Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMPZ206D30QD98ZP7FQZB4

Rain pummeled the streets of Soho, water sluicing down gutters already clogged with autumn leaves. Quinn pushed her way through the crowd outside The Raven's Nest, her police ID held high like a talisman. "Move," she barked, shouldering past a group of students huddled beneath a single umbrella. The green neon sign above the entrance buzzed and flickered, casting an eerie glow across the wet pavement. Quinn had watched her suspect enter the bar twenty minutes ago. She'd planned to wait him out, but something had spooked him. Now he was on the move again, slipping out the rear exit like smoke through fingers. Quinn's shoes slapped against the wet concrete as she rounded the corner into the alley behind the bar. Her breath came in controlled bursts, the rhythm of someone who knew how to pace herself. Eighteen years on the force had taught her that much. The rain plastered her salt-and-pepper hair to her scalp, but she barely noticed the discomfort. Focus was everything. The alley opened onto a side street. She caught a glimpse of her target—male, six feet, black hoodie—ducking into the tube station across the road. Quinn swore under her breath and broke into a sprint, dodging a taxi that blared its horn as she darted across the street. Inside the station, she flashed her badge at a startled attendant. "Police. Man in a black hoodie. Which way?" The attendant pointed toward the Northern line. Quinn took the stairs two at a time, her hand instinctively hovering near her concealed weapon. The platform was nearly empty—just a few late-night travelers waiting for the last train. No sign of her suspect. She scanned the platform methodically, left to right, the way they'd taught her at Hendon. Nothing. But she'd seen him come this way. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Something wasn't right. That's when she spotted it—a maintenance door at the far end of the platform, slightly ajar. Quinn approached cautiously, using the sparse crowd as cover. As she neared the door, she noticed the lock had been forced. Amateur work, but effective. Quinn drew her phone and sent a quick text to the station, requesting backup at Camden tube station. She wasn't making the same mistake again. Three years ago, DS Morris had followed a lead alone. They'd found his body two days later with no explanation for the bizarre burns that covered ninety percent of his body. The official report cited "electrical malfunction," but Quinn had seen electrical burns before. These were different. She pushed the thought aside. The text delivered, she slipped through the maintenance door, closing it behind her. The service tunnel beyond was dimly lit by widely spaced emergency bulbs. The air smelled of damp concrete and something else—something sweet and unfamiliar, like incense. Her quarry's footsteps echoed ahead, moving at a measured pace now. He thought he'd lost her. Quinn kept her own steps light, maintaining distance. Better to see where he was going than to spook him into running again. The tunnel sloped downward, taking them deeper beneath the city. Quinn checked her watch—the worn leather band dark with rainwater—and noted the time. Backup would be at least ten minutes. She should wait, but instinct told her this was important. This could be the break she'd been looking for. The suspect had been seen three times near locations where people had disappeared—people whose cases had been hastily classified as runaways or suicides. But Quinn had seen the patterns others missed. Each disappearance had occurred during the full moon. Each victim had been last seen near locations frequented by a group she'd been watching—a clique of people who seemed to move through London like ghosts, leaving barely a trace. Ahead, the tunnel widened into what looked like an abandoned platform—one of London's ghost stations, closed decades ago and forgotten by most. But this place wasn't abandoned. Soft light spilled from somewhere up ahead, and the murmur of voices carried through the still air. Quinn slowed her pace, keeping to the shadows. Her suspect had stopped at what appeared to be a dead end, his hand resting on the wall. He pulled something from his pocket—small and white, glinting in the low light—and pressed it against a specific brick. The wall slid aside without a sound, revealing a passage beyond. Quinn blinked. That wasn't possible. Yet she'd seen it with her own eyes. The wall had moved. The suspect slipped through the opening, which began to close behind him. Quinn had seconds to decide: wait for backup or follow him into whatever lay beyond. Her training said wait. The memory of Morris's burned body said wait. But the answers she'd sought for three years might be on the other side of that wall. Quinn lunged forward, catching the edge of the opening just before it closed completely. The stone was cold against her palm as she pried it open just enough to slip through. The passage beyond was narrow, forcing her to turn sideways to navigate it. The sweet smell was stronger here, mingled with other scents—cooking food, exotic spices, and something acrid that made her eyes water. The passage opened abruptly into a vast space that made Quinn freeze in disbelief. She was standing on a balcony overlooking what had once been a tube station platform, but was now transformed into a bustling market. Stalls lined every available space, their surfaces covered with wares that glinted, glowed, and in some cases, moved of their own accord. People—if they were people—moved through the crowd in a kaleidoscope of shapes and sizes. Quinn instinctively stepped back into the shadows, her mind struggling to process what she was seeing. This couldn't be real. Yet there was her suspect, moving confidently through the crowd toward a stall draped with dark fabric. "First time at the Veil Market?" Quinn spun, her hand reaching for her weapon. A man stood behind her, olive-skinned with warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He raised his hands placatingly, showing he was unarmed. A Saint Christopher medallion gleamed at his throat. "Whoa, easy," he said, his accent a musical blend of Spanish and London English. "I'm not looking for trouble." Quinn didn't relax her stance. "Who are you?" "Tomás Herrera. Though most people here call me Tommy." He nodded toward her concealed weapon. "That won't do you much good down here, Detective." Quinn's eyes narrowed. "How do you know I'm a detective?" "The way you stand. The way you assess everything. And the fact that you followed Rook through the rain for six blocks." Herrera smiled, but his eyes remained cautious. "You're out of your jurisdiction, Detective... Quinn, is it?" The fact that he knew her name sent a chill down Quinn's spine. "What is this place?" "The Veil Market. It moves around, but tonight it's beneath Camden." Herrera's gaze flickered to something behind Quinn. "And you really shouldn't be here without an invitation. Or at least a bone token." Quinn glanced over her shoulder. Her suspect—Rook, Herrera had called him—was now engaged in conversation with the proprietor of the fabric-draped stall. "That man is connected to several disappearances." "Possibly," Herrera conceded. "But charging through the Market accusing people isn't going to end well for you. Especially not tonight." "What's special about tonight?" "Full moon." Herrera's hand unconsciously touched the scar that ran along his left forearm. "The Market's busiest night. And its most dangerous." Quinn's gaze swept the scene below them again. Now that the initial shock was fading, she was cataloging details with professional precision. Most of the vendors appeared human, but some... didn't. And the wares they sold—bottles containing swirling mists, jewelry that seemed to change shape, creatures that resembled nothing she'd ever seen in any zoology textbook. "What happened to your partner, Detective?" Herrera asked quietly. "The one who disappeared three years ago?" Quinn's attention snapped back to him. "How do you—" "I was there. I tried to help him, but by the time I reached him..." Herrera shook his head. "The burns were beyond my skills. And I used to be a good paramedic." Quinn felt like the ground had shifted beneath her feet. Three years of questions, of hitting walls and dead ends, and here was someone who claimed to know what happened to Morris. "Tell me," she said, her voice tight with control. "Not here." Herrera nodded toward a tunnel on the far side of the market. "Your suspect is about to leave through the south exit. If you still want to follow him, that's your choice. But if you want answers about your partner, come with me instead." Quinn glanced back at Rook, who was indeed concluding his business and turning toward the exit Herrera had indicated. Everything in her training told her to follow the suspect, to gather evidence methodically. But Morris deserved justice. And whatever this place was, it held answers she'd never find in police databases or witness statements. "Lead the way," Quinn said, making her decision. "But if you're wasting my time..." "I understand." Herrera's expression was solemn as he gestured toward a different passage. "This way, Detective. And try not to make eye contact with anyone. You don't have a token, and they'll know you don't belong." As Quinn followed Herrera into the crowd, she felt eyes tracking her movement. The rain-soaked world of London streets seemed impossibly distant now, as if she'd stepped through a door into another reality entirely. Perhaps she had. But one thing remained constant—her determination to find the truth. Whatever it cost her. Wherever it led.