Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMJ1JFAP66E28DXWEZ4RXE

Rain lashed the Soho streets, turning neon reflections into abstract paintings on the pavement. Detective Harlow Quinn kept her breathing steady as she pursued the shadow slipping between late-night revelers. Three years of chasing whispers had finally materialized into something tangible—a suspect with actual connections to what happened to Morris. Quinn's leather shoes splashed through puddles as she maintained visual contact with her target. He was good—switching directions at crowded intersections, doubling back through alleyways—but Quinn was better. Eighteen years with the Met had taught her patience. The worn leather watch on her left wrist thumped against her pulse point with each stride, a reminder of time's constant march since Morris disappeared. The figure ahead darted suddenly leftward, disappearing down a narrow passage between buildings. Quinn accelerated, her jacket growing heavier with rain. The alley opened to a small courtyard where The Raven's Nest stood apart from the surrounding establishments, its green neon sign cutting through the downpour like a beacon. Her target yanked open the door and disappeared inside. Quinn slowed her approach, scanning the area with practiced precision. The Nest was known territory—a bar frequented by people who didn't want to be found, owned by a man who knew more than he should about the city's underbelly. She'd questioned Silas twice about Morris before hitting dead ends. Quinn entered, water dripping from her close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. The bar's interior was dim, the walls adorned with yellowing maps and photographs that seemed to watch patrons with judging eyes. Conversations quieted momentarily as regulars recognized her, then resumed at a lower volume. Her gaze swept the room—no sign of her target. Behind the bar, Silas pointedly ignored her, polishing the same glass for too long. Quinn approached, her shoes squeaking slightly on the worn floorboards. "Detective Quinn," Silas finally acknowledged with a tight smile. "Dreadful night to be out." "Where did he go?" Quinn asked, not bothering with pleasantries. Her sharp jawline tensed as she leaned across the bar. Silas shrugged. "Lots of 'hes' come through here. You'll need to be more specific." "Dark jacket, hood up, moved like he knows people are watching. Came in not thirty seconds ago." "Haven't seen anyone like that," Silas replied, eyes flicking briefly toward the far wall lined with bookshelves. Quinn caught the glance and nodded. "I'm sure you haven't." She pushed away from the bar and navigated between tables, approaching the bookshelves with measured steps. Her hand instinctively hovered near her concealed weapon as she examined the shelves. A decade ago, she might have missed it—the slight gap between the wall and one shelf, the worn path on the floorboards. Quinn gripped the edge of the shelf and pulled. It swung open with unexpected ease, revealing a narrow corridor beyond. She hesitated only briefly before stepping through, letting the bookshelf close behind her. The passage led downward via steep stone steps that spiraled into darkness. Quinn withdrew her phone, using its light to illuminate her descent. The air grew colder, carrying an unfamiliar metallic scent mixed with something earthier—like soil after rain. At the bottom of the stairs, she found herself facing a junction of old service tunnels. Faint lights glowed in the distance down one passage. Quinn followed them, moving cautiously now, aware that she had crossed some invisible boundary into territory the Met didn't officially acknowledge. The tunnel gradually widened, revealing ancient brick walls slick with moisture. Distant voices echoed ahead, growing louder as she approached. Quinn dimmed her phone light when she spotted the warm glow of actual lanterns. She emerged into a vast chamber that had once been part of London's abandoned Underground system. But what stretched before her now bore no resemblance to any Tube station she'd ever seen. Stalls and booths filled the space, creating narrow pathways through what appeared to be a bustling marketplace despite the late hour. The Veil Market. Quinn had heard whispers about it during her investigation into Morris's disappearance—an underground black market that supposedly traded in items that shouldn't exist. She'd dismissed it as criminal mythology. Yet here it stood, impossible to deny. Vendors hawked wares beneath strings of mismatched lights. Glass containers glowed with substances that moved of their own accord. A woman with too-sharp teeth measured powder on brass scales. A man with elaborate facial markings exchanged coins for what looked like dried herbs, but which writhed slightly in their paper packaging. Quinn's instincts screamed danger, but she forced herself forward, scanning the crowd for her target. The market-goers parted slightly as she moved through them, many averting their eyes. Her military bearing and the authority she carried in her posture marked her as an outsider as clearly as if she'd flashed her badge. "You don't belong here, Detective." Quinn spun around to find herself face to face with Tomás Herrera. She recognized him from surveillance photos—a person of interest in several cases involving unexplained medical miracles among London's homeless population. "Mr. Herrera," she acknowledged, noting the Saint Christopher medallion that caught the light against his olive skin. "I'm following a suspect." "Into the Market?" His warm brown eyes held concern rather than hostility. "That's not wise without protection or invitation." "I don't need protection," Quinn replied, though her hand instinctively moved closer to her weapon. "I need answers about what happened to my partner." Tomás glanced around, seemingly nervous. "DS Morris, yes? That was three years ago." Quinn's eyes narrowed. "You know about Morris?" "Everyone who frequents the Market knows that story." He absently traced the long scar running along his left forearm. "But chasing shadows here will only add your disappearance to the legends." A commotion erupted several stalls away. Quinn caught a glimpse of her target pushing through the crowd toward a far tunnel. "I have to go," she said, already moving to follow. Tomás caught her arm. "Wait. You can't just—" He sighed when she yanked free. "At least take this." He pressed something into her palm—a small token carved from what appeared to be bone. "It marks you as having business here. Without it, some vendors might take... offense." Quinn hesitated, then pocketed the token. "Why help me?" "Because I've seen what happens to unprepared visitors," he answered, his expression grim. "And contrary to what your files probably say about me, I don't like seeing people get hurt." Quinn nodded once before pursuing her target deeper into the market. The crowd thickened as she approached what appeared to be the market's center. Here, the goods became stranger—bottles containing what looked like miniature storms, jewelry that changed color as she passed, books bound in materials she couldn't identify. She spotted her target again, negotiating with a hooded vendor whose face remained in shadow despite the surrounding lights. The vendor handed over a small wooden box. As her target turned to leave, Quinn caught a clear view of his face for the first time. She froze. It couldn't be. The man had Morris's eyes, Morris's jawline—but something was wrong. The skin around his temples bore intricate patterns that seemed to shift when she tried to focus on them. And he moved with a fluidity that Morris, with his rugby player's bulk, had never possessed. The Morris-like figure noticed her staring and smiled—a cold, knowing expression. Then he turned and sprinted toward another exit tunnel. "Stop! Police!" Quinn called out, pushing through startled market-goers. The market erupted into chaos. Stalls toppled as people scrambled to protect their wares or flee. Lights flickered ominously overhead. Quinn kept her eyes fixed on her target as she pursued him into a narrow tunnel branching off from the main chamber. This passage was darker, illuminated only by phosphorescent fungi growing along the ceiling. The tunnel sloped upward, twisting through what must have been ancient sections of London's buried past. Quinn's breaths came quicker now, the air growing thin and stale. She emerged into a smaller chamber where multiple tunnels converged. Her target stood in the center, the wooden box open in his hands. Inside lay something that glowed with a blue-white light. "Morris?" she called out, her voice echoing. The figure looked up, and Quinn's certainty wavered. There was something off about the eyes now—too bright, too fixed. "Not quite, Detective Quinn." The voice was Morris's, but layered with something else, something that made the air vibrate strangely. "But close enough to lead you here." "What happened to him?" Quinn demanded, advancing slowly. "What happened to my partner?" "He saw too much. Asked too many questions." The figure closed the box, plunging the chamber into relative darkness. "As you're doing now." Quinn drew her weapon. "I'm taking you in for questioning." The figure laughed—a sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once. "Your authorities have no jurisdiction here, Detective. The Veil Market exists between your world and others. The rules you enforce stop at that bookshelf door." "I don't care about jurisdictions," Quinn replied, her grip steady despite the growing unease in her stomach. "I care about what happened to Morris." "Then you should turn around and leave with that question unanswered," the figure advised, backing toward one of the other tunnels. "Some knowledge destroys those who possess it." Quinn advanced another step. "I'm not leaving without answers." "Then you're not leaving at all." The figure smiled again—Morris's smile, but wrong somehow. He raised the box. "Last chance, Detective. Return to your rain-soaked streets and logical explanations. Or follow me and face what Morris faced." Quinn stood at the precipice of a choice she'd been working toward for three years. Everything about this place defied rational explanation. The market, this impostor wearing her partner's face, the strange undercurrent of power she could feel humming beneath her feet—none of it belonged in the London she patrolled. She thought of Tomás's warning, of the bone token in her pocket. She thought of Morris's empty desk that still remained untouched at the precinct. She thought of the reports she'd filed that disappeared, the witnesses who recanted, the evidence that vanished. Quinn raised her chin, decision made. She stepped forward into darkness, her worn leather watch ticking steadily against her wrist, counting down to whatever truth awaited.