Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN09EXG1VWZ5WJKXZDH2SE

The rain hammered London's streets with merciless persistence, transforming Soho into a glistening maze of reflections. Detective Harlow Quinn's boots splashed through puddles as she sprinted after the hooded figure who'd bolted from The Raven's Nest moments earlier. Her breath came in controlled bursts, the discipline of two decades on the force keeping her pace steady even as her quarry darted between late-night revelers. "Police! Stop!" she shouted, knowing it was futile. The suspect—male, approximately six feet, athletic build—had been seated at the bar's corner when Quinn entered. His immediate flight when she'd flashed her warrant card confirmed her suspicions. Three weeks of surveillance on The Raven's Nest had finally yielded movement. Quinn sidestepped a startled couple, her focus locked on the suspect's dark silhouette now turning sharply down an alley. Her worn leather watch slapped against her wrist as she accelerated. The timepiece had been with her longer than most relationships—a gift from DS Morris before he'd vanished during that warehouse raid three years ago. The alley narrowed, brick walls pressing in from both sides. The suspect vaulted over a chain-link fence with practiced ease. Quinn followed, her body remembering the motions from academy training despite the protests of her forty-one-year-old knees. She landed with military precision, barely breaking stride. "You're just making this worse for yourself," she called out, her voice steady despite the exertion. Ahead, the suspect knocked over a stack of wooden pallets. Quinn hurdled them, the gap between them narrowing. She was gaining. The chase led them deeper into a labyrinth of service roads and loading bays behind Camden's main thoroughfares, away from the neon-lit streets into the city's shadowy arteries. The rain intensified, plastering Quinn's salt-and-pepper hair to her scalp. Water trickled down her neck, but she registered the discomfort only distantly. What mattered was the figure ahead—the same figure who'd been photographed meeting with three different victims before they'd turned up dead, their bodies drained of blood in ways the medical examiner couldn't explain. The suspect darted down a set of crumbling stone steps that Quinn hadn't noticed until she was nearly upon them. They descended steeply into darkness, disappearing beneath street level. The entrance to an abandoned Tube station, its existence scrubbed from most modern maps. Quinn slowed, drawing her service weapon and flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating graffiti-covered walls and debris-strewn steps. Her instincts screamed caution, but the suspect was still in view, his footsteps echoing from below. Protocol dictated waiting for backup before entering an unknown subterranean space. But backup meant explanations, and Quinn had precious few that wouldn't sound delusional. How could she explain that the victims' blood hadn't been spilled—it had simply vanished from their bodies? Or that each crime scene had contained traces of a substance forensics couldn't identify? Decision made, Quinn descended, keeping her back to the wall. The staircase spiraled deeper than expected, the air growing noticeably warmer and heavy with unfamiliar scents—incense, exotic spices, and something acrid that burned her nostrils. The staircase emptied into what had once been a platform. Quinn froze at the threshold, momentarily stunned by the transformation. What should have been an abandoned space had become a bustling marketplace. Stalls lined both sides of the platform, illuminated by mismatched lanterns and strings of lights. Vendors called out in languages Quinn recognized and others she didn't. The crowd itself was... wrong. Quinn's brain struggled to process figures moving beneath hoods and cloaks that concealed too little or too much. A woman with skin like polished obsidian haggled with a hunched figure whose hands bore too many joints. A man with gill-like slits on his neck examined a vial of luminescent liquid. Quinn instinctively retreated into the shadows of the stairwell, holstering her weapon. Drawing attention here seemed unwise. Her suspect was moving purposefully through the crowd toward the far end of the platform. She needed to follow, but stepping into that throng meant exposing herself in an environment where she was clearly the outsider. "First time at the Veil Market, Detective?" Quinn spun, weapon halfway drawn before she registered the voice. Leaning against the wall behind her was a man with warm brown eyes and a Saint Christopher medallion glinting at his throat. "Tomás Herrera," Quinn said, recognition clicking into place from her case files. "You're the ex-paramedic who works with the Raven's Nest crowd." Herrera's expression revealed nothing, but his eyes flicked briefly to her holstered weapon. "Your reputation precedes you, Detective Quinn," he said, his Spanish accent subtle but present. "Most police avoid this place. The ones who stumble in by accident rarely leave with their sanity intact." "I'm pursuing a suspect in multiple homicides," Quinn said, gesturing toward the market where her quarry was disappearing into the crowd. "I don't have time for cryptic warnings." "The man you're chasing is headed to see the Bone Merchant," Herrera said. "You won't reach him without a token, and even if you could, you wouldn't survive the encounter without protection." Quinn studied Herrera, noting the scar running along his left forearm—reportedly from protecting a victim during a knife attack that had ultimately cost him his medical license. His file listed him as a person of interest, not a confirmed criminal. Someone who operated in gray areas but wasn't known for violence. "Why are you helping me?" she asked. "I'm not," Herrera said. "I'm preventing a bloodbath. The Market moves locations every full moon. Tonight's the last night at this station. The security is... less tolerant of intrusions." Beyond them, the suspect had reached a makeshift gate fashioned from what appeared to be actual human ribcages. He presented something to the monstrous figure guarding it—a small white token. "I need to get through there," Quinn said. "You need a bone token," Herrera replied. "And I happen to have a spare." He produced a small ivory-colored disk from his pocket, rolling it between his fingers. "But I want something in exchange." "I don't negotiate with—" "With what, Detective? Criminals? Witnesses? People trying to keep the peace between worlds you don't understand?" Quinn's jaw tightened. Her suspect would disappear any moment. "What do you want?" "The file you have on me. I want it expunged." "I can't just delete official records." "Not all of it. Just the supernatural connections you've been documenting. The ones your superiors would dismiss as fantasy." His expression softened slightly. "I help people, Detective. People the NHS won't or can't treat." Quinn glanced toward the gate where her suspect was now passing through. Decision time. "Fine," she said. "But you're coming with me." Surprise flickered across Herrera's face. "That wasn't our agreement." "New terms. I need a guide, and you need insurance that I'll keep my word." She stepped closer, her voice dropping. "And maybe you can explain what happened to my partner three years ago." Herrera's eyes widened fractionally. "What makes you think I know anything about DS Morris?" "Because the last person to see him alive was receiving treatment from you for an 'unusual condition.' His disappearance file mentions a witness matching your description." Rain water dripped from Quinn's jacket onto the concrete between them. The distant sounds of the market seemed to fade as they assessed each other. Finally, Herrera nodded. "I'll take you through. But understand this—down here, your badge means nothing. Your gun means less than nothing. Some things in the Veil Market see human weapons as insults rather than threats." He pressed the bone token into her palm. It was unnervingly warm to the touch, like it had been carried close to a body—or was somehow still part of one. "Follow my lead. Speak only when spoken to. Don't stare at anyone or anything for too long. If I say run, you run—no questions." Quinn closed her fingers around the token, its edges digging into her palm. "Let's go." Herrera led her into the market, weaving expertly through the crowd. Quinn stayed close, hyper-aware of the strange gazes following their progress. Some vendors pulled covers over their merchandise as they passed. Others called out to Herrera in languages that made Quinn's ears ache. As they approached the bone gate, Quinn caught glimpses of wares that defied explanation—bottles containing miniature thunderstorms, jewelry that shifted and moved when not directly observed, weapons that seemed partially transparent. The gate guardian turned as they approached—a hulking figure whose features seemed to ripple and shift beneath a cowl. Quinn forced herself to breathe evenly, focusing on the familiar weight of her watch against her wrist rather than the impossible creature before her. Herrera spoke softly to the guardian while Quinn presented her token. The ivory disk grew painfully hot in her palm before crumbling to dust. The guardian stepped aside. Beyond the threshold lay another world entirely—one that might provide answers to the unexplainable deaths haunting London's streets, and perhaps to the fate of her partner. But as Quinn stepped through, she knew with absolute certainty that she was crossing a line from which her life could never fully return.