Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN7F2E9G8X4GMKBEP951BN

The rain came down in sheets, a relentless drumming that turned the cobblestones slick beneath Quinn’s boots. She kept her pace steady, her breath even, the leather of her watch strap creaking faintly against her wrist as she adjusted her grip on the handle of her revolver. The gun was a relic from her days in the Special Response Unit, its weight familiar, its purpose unyielding. She hadn’t fired it in years—not since the night she’d lost Morris. But tonight, the streets of Soho felt like a different world, one where the rules of the law didn’t apply, where shadows moved on their own and the air hummed with something just beyond perception. The suspect—*he*—had been easy to tail at first. A man in a long, dark coat, his face obscured by the brim of a fedora pulled low. He moved with the confidence of someone who knew these streets better than the cops who patrolled them. Quinn had seen him before, lurking near the Raven’s Nest, that seedy bar with its neon sign flickering like a dying star. She’d been there once, posing as a journalist, watching, listening. That was when she’d first noticed the way he watched the door, the way his fingers twitched near his coat like he was itching to pull something from his pocket. Something that wasn’t just a cigarette pack. Now, he was cutting through the alley behind the old bookshop, his footsteps swallowed by the rain. Quinn followed, her boots splashing through puddles that reflected the sickly glow of the streetlamps. The air smelled of wet stone and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or the faint metallic tang of old blood. She didn’t like it. Didn’t like any of it. A sharp crack split the air. Quinn barely had time to react before the glass of the alley’s exit shattered inward, rain and shards raining down in a glittering storm. She ducked, pressing herself against the brick wall as the suspect’s head appeared in the doorway, his fedora askew, his face twisted in something between a sneer and a grimace. "You’re not supposed to be here, Detective," he said, his voice low, amused. "This isn’t your turf." Quinn didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. She stepped forward, her revolver leveled at his chest. "Drop whatever you’re carrying. Now." The man laughed, a sound that was equal parts mirth and menace. "Or what? You’re gonna shoot me in the middle of the street? Get real." He reached into his coat, and Quinn’s finger tightened on the trigger— A hand clamped over her wrist, yanking her back with a strength that surprised her. She whirled, her gun still raised, and found herself staring into the warm brown eyes of a man she didn’t recognize. He was younger, maybe mid-thirties, with dark curly hair slicked back from his face. A scar ran along his left forearm, a pale line against his olive skin. He wore a stained white shirt beneath a worn leather jacket, and the scent of antiseptic and something earthier—like damp earth and crushed herbs—lingered around him. "Easy," he said, his voice calm, but his grip was iron. "He’s not worth it." Quinn glared at him, then back at the suspect, who was now pressing a hand to his side, his coat gaping open to reveal a dark stain spreading across his shirt. "He’s bleeding. He’s got something on him." The younger man—*Tomás*, she realized with a flicker of irritation—didn’t look at the suspect. His gaze was fixed on her, intense. "You don’t know what you’re dealing with here. That’s not just blood." Quinn’s jaw tightened. "Then what is it?" Before he could answer, the suspect let out a groan, his body sagging against the alley wall. "Fucking paramedic," he muttered. "Always sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong." Tomás’s fingers flexed around Quinn’s wrist, just enough to remind her he was still there. "He’s not just a paramedic. He’s got a way with things that don’t heal normally." Quinn exhaled sharply through her nose. "Supernatural." Tomás didn’t confirm or deny it. Instead, he nodded toward the suspect, who was now sliding to the ground, his movements sluggish, unnatural. "He’s not the one you should be worried about. There’s someone else coming. Someone who doesn’t like loose ends." Quinn’s pulse spiked. She knew that tone. Knew the way his voice dropped, the way his body language shifted when he was talking about things that went beyond the law. She’d heard it before, in the whispers of the old-timers on the force, in the files that got buried. "You’re talking about the Veil Market." Tomás’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on her wrist tightened just slightly. "You’re not supposed to know about it." Quinn yanked her arm free. "I know about it because I’ve been looking for answers. And right now, that suspect—" she jerked her chin toward the man on the ground, who was now muttering to himself in a language she didn’t recognize "—he’s got something that belongs to the clique. Something that’s got my partner’s name on it." Tomás’s eyes darkened. "You lost a partner?" Quinn’s fingers twitched toward her revolver again. "Three years ago. Under suspicious circumstances. And now, I’m starting to think it wasn’t just a hit. It was something else." The younger man’s gaze flickered to the suspect, then back to her. "You’re walking into something dangerous. The Veil Market isn’t a place for cops." Quinn stepped around him, her boots splashing through the puddles. "I’m not here as a cop. I’m here as a detective. And I’m not leaving until I get what I came for." Tomás followed her, his voice low. "Then you’d better be ready. Because what you’re about to walk into doesn’t play by your rules." The suspect groaned again, his body convulsing. Quinn crouched beside him, her revolver still drawn. "Where is it? Where’s the package?" The man’s eyes rolled back, his skin taking on a sickly sheen. "You’re not gonna find it here," he rasped. "It’s underground. The Veil Market. Full moon tonight. You’ll know it when you see it." Quinn stood, her mind racing. The Veil Market. She’d heard rumors, of course—whispers in the back alleys of the force, files that got marked "classified" and then disappeared. But this was the first time she’d had something concrete to go on. And now, thanks to this suspect and the paramedic who seemed to know more than he was letting on, she had a lead. She turned to Tomás. "How do I get in?" His expression was unreadable. "You don’t." She raised an eyebrow. "Then what the hell am I doing here?" Tomás exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. "You need a bone token. Something from something that’s already dead." Quinn’s stomach twisted. "You’re joking." Tomás shook his head. "I wish I were." She looked back at the suspect, who was now lying still, his chest rising and falling in shallow, unnatural breaths. "His bone token?" Tomás hesitated. "It’s not just a token. It’s a key. And once you’re inside, you’re not just a customer. You’re prey." Quinn holstered her revolver, her fingers brushing against the familiar weight of the gun. "Then I’ll just have to be careful." Tomás’s gaze was steady. "You won’t be careful enough." A sound cut through the night—a distant, rhythmic *thump*, like something heavy being dropped into water. Quinn’s skin prickled. "What the hell was that?" Tomás’s voice was barely above a whisper. "That’s the market moving. It’s not stationary. It changes with the moon." Quinn’s mind raced. The full moon was tonight. That meant the Veil Market was already here, lurking beneath the city, waiting. And if she wanted answers—if she wanted to find out what had really happened to Morris—she had to go down there. She looked at the suspect, then at Tomás. "Help me." Tomás’s expression was grim. "I can’t just walk you in there." Quinn’s voice was firm. "Then tell me how." Tomás closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. When he opened them again, his gaze was intense. "There’s a way in. An old Tube station beneath Camden. But you’ll need to get there before the market shifts again. And once you’re inside, you don’t look back." Quinn nodded. "I won’t." Tomás reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, tarnished bone token. It was shaped like a key, its surface etched with strange symbols. "This is yours. But remember—once you’re in, you’re not just a guest. You’re a target." Quinn took the token, her fingers brushing against the cold, smooth bone. "I understand." Tomás’s voice dropped to a whisper. "You don’t. But you will." The suspect groaned again, his body twitching. Quinn knelt beside him, her hand hovering over his coat. "Where’s the entrance?" The man’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused. "Under the station. Near the old tracks. But you have to go at midnight. That’s when the door opens." Quinn stood, her mind made up. "I’ll be there." Tomás’s expression was grim. "Be careful." Quinn didn’t answer. She turned and started walking, her boots splashing through the rain-soaked streets. She could feel Tomás’s gaze on her back, but she didn’t look back. She had a suspect to find, a market to infiltrate, and a partner’s name to avenge. The rain continued to fall, a relentless drumming that filled the silence between her thoughts. She adjusted her grip on the bone token, feeling its weight against her palm. It was cold, heavy, and it felt like a promise. And she was ready to keep it.