Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN81TZ4D1K3Y5TEX393CSC

The rain fell in sheets, a relentless drumming that turned the pavement to slick mirrors beneath Quinn’s boots. She crouched low, her breath shallow, her fingers tightening around the grip of her sidearm. The neon glow of a flickering streetlamp cast long, jagged shadows across the cobblestones, but the man ahead of her was nothing but a dark blur, a ghost slipping through the downpour. She had been tracking him for hours—ever since the call came in about the stolen artifact, the one that had been sitting in the Metropolitan Museum’s restricted vaults for a century. The kind of thing that didn’t just vanish. The kind of thing that *moved* itself. And now, after a trail of bloodstained alleyways and a chase through the backstreets of Soho, he was leading her somewhere deeper. Somewhere *wrong*. The Raven’s Nest loomed ahead, its green neon sign buzzing like a dying insect against the storm. The bar’s door was propped open, a gust of warm, damp air spilling onto the sidewalk. Inside, the hum of low voices and the clink of glasses was muffled, but the air smelled of stale whiskey and something older—something that didn’t belong in a human world. Quinn hesitated. She knew the place. Knew the stories. Knew the kind of people who frequented its hidden corners. But her suspect was already inside. She didn’t hesitate long. The moment she stepped over the threshold, the rain behind her cut off like a curtain. The bar was dim, the kind of dim that made your eyes ache, the kind that hid things. The walls were lined with yellowed maps and black-and-white photographs of people who looked like they belonged in a different century. A few patrons sat at the bar, their faces half-lit by the dim glow of a single lamp. They turned as she entered, but their expressions were unreadable—just the kind of blank indifference that made her skin prickle. Quinn moved toward the back, her hand resting lightly on her holster. The suspect was gone. But she could feel him. The air shifted where he’d been, like the world itself had exhaled. Then she saw it—a flicker of movement behind the bookshelf. A hidden door, barely visible unless you knew it was there. The kind of thing that made her jaw tighten. She’d seen doors like this before. Seen the things that slipped through them. She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of the shelf. The wood was cold, damp. She pulled. The door swung open with a groan of protesting hinges, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The scent of damp earth and something metallic filled her nostrils. The Veil Market. Her pulse spiked. She knew about the Veil Market. Knew it moved every full moon, knew it was a place where the rules of the human world didn’t apply. Knew it was where things went to disappear. And she knew, with a certainty that settled like a stone in her gut, that her suspect wasn’t just running. He was *going somewhere*. The choice was simple. She could turn back. Walk out of that bar, back into the rain, and pretend she’d never seen the door. Pretend she hadn’t followed a trail of blood and lies straight into the mouth of hell. Or she could go down. Quinn exhaled sharply, her breath fogging in the cold air. She stepped forward, her boots echoing on the wooden stairs. The door creaked shut behind her, sealing her in. The descent was steep, the steps slick with something she didn’t want to identify. The air grew heavier, thicker, until it felt like the very air was pressing against her skin. The market loomed ahead, a labyrinth of stalls and flickering lanterns, the kind of place where deals were made in whispers and curses were paid in blood. And there, in the center of it all, was her suspect. He stood with his back to her, his dark hair damp from the rain that had followed her down. He wasn’t alone. A woman in a floor-length coat stood beside him, her fingers wrapped around a small, ornate box. The kind of box that didn’t belong in any museum. Quinn’s hand twitched toward her weapon. But then she saw the way the woman’s fingers trembled. Saw the way her eyes darted to the shadows, as if she expected something to come for her at any moment. And then she saw the bone token in the woman’s pocket. The one that let you in. Quinn’s blood turned to ice. She had been wrong. This wasn’t just a chase. This wasn’t just about an artifact. This was about something worse. The woman turned, her face half-hidden beneath the brim of her hat. She smiled—a slow, knowing thing. "Detective Quinn," she said, her voice like silk over glass. "I was wondering when you’d follow." Quinn’s finger tightened around her pistol. "Let’s talk." The woman laughed, a sound that echoed through the market like a dying animal. Then she turned back to the box, her fingers brushing it as if it were sacred. And in that moment, Quinn knew. She wasn’t here to arrest anyone. She was here to find out what the hell was happening. The market around them seemed to shift, the lanterns flickering like dying stars. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled—not the sound of a clock, but something older, something that made her teeth ache. The woman reached into the box. And something inside *moved*. Quinn didn’t wait. She fired.