Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPDCT6Y57PGH8YEZ30XE3N

The rain fell in sheets, turning the neon reflections on the pavement into liquid smears of color. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted down the slick cobblestones of Soho, her breath coming in sharp bursts. Ahead, the suspect—a wiry figure in a dark hood—darted around a corner, nearly colliding with a group of tourists huddled under an awning. She adjusted her grip on her sidearm, not drawing it yet, but ready. The chase had started at The Raven’s Nest, where a tip had led her to a man selling black-market alchemical reagents. The moment he’d clocked her as police, he’d bolted. "Met Police! Stop!" she barked, but the figure didn’t even glance back. Her boots splashed through a puddle as she rounded the corner, catching a glimpse of the suspect slipping into an alleyway. The narrow passage was barely lit, the brick walls slick with moisture. She slowed just enough to avoid skidding, her sharp jaw set in determination. Then the alley opened into a wider courtyard, and the suspect was gone. Quinn cursed under her breath, scanning the shadows. A flicker of movement—a door swinging shut near a rusted fire escape. She lunged for it, wrenching it open to reveal a dim stairwell descending into darkness. The air smelled of damp concrete and something faintly metallic. Her wristwatch, the leather strap worn from years of wear, ticked softly as she hesitated. Protocol said to call for backup. But backup wouldn’t get here in time, and she couldn’t lose this lead. Not when it might be tied to Morris. She descended. The stairs led to an abandoned Tube station, its tiled walls cracked and covered in graffiti. The platform was empty except for a single figure standing beneath a flickering fluorescent light—Tomás Herrera, arms crossed, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting against his olive skin. "You shouldn’t be here, Detective," he said, his voice calm but edged with warning. Quinn’s hand hovered near her hip. "Where’d he go, Herrera?" Tomás exhaled through his nose, nodding toward an archway half-hidden behind peeling posters. "Through there. But you don’t have what you need to follow." She narrowed her eyes. "What’s that supposed to mean?" He lifted his left arm slightly, the scar along his forearm catching the light. "This isn’t your world. You go in there without a bone token, and they’ll know you’re not one of them." The Veil Market. She’d heard whispers—a place where the things that shouldn’t exist traded in shadows. Morris had muttered about it once, delirious with fever after a case gone wrong. Quinn’s pulse thudded in her throat. "Then get me one." Tomás studied her for a long moment, then reached into his jacket and tossed her a small, carved bone disk. "Don’t say I didn’t warn you." She caught it, the surface cold against her palm. The archway loomed ahead, the air beyond thick with the scent of incense and something older, darker. For Morris, she thought, and stepped through.