Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMPKV15HHM0TE4DZE49C2R

The rain came down in sheets, turning the London streets into a slick, glistening maze. Detective Harlow Quinn moved with the precision of a woman who had spent half her life navigating chaos, her boots splashing through puddles that reflected the fractured glow of neon signs. The air smelled of wet pavement and exhaust, the city’s usual grime diluted but not washed away. Her breath came in controlled bursts, fogging the collar of her trench coat as she scanned the alley ahead. There—just a flicker of movement. A shadow detaching itself from the deeper dark of a recessed doorway. Quinn’s fingers twitched toward the radio clipped to her shoulder, but she didn’t reach for it. Not yet. If this was the lead she’d been chasing, she wasn’t about to spook him with the squawk of dispatch. She adjusted the worn leather strap of her watch, the weight of it familiar against her wrist, and broke into a jog. The suspect was fast, weaving through the labyrinth of Soho’s backstreets with the ease of someone who knew them intimately. Tomás Herrera—if the tip she’d gotten was right—wasn’t just some two-bit dealer. He was connected. Too connected. And if he was running, it meant he knew something about the disappearances, about the bodies turning up drained of blood, about the way her partner had screamed before the line went dead three years ago. Quinn’s jaw tightened. She wasn’t losing another one. Herrera cut left down a narrow passage, his dark curls plastered to his forehead by the rain. Quinn followed, her breath hitching as her foot skidded on a patch of black ice. She caught herself against the brick wall, the rough texture scraping her palm, and pushed off again. The alley opened into a wider street, the green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickering above a heavy wooden door. Herrera didn’t slow. He shouldered through the entrance, disappearing inside. Quinn slowed as she reached the bar, her pulse hammering in her throat. The Nest was a known haunt for the city’s less savory elements, but this was the first time she’d had a reason to step inside. She wiped the rain from her face, her fingers lingering on the sharp angle of her jawline, and pushed the door open. The interior was dim, the air thick with the scent of aged whiskey and old paper. The walls were lined with maps and photographs, their edges yellowed with time. A few patrons glanced up as she entered, their expressions shifting from curiosity to wariness in the span of a heartbeat. Quinn ignored them, her gaze locking onto the back of the room where Herrera had vanished behind a bookshelf. Her instincts prickled. That wasn’t just a bookshelf. She moved toward it, her boots silent on the worn floorboards. The shelf was heavy, its contents a mix of leather-bound volumes and what looked like ledgers. She ran her fingers along the edge, searching for the mechanism. There—a slight give beneath her touch. The shelf swung inward, revealing a narrow passage lit by flickering lanterns. Quinn hesitated. This was it. The line between the known and the unknown. Once she stepped through, there was no calling for backup. No guarantees of what waited on the other side. But Morris had been lost in the unknown. And she wasn’t leaving him there. She stepped into the passage, the shelf clicking shut behind her. The air grew cooler, damp with the scent of earth and something older, something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The tunnel sloped downward, the lanterns casting long, wavering shadows. At the bottom, a set of rusted metal stairs descended into darkness. Quinn took them one at a time, her hand brushing the cold wall for balance. The stairs ended in a cavernous space, the ceiling lost in shadow. The walls were lined with stalls, their wares hidden beneath tarps and flickering candles. A low murmur of voices filled the air, the words indistinct but the tone unmistakable—this was a market. And not the kind you found above ground. She kept to the edges, her eyes scanning the crowd. The patrons here were a mix of the expected and the impossible. A woman with too many fingers bartered over a vial of swirling liquid. A man with eyes like polished obsidian examined a bundle of dried herbs. Quinn’s stomach twisted. She’d seen things in her time on the force—things that defied explanation—but this was different. This was organized. This was a world. And Herrera was somewhere in it. She spotted him near a stall draped in black silk, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting in the candlelight as he leaned in to speak to the vendor. Quinn edged closer, her hand resting on the grip of her service weapon. She wasn’t here to arrest him. Not yet. She needed answers. Herrera turned slightly, his profile sharp in the dim light. He said something to the vendor, who nodded and reached beneath the counter. Quinn’s breath caught as the man produced a small, curved bone—pale and smooth, like something that had been worn down by time. Herrera took it, his fingers brushing the scar on his forearm as he tucked it into his pocket. Quinn’s pulse spiked. That was no ordinary bone. She’d seen enough case files to recognize a token when she saw one. The Veil Market. The name slithered through her mind like a warning. She’d heard whispers of it—rumors of a black market that dealt in things beyond the law. Beyond reality. If Herrera was here, if he was buying a token, then he wasn’t just involved in the disappearances. He was part of whatever had taken Morris. Quinn took a step forward, her boot scuffing against the stone floor. Herrera’s head snapped up, his warm brown eyes locking onto hers. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then he bolted. She cursed, shoving through the crowd after him. The market erupted into chaos—shouts, the clatter of overturned stalls, the hiss of something unseen slithering into the shadows. Quinn kept her eyes on Herrera, her lungs burning as she dodged a man with skin like cracked bark. He was fast, but she was faster. She closed the distance, her fingers brushing the back of his jacket— Herrera twisted, his elbow catching her in the ribs. Quinn grunted, stumbling back as pain flared through her side. He didn’t stop. He vaulted over a low table, sending a pile of glass vials shattering to the ground. Quinn followed, her boots crunching over the broken glass as she rounded the table. Herrera was already at the far end of the market, his hand pressed against a section of the wall. A hidden door. Quinn’s stomach dropped. If he got through that— She lunged. Her fingers closed around his wrist, yanking him back. Herrera spun, his free hand coming up in a fist. Quinn blocked it, her forearm slamming into his, but he was stronger than he looked. He drove her back, her heels skidding on the slick stone. She twisted, using his momentum against him, and sent him crashing into a stall. The vendor screamed, scattering a pile of what looked like teeth across the floor. Herrera scrambled up, his chest heaving. Quinn didn’t give him time to recover. She grabbed the front of his shirt, slamming him against the wall. His head cracked against the stone, his eyes glazing for a second. She pressed her forearm against his throat, pinning him in place. “Where is he?” she demanded, her voice low and rough. Herrera coughed, his fingers clawing at her arm. “Who?” “Morris. My partner.” Quinn’s grip tightened. “Three years ago. You know what happened to him.” Herrera’s eyes flickered with something—recognition? Fear? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Quinn leaned in, her breath hot against his face. “Bullshit. You’re in this up to your neck. The Market. The tokens. The disappearances.” She jerked her chin toward the bone in his pocket. “You think I don’t know what that is?” Herrera’s lips curled into a snarl. “You don’t know anything.” “Then tell me.” Quinn’s voice was a whip-crack. “Or I swear to God, I will drag you out of here in cuffs and let the whole damn city know what you’ve been up to.” For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Herrera’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him. “You don’t understand what you’re asking.” “I understand that people are dying,” Quinn said. “And I understand that you’re involved. So start talking.” Herrera’s gaze darted past her, to the crowd that had gathered, to the shadows that seemed to press in closer. Then he looked back at her, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not just people dying, Detective. It’s worse than that.” He swallowed. “They’re being taken. And once they’re gone, they don’t come back.” Quinn’s blood turned to ice. “Taken where?” Herrera’s eyes met hers, dark and haunted. “Somewhere even I can’t follow.” The market seemed to hold its breath. Quinn’s grip on him loosened, just slightly. “Then who can?” Herrera hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the bone token. He pressed it into her palm, his fingers cold against her skin. “Someone who’s already on the other side.”