pace. The neon signs and streetlamps flickered, throwing crazed shadows on the faces of the market stalls that lined the road. An old woman, her head wrapped in a crimson scarf, shrieked as Herrera bowled past her overflowing fruit cart. Quinn swerved to avoid a tumbling pyramid of oranges, her pulse pounding in her ears. "Police!" Quinn shouted, but the surging throng paid her no mind. She reached for her phone to call for backup, then hesitated. Three years ago, her partner DS Morris, had vanished under similar circumstances while investigating the clique's supernatural dealings. No one from the station knew she was out here tonight, chasing the ghost of Morris into the dark. Herrera veered sharply left into a narrow alley between two sagging brick buildings. Quinn followed, nearly choking on the sour reek of old vomit and piss that assaulted her nose. Two steaming dumpsters flanked a fire exit at the far end of the passageway, the metal door slightly ajar. Quinn edged toward the door, the leather watch on her wrist chafing her skin as she reached for her expandable baton. A swift flick of the wrist extended it to its full length. She nudged the fire exit open with her foot, then slipped through into the unknown. Inside, the air was thick with incense and smoke. A strange hum seemed to resonate in Quinn's bones; the thrum of powerful machinery or perhaps an otherworldly energy source. The floor sloped down, a worn purple runner leading between rows of mismatched tables heaped with peculiar wares. Vendors and patrons alike paused in their negotiations to stare at the detective as she passed, their expressions ranging from outrage to amusement to feral hunger. Quinn kept her baton at the ready, her knuckles white around the handle. She'd heard whispered rumors about this place—the Veil Market, a nomadic black-market bazaar catering to London's supernatural underworld. Over there a haggard crone presided over bubbling cauldrons of alchemical concoctions. Beside her, a small brown-skinned boy sorted a tray of finger bones engraved with glowing runes. It was more information than Quinn could take in all at once, these impossible sights from a world she scarcely knew existed. It felt strangely like stumbling upon a waking dream. The air grew colder the deeper Quinn descended into the market. She could see her breath hazing in front of her face. Tendrils of fog snaked along the floor, coiling around her ankles with clammy fingers. Ahead, the narrow aisle opened up into a larger chamber, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. In the center of the room stood Herrera, his short curly hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He held a knife in his right hand, the blade gleaming in the flickering torchlight. Quinn's hand instinctively went to the scar on her forearm where a similar knife had bitten deep three years ago. Herrera's dark eyes met hers, wide and white-rimmed like a spooked horse. "Easy, Herrera," Quinn called, pitching her voice low and calm. "There's nowhere to go from here. Put the knife down and let's talk this through like civilized people." Herrera's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed hard. He glanced from Quinn to the closed stone door behind him, then back again. "I—I can't," he stammered. "You don't understand, Quinn. They'll kill me if I don't deliver the package." "What package?" Quinn asked sharply. Her eyes raked over Herrera, trying to spot any suspicious bulges in his jacket or the likely shape of a hidden weapon. "Herrera, listen to me. Whatever you're mixed up in, I can help you. But you have to work with me here. Drop the knife and we'll figure this out together." For a long moment, Herrera hesitated, indecision twisting his sharp features. Then, with a shuddering sigh, his knife clattered to the stone floor. He sagged back against the wall like a puppet with its strings cut, cradling his head in both hands. Quinn approached him cautiously, kicking the fallen blade out of reach. She kept her baton at the ready, flicking her wrist so that it whirled in a tight circle. When she spoke, her voice was low and urgent. "Okay, Tomás. Why don't you start at the beginning. Who are 'they'? And what kind of package are we talking about here, exactly?" Herrera gulped, then began to speak in a rapid, staccato burst. "It's this clique I got mixed up with a few months back. Bad people, Quinn. They're into some dark shit.” He shuddered, his skin taking on a sickly greyish undertone. “Human trafficking, blood sacrifices, the whole nine yards. At first, I thought it was just some harmless occult dabbling, but then I found out what they really wanted from me...” His hand drifted unconsciously to the Saint Christopher medallion at his throat, fingers wrapping around the silver disk like a talisman. “They needed a paramedic to patch up their... merchandise. Keep them alive long enough to reach the buyers. I wanted out, but these people aren't the type to just let you go. So I did the only thing I could. I went to the Veil Market and paid a fortune teller to hide me until I could figure out an escape plan." Quinn's lip curled in disgust. "You're a real piece of work, you know that, Herrera? You think human trafficking is just some harmless thrill until it bites you in the ass. Even if you weren't directly involved, you enabled these scum to continue operating. So don't try to paint yourself as the victim here." Herrera flinched, his face crumpling. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with self-loathing. "You're right. I've done things I'm not proud of. Things I can't take back. But I want to make this right, Quinn. I have evidence that could help take them down. Records, names, dates. I'll give it all to you. Just get me out of here and somewhere safe." Quinn bit the inside of her cheek, considering her options. Her gut told her that Herrera was telling the truth—at least as far as his fear and desperation were concerned. But could she trust the word of a man who'd freely admitted to aiding and abetting human traffickers? Or was this all just a ploy, a last-ditch effort to weasel his way out of facing justice? In the end, it was the thought of Morris that swayed her. Her partner had died trying to bring down the clique and their ilk. If Herrera's intel could help finish what Morris had started, then didn't she owe it to him to follow this lead and see where it took her? Even if it led to her own undoing? Quinn blew out a long breath through pursed lips. The decision was made; now it was time to act before the chance slipped through her fingers. "Alright, Herrera," she said gruffly. "You've got yourself a deal. I'll get you somewhere safe and you'll tell me everything you know. But I swear to god, if you try to screw me over, I will not hesitate to put you down like the rabid dog you are. We clear?" Herrera nodded frantically, relief etched on every line of his face. "Crystal clear. You won't regret this, Quinn. I promise." "I already do," Quinn muttered darkly. She grabbed Herrera's arm, hauling him up from his crouch against the wall. The leather of her watch creaked as her fingers dug into his bicep. "Now move. I want to get the hell out of here before any more of your 'friends' show up." She frog-marched Herrera back through the surreal aisles of the Veil Market, her expression stony as they passed beneath the impassive gazes of the vendors. At the exit, Quinn paused and glanced back over her shoulder. The lambent glow of the alchemical fires painted the market in shades of red and gold, a fevered landscape out of some half-remembered nocturnal vision. As she watched, the stalls and their wares shimmered and faded, dissolving into wisps of fog that vanished into the shadows. A shiver ran down Quinn's spine, as if someone had stepped over her grave. Then Tomás Herrera was stumbling past her and out into the dank alleyway, and the spell was broken. Quinn shook herself, chagrined to find her heart hammering against her ribcage like a caged bird. She turned her back on the eerie tableau and stalked out into the rain, slamming the fire exit shut behind her with a resounding clang. The hunt was over—for now. But Quinn had the unsettling feeling that the true nightmare had yet to begin.