Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN73Z8Q2EMNRPAC9NPR3Q0

The rain came down in sheets, turning the London streets into a slick, black mirror. Detective Harlow Quinn’s breath fogged in front of her as she sprinted, her boots splashing through puddles that reflected the fractured glow of neon signs. The suspect—Tomás Herrera—was fast, his dark curls plastered to his forehead, his Saint Christopher medallion bouncing against his chest with every stride. He cut left down a narrow alley, his scarred forearm slicing through the air as he vaulted over a stack of crates. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She followed, her sharp jaw set, her worn leather watch digging into her wrist. The alley spat them out onto Greek Street, where the green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying ember. Herrera didn’t slow. He shouldered past a group of smokers huddled under the bar’s awning, sending one stumbling into the gutter. “Police!” Quinn barked, but the word was swallowed by the drumming rain. Herrera glanced back, his warm brown eyes locking onto hers for a split second before he ducked into the mouth of an alley on the opposite side of the street. Quinn cursed under her breath. She wasn’t losing him. Not tonight. The alley was a gullet of shadows, the brick walls slick with rain and grime. Herrera’s footsteps echoed ahead, but the sound was swallowed by the deeper darkness of a descending staircase. Quinn skidded to a halt at the top, her pulse hammering. The stairs led down into the bowels of the city, into the abandoned Tube tunnels beneath Camden. She knew what lay down there—the Veil Market. A place where the rules of the world above didn’t apply. She hesitated. Protocol said to call for backup. Protocol said not to pursue a suspect into unknown, potentially hostile territory alone. But protocol hadn’t saved DS Morris three years ago. Protocol hadn’t explained the way his body had been found—pale, drained, his eyes wide with something like terror. Quinn had spent the last three years chasing whispers, following leads that always seemed to slip through her fingers. And now, here was Herrera, a man with ties to the supernatural underworld, running straight into the dark. Her fingers twitched toward her radio. No. Backup would take too long. By the time they arrived, Herrera would be gone, swallowed by the market’s shifting stalls and shadowed corridors. She had to move now. Quinn descended the stairs, her boots splashing in shallow, stagnant water. The air grew thicker, warmer, laced with the scent of incense and something metallic. The tunnel opened up into a cavernous space, the walls lined with flickering lanterns that cast long, wavering shadows. The Veil Market sprawled before her, a labyrinth of stalls and tents, their wares glowing with an eerie luminescence. A bone token hung from a chain around her neck—she didn’t remember picking it up, but she must have grabbed it from Herrera during the chase. The market was alive with movement. Figures in hooded cloaks and masks of polished bone wove between the stalls, their voices a low hum beneath the clatter of unseen transactions. A vendor with too many teeth grinned at her from behind a table laden with jars of swirling, iridescent liquid. Another stall displayed rows of knives, their blades etched with symbols that made her eyes ache if she looked at them too long. Quinn pushed forward, her military precision cutting through the crowd. She kept her gaze sharp, scanning for Herrera’s dark curls, his olive skin, the glint of his medallion. The market seemed to shift around her, the paths between stalls rearranging like a living thing. She turned a corner and nearly collided with a towering figure wrapped in tattered robes, its face hidden beneath a deep hood. It didn’t speak, but its presence pressed against her like a physical weight. She sidestepped it, her breath shallow. Ahead, she caught a flash of movement—Herrera, slipping between two stalls. She broke into a run, her boots pounding against the damp stone. The stall owners hissed as she brushed past, their voices rising in a chorus of disapproval. A woman with silver-streaked hair grabbed at her sleeve, pressing a small, pulsating stone into her palm. “For protection,” she whispered, her voice like dry leaves. Quinn shook her off and kept moving. The market seemed to narrow, the stalls pressing in closer, their wares more grotesque. A man with a face like melted wax offered her a vial of what looked like liquid shadow. A child—if it was a child—held out a handful of teeth, each one humming with a quiet, discordant note. Quinn ignored them all, her focus locked on Herrera. She rounded another corner and skidded to a stop. Herrera stood in the center of a small clearing, his chest heaving, his hands raised. Behind him, a figure emerged from the shadows—a man with a face like a skull, his eyes burning with a cold, blue fire. Quinn’s stomach twisted. She knew that face. Or rather, she knew the stories. Silas Vey, the keeper of the Veil Market. A man who was said to deal in more than just enchanted trinkets. “Detective Quinn,” Silas said, his voice like gravel. “What an unexpected pleasure.” Herrera didn’t turn around. “You weren’t supposed to follow me,” he muttered. Quinn’s fingers twitched toward her sidearm, but she didn’t draw it. Not yet. “Tomás Herrera,” she said, her voice steady. “You’re under arrest.” Silas laughed, a sound like cracking ice. “Arrest? Here? Oh, Detective, you have no jurisdiction in my market.” Quinn’s jaw tightened. “I’m not leaving without him.” Silas tilted his head, his burning eyes studying her. “And what makes you think you could take him if I say otherwise?” Quinn didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. She’d spent her life facing down men who thought they were untouchable. Silas Vey was no different. Herrera finally turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “You don’t know what you’re getting into, Quinn.” “Then enlighten me,” she said. Silas stepped between them, his skeletal face splitting into a grin. “Oh, this is going to be fun.” He raised a hand, and the shadows around them deepened, pressing in like a living thing. “Run along, Detective. Before you learn more than you bargained for.” Quinn’s pulse pounded in her ears. She could feel the weight of the market around her, the eyes of its denizens watching, waiting. She had a choice to make—turn back now, or push forward into the unknown. She didn’t hesitate. “Herrera,” she said, her voice low. “Move.” And then she lunged.