Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN1S3N9D6TA7YNW85K2SMM

Rain hammered the pavement, transforming London's Soho district into a labyrinth of reflective surfaces. Detective Harlow Quinn pressed her back against the brick wall, her breath forming small clouds in the frigid night air. Water trickled down her neck, but she'd stopped noticing it hours ago. The tip had come in just after midnight—suspicious activity near The Raven's Nest, a bar she'd been watching for months. Quinn checked her worn leather watch. Nearly three in the morning. The green neon sign of the bar flickered across the street, its glow creating an eerie haze in the downpour. She'd been about to call it a night when she spotted him—Tomás Herrera, leaving through the side door, looking over his shoulder with unmistakable paranoia. "Got you," she whispered, the words dissolving in the rain. Herrera moved quickly despite the weather, carrying a battered medical bag that hadn't appeared in any of his previous surveillances. Quinn followed at a distance, her footsteps masked by the storm. She'd been tracking members of what her department euphemistically called "the clique" for months now, building a case file that her superiors increasingly viewed with skepticism. Since Morris disappeared three years ago, Quinn had become obsessed with unexplained cases—disappearances, impossible crimes, witness reports that defied logic. She'd found connections, patterns that nobody else would acknowledge. And they all seemed to circle back to certain locations, certain people. People like Tomás Herrera. He turned suddenly, cutting through an alley. Quinn quickened her pace, careful to maintain her distance. The file on Herrera was thin but troubling—former paramedic, lost his license under murky circumstances. Something about unauthorized treatments. Since then, he'd become a ghost in the system, appearing occasionally in connection with cases that never quite added up. The alley opened onto a less populated street. Quinn watched as Herrera checked his surroundings again before descending a set of stairs that led to an abandoned Camden Line station entrance. The entrance should have been sealed—Transport for London had shuttered it years ago—but Herrera pushed through without hesitation. Quinn approached the stairs cautiously, rain cascading down the concrete steps like a miniature waterfall. She drew her service weapon, keeping it low against her thigh. The entrance was dark, the official TfL signs long removed, replaced with graffiti and wheat-pasted flyers for underground clubs and psychics. Her instincts screamed caution. Following a suspect into an abandoned Tube station alone, without backup, violated every protocol in the book. But Quinn knew what would happen if she called it in—hours of bureaucracy, warrants denied, evidence mysteriously missing. It had happened before. Whatever Herrera was involved in, there were people who wanted it to remain hidden. She descended the stairs, entering the dank mouth of the station. The sounds of the city became muffled, replaced by the persistent drip of water and the distant rumble of active train lines. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, revealing a corridor lined with defunct ticket machines and torn advertisements. Quinn moved deeper into the station, following wet footprints that glistened in the beam of her pocket flashlight. The trail led her past the old turnstiles and down another set of stairs toward the platforms. But rather than continuing toward the tracks, the footprints veered into what should have been a maintenance room. The door was ajar, light spilling out. Quinn approached slowly, hearing voices from within. She killed her flashlight and pressed close to listen. "You're late," a woman's voice said, accent thick and unidentifiable. "The market almost moved without you." "Police surveillance," Herrera's voice replied, his Spanish accent more pronounced than in his official NHS recordings. "Had to make sure I wasn't followed." Quinn's grip tightened on her weapon. She'd suspected an underground operation, but this confirmation sent adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Did you bring what was requested?" the woman asked. "Everything on the list," Herrera confirmed. "But the stabilizing agent was difficult to acquire. The price has gone up." "The customer can pay. They always can when it's life or death." Quinn had heard enough. She took a breath, ready to push through and identify herself, when the conversation took a turn. "Any news on passage through the Veil this cycle?" Herrera asked. "The pathways are unstable. Something's disrupting the ancient routes. The Wardens are investigating." Quinn froze. Veils? Wardens? The words triggered a memory—the last case she'd worked with Morris. A witness had used similar terminology before recanting everything in a formal statement. Two days later, Morris had disappeared, leaving nothing but a cryptic note about "things beyond the Veil." The sound of movement inside the room jolted Quinn back to the present. She flattened herself against the wall as Herrera and the woman emerged. In the better light, Quinn could see the Saint Christopher medallion glinting against Herrera's chest as he adjusted his bag. "I'll meet you down there," he told the woman, who nodded and continued down the corridor. Quinn waited until the woman was out of sight before stepping forward, weapon raised. "Metropolitan Police. Don't move, Herrera." Tomás Herrera froze, his warm brown eyes widening in shock before narrowing with recognition. "Detective Quinn," he said, his voice surprisingly calm. "I wondered when our paths would cross directly." "You know who I am?" Quinn kept her weapon steady, aimed at his center mass. "Your reputation precedes you," he said, slowly raising his hands. The scar along his left forearm was visible beneath his pushed-up sleeve. "The detective who asks questions nobody wants answered." "Like what exactly goes on in that hidden back room at The Raven's Nest?" Quinn stepped closer. "Or what kind of 'unauthorized treatments' cost you your medical license?" A flicker of something—not fear, but caution—crossed Herrera's face. "Those are complex questions with dangerous answers, Detective." "I've got time." "But I don't." Herrera glanced toward where the woman had disappeared. "And neither do my patients. People will die if I don't deliver these supplies." "Patients?" Quinn scoffed. "Is that what you call your customers now?" Herrera's expression hardened. "You don't understand what you're interfering with. This isn't some drug operation or smuggling ring. This is... something else entirely." "Then explain it to me," Quinn demanded. "Start with what happened to DS Morris." The name landed like a physical blow. Herrera's composure cracked momentarily, genuine surprise replacing his careful control. "Morris? Your former partner? I never met—" "Don't lie to me," Quinn hissed, stepping closer. "He was investigating the same connections I am now before he disappeared. The same unusual cases, the same suspects, the same locations. Like this underground market you're heading to." Herrera was silent for a moment, studying her with newfound intensity. "You really don't know what you're dealing with, do you?" he finally said, his voice softer. "You've assembled pieces of a puzzle but can't see the full picture." "Then show me." Herrera seemed to weigh his options, then nodded toward the corridor where the woman had gone. "The Veil Market is down there. It moves locations every full moon—tonight is the last night in this station. If you want answers about Morris, about what I do, about all of it... they're down there." Quinn's military-precision stance didn't waver, but doubt crept into her mind. This felt like a trap, but also like the breakthrough she'd been seeking for three years. "You expect me to just follow you into an unknown situation?" Herrera shrugged. "You followed me this far without backup. But I understand your hesitation." He reached slowly into his pocket, telegraphing his movements. "You can't enter the Market without this anyway." He withdrew what appeared to be a small token made of bone, intricately carved. "Entry requirement," he explained. "Without it, you'll never find the Market, even if you're standing in the middle of it." Quinn eyed the token suspiciously. "And you're just willing to hand over access to your secret operation?" "Because it's not what you think," Herrera replied, his expression earnest. "And because I suspect Morris discovered the truth too. If you really want to know what happened to him, this is your only chance." Rain continued to drum against the station entrance above them, the sound echoing through the abandoned corridors. Quinn's rational mind screamed that this was a mistake—following a suspect deeper underground, alone, into unknown territory. Every police protocol warned against it. Every instinct honed over eighteen years of service told her to call for backup, to do this by the book. But the memory of Morris's empty desk, the official investigation that went nowhere, the nightmares that had plagued her for three years—they pushed her forward. "If this is a trap, Herrera..." she left the threat unfinished. "It's not a trap," he said quietly. "But what you discover might make you wish it was." He held out the bone token. "Your choice, Detective. Follow me into the Veil Market and learn the truth, or arrest me now and keep living with questions that will never be answered through official channels." Quinn stared at the token, its surface seeming to shift in the dim light of the abandoned station. With deliberate slowness, she holstered her weapon and reached for the bone token. "Show me," she commanded. Herrera nodded, a mix of relief and resignation in his eyes. "Stay close. The Market doesn't welcome law enforcement... and some of the merchandise bites." Together they moved deeper into the station, away from the rain-soaked world above, toward answers Quinn had sought for three years—and dangers she couldn't begin to imagine.