Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPC5G0E6DN84JFNJ1BVGNZ

The rain came down in sheets, turning the Soho streets into a shimmering black mirror. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted after the shadowy figure, her boots splashing through oily puddles that reflected the garish neon signs overhead. The green glow of The Raven's Nest sign burned in her peripheral vision as she rounded the corner, her breath coming in sharp bursts that fogged the cold air. "Met Police! Stop!" she shouted, but the figure—just a silhouette in a dark hood—darted down an alleyway. Quinn's hand went to her hip, fingers brushing the grip of her service weapon, but she didn't draw. Not yet. Not when she still didn't know what she was chasing. She followed into the alley, the brick walls pressing close on either side. The smell of damp garbage and something sharper—ozone?—filled the narrow space. Her quarry vaulted over a rusted fire escape ladder with unnatural ease. Quinn gritted her teeth and followed, the worn leather of her watch strap catching on the metal as she hauled herself up. The cold rain stung her eyes as she climbed. From the rooftop, she saw the figure leap across a yawning gap to the next building. Quinn hesitated only a second before taking the running jump. Her military training kicked in—the precise calculation of distance, the perfect tuck and roll on landing. She came up with her weapon drawn now, the Glock steady in both hands. "Last warning!" she called out, but the figure was already disappearing through a rooftop access door. Quinn followed at a careful pace, her back to the wall as she cleared each landing on the stairwell descent. The building stank of mildew and something else—incense? The hair on her arms stood up. At ground level, she burst through a fire door into an abandoned Tube station she hadn't even known existed. The tiled walls were cracked and stained, the old Camden Town signage barely visible under layers of grime. The air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and something metallic. Quinn slowed her breathing, listening. Footsteps echoed from somewhere ahead. She moved forward, her service weapon leading the way. The platform was empty except for a single figure standing beneath a flickering gas lamp—a man with olive skin and a Saint Christopher medallion glinting at his throat. Tomás Herrera. "You shouldn't be here, Detective," he said, his Spanish accent thicker than usual. His left hand hovered near the scar on his forearm. "Where's your friend?" Quinn demanded, scanning the shadows. The station stretched into darkness, but she could hear distant murmurs, the clink of glass, the shuffle of feet. A market. An entire underground market operating right beneath the city's nose. Tomás shook his head. "You don't want to go down there. Not without protection." Quinn's sharp jaw tightened. "I'm a police officer. I don't need protection from—" "From what?" Tomás interrupted. "You don't even know what you're chasing, do you? After what happened to Morris, you'd think you'd learn." The name hit like a punch. Quinn's finger twitched against the trigger guard. "What do you know about Morris?" Tomás exhaled through his nose. "Enough to know you're not ready for what's down those stairs. But if you're determined..." He reached into his pocket and Quinn tensed, but he only produced a small bone token carved with strange symbols. "Take this. It'll get you past the wardens. But for God's sake, don't show your badge." Quinn hesitated, then holstered her weapon and took the token. It was warm in her palm, almost vibrating. "Why are you helping me?" Tomás's brown eyes were unreadable. "Because someone should." He turned and melted into the shadows, leaving her alone on the platform. The stairs descended into darkness. Quinn pulled out her phone, but the flashlight only illuminated a few feet ahead—just enough to see the symbols painted on the walls in what looked like blood. The air grew thicker, warmer, carrying the scent of exotic spices and something faintly rotten. At the bottom, two hulking figures blocked a rusted gate. Their faces were obscured by grotesque wooden masks. One held out a clawed hand wordlessly. Quinn showed the bone token. The figures stepped aside, and the gate creaked open. The Veil Market sprawled before her—a nightmare bazaar lit by floating lanterns that cast shifting shadows. Stalls lined the abandoned tracks, selling things that made Quinn's stomach turn: jars of glowing liquid, twisted roots that pulsed like hearts, books bound in flesh. The crowd was a mix of ordinary-looking people and... others. A woman with too many fingers counted out gold teeth as currency. A man with vertical pupils licked his lips at the sight of her. Quinn kept her hand near her hip, her salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her skull by the rain still dripping from her clothes. She moved through the crowd, searching for her quarry. Then she saw it—the hooded figure slipping into a tent at the far end of the platform. She followed, pushing aside the tent flap. Inside, a wizened creature with skin like tree bark sat behind a table covered in vials. The hooded figure turned, and Quinn finally saw its face—pale, elongated, with eyes that reflected the light like a cat's. "Detective Quinn," it hissed. "We've been expecting you." The tent flap closed behind her with a finality that sounded like a tomb sealing shut. Quinn's fingers brushed her gun again, but something told her bullets wouldn't help here. She was in their world now. And they'd been waiting for her all along.