Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMNEZ7SJ25QZFT80JGH1SCN

The rain came down in sheets, turning the pavement into a slick mirror that reflected the fractured glow of neon signs and streetlamps. Detective Harlow Quinn moved with the precision of a woman who had spent too many nights like this—chasing shadows through the underbelly of London. Her breath came in controlled bursts, fogging the air in front of her as she scanned the alleyways branching off from Greek Street. The suspect had vanished near the mouth of an alley, but she knew better than to assume he was gone. She adjusted the worn leather strap of her watch, the one thing she still wore from her early days on the force, and pressed forward. The soles of her boots splashed through puddles that pooled in the cracks of the pavement. Ahead, the distinctive green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered, its light bleeding into the rain like watercolor. She slowed, her instincts prickling. The bar was a known haunt for the kind of people who didn’t like cops—especially not ones asking questions about missing persons and unsolved cases with too many loose ends. Quinn exhaled sharply, her breath curling in the cold air. She wasn’t here for the bar. She was here for the man who had just ducked inside—Tomás Herrera, the former paramedic with the scarred forearm and the Saint Christopher medallion. He’d been at the scene of the last disappearance, the one that had set off every alarm bell in her skull. And now he was running. She pushed through the door of *The Raven’s Nest*, the warmth of the bar hitting her like a wall. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey and old wood, the hum of low conversation threading through the dim light. Her eyes adjusted quickly, sweeping over the patrons—most of them too absorbed in their drinks to notice her, but a few glancing up with the wary eyes of people who knew trouble when they saw it. Herrera wasn’t at the bar. He wasn’t at any of the tables. Quinn’s jaw tightened. The bookshelf. She moved toward the back of the room, her steps silent despite the creak of the floorboards beneath her. The bookshelf was just as she’d heard—lined with leather-bound volumes that looked like they’d never been opened. She ran her fingers along the spine of one, then another, until she found the loose one. The shelf swung open with a soft click, revealing a narrow passage lit by a single bare bulb. The hidden room beyond was small, cluttered with crates and stacks of yellowed papers. A door at the far end stood slightly ajar, rain-slicked air seeping through the gap. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She stepped inside, pulling the bookshelf shut behind her, and slipped through the door. The alley on the other side was narrower, the walls pressing in on either side like the ribs of some great beast. The rain had turned the cobblestones treacherous, and Quinn’s boots skidded as she took off at a run. Herrera was ahead of her, his dark curls plastered to his forehead, his Saint Christopher medallion bouncing against his chest as he sprinted. He glanced back once, his warm brown eyes wide with something like panic, before he ducked left into another alley. Quinn followed, her lungs burning. She wasn’t as young as she used to be, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her. The alley opened into a wider street, the kind that tourists never saw—boarded-up shops, graffiti-scrawled walls, the occasional flicker of a security light. Herrera was fast, but she was relentless. She closed the distance, her fingers brushing the back of his jacket as he skidded around another corner. Then he was gone. Quinn skidded to a halt, her breath ragged. The street dead-ended at a rusted metal door set into the brick wall of what looked like an abandoned building. The door was ajar, a sliver of darkness visible beyond. She approached cautiously, her hand resting on the grip of her service weapon. The rain drummed against the metal, the sound hollow and echoing. She pushed the door open with her foot. Stairs led downward, the air growing colder with each step. The walls were damp, the scent of mildew and something older—something metallic—filling her nose. The stairs ended at another door, this one newer, reinforced with steel. A symbol was carved into the center of it, something that made her skin prickle. She didn’t recognize it, but she knew trouble when she saw it. Quinn hesitated. This wasn’t just another alley. This was something else. Something *off*. She thought of DS Morris, her partner, the way his body had been found three years ago—no signs of struggle, no cause of death, just a look of frozen terror on his face. She thought of the cases she’d been working since, the ones that didn’t add up, the ones that whispered of things beyond the scope of her badge. Herrera had gone through this door. And if she wanted answers, she had to follow. She pushed the door open. The air on the other side was thick, humid, like stepping into a cave. The space beyond was vast, lit by flickering lanterns that cast long, shifting shadows across the walls. Stalls lined the cavernous room, their wares displayed under glass or hanging from hooks—vials of glowing liquid, bundles of dried herbs, strange artifacts that seemed to hum with energy. The people here moved like ghosts, their faces obscured by hoods or masks, their voices a low murmur that echoed unnaturally. Quinn’s pulse hammered in her throat. This wasn’t just a black market. This was something *other*. A hand clamped down on her shoulder. She spun, her fist already flying, but the man who had grabbed her was faster. He twisted her arm behind her back, pressing her against the damp wall. His breath was hot against her ear. “You don’t belong here, Detective,” he hissed. Quinn gritted her teeth. “Neither does Herrera.” The man chuckled, a sound like dry leaves scraping stone. “Herrera’s one of us. You’re not.” She didn’t struggle. Not yet. “What is this place?” “The Veil Market,” he said, as if that explained everything. “And you’ve got about thirty seconds before the bone tokens run out.” Quinn’s mind raced. Bone tokens. She’d heard rumors—whispers of a market that moved with the moon, where the things sold weren’t just illegal, they were *impossible*. She thought of the symbol on the door, the way the air here seemed to vibrate with something unseen. The man released her, shoving her back toward the door. “Go. Before you get us all killed.” Quinn didn’t move. Herrera was here somewhere. And if this place held the answers she needed—answers about Morris, about the cases that had haunted her for years—then she wasn’t leaving without them. She stepped forward, her boots clicking against the stone floor. The market swallowed her whole.