Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPF4QSYQ7RQS4Y38YHRM7D

Rain pounded the slick pavement as Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted through the winding streets of Soho. Her breath came in sharp, controlled bursts; eyes keen beneath the brim of her newsboy cap. Ahead, a shadowy figure – her suspect. Quinn’s boots slapped against the ground, splashing through puddles that reflected the pale glow of street lamps. "Stop!" Quinn's voice cut through the storm, but the figure didn't slow. They darted into an alleyway. With military precision, Quinn fixed her gaze on her target and followed. Her salt-and-pepper hair, cropped close to her head, was beginning to cling to her scalp with the moisture. Her watch, a constant companion, felt almost out of place under her soaked sleeve. Rounding the corner, Quinn nearly collided with an overturned crate. The figure knocked it over deliberately, trying to slow her down. She hurdled over it, not missing a beat. The distant hum of city life was a muted backdrop to the pounding of her heart. The chase continued, the figure desperate as they wound through more narrow passageways. Quinn's sharp jaw was set with determination. She had pursued criminals through worse, scenes more chaotic than this weather-soaked night. Yet, something about this chase felt different. The figure emerged onto a larger street, soaked and shimmering under the rain. About thirty meters ahead, they darted down the old stone steps leading to one of the abandoned Tube stations. Quinn's mind raced. She knew these stations. Places people went to disappear. As she chased after the figure, Quinn's eyes flicked upwards to a distinctive green neon sign that glowed through the rain. The Raven's Nest, moments away from closing. She noted it with passing interest—right now, her attention was on her suspect. Her feet pounded down the stone steps. The descent felt eternal, every step echoing through the empty underpass. The figure reached the bottom and briefly glanced back, catching Quinn’s eye with a glint of determination or perhaps fear. It was enough to tell Quinn she was on the right track. Reaching the bottom, she skidded to a stop. The vast, empty expanse of the abandoned Tube station unfolded before her. Tunnels extending like veins into darkness. The figure was slipping through a once-secret entrance, now just a dark gaping maw that led to the underground Veil Market. The Veil Market. Quinn had only heard whispers of its existence — a realm beneath the surface where the lines between the natural and supernatural blurred. She was not in the mood for games, especially with the potential danger those tales involved. "Think, Harlow," she muttered, eyes narrowing. DS Morris’ memory flickered — it had been similar circumstances where she’d lost him, a hint of the supernatural that didn’t sit right with her logical mind. But she couldn't let the suspect get away. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped through the entrance. The transition was disorienting. The familiar industrial decay of the Tube station gave way to the underground market's strange, bustling energy. The scent of damp stone mixed with exotic spices filled her nostrils. Lanterns hanging from the ceiling cast an otherworldly glow over the market stalls. Sellers peddled potent concoctions and forbidden artifacts. She spotted Tomás Herrera, his olive skin and short curly dark hair standing out among the unusual patrons. He had his usual stall, a modest setup where he offered his medical services to those in the know. Their eyes met briefly, but her focus quickly shifted back. A flash of movement—her suspect had blended into the crowd, now weaving between stands of enchanted goods and obscured secrets. Quinn gritted her teeth. Following them meant delving deeper into unknown territory. Risks she'd avoided taking ever since Morris. “Harlow?” Tomás’ voice was a low, careful rumble near her ear. He had moved closer while she hesitated. He wore a worn brown jacket, a scar running along his left forearm that indicated a shared history of close calls. The Saint Christopher medallion around his neck glinted softly in the lantern light. “Don’t, Tommy. This isn't your problem.” Harlow’s voice was firm but also spoke volumes of unspoken gratitude. He had always known when to appear. “It’s your call, Harlow.” He didn’t argue, respecting the boundary. “Watch your six. These dealings down here...” His eyes flicked towards several shadowy figures haggling over an alchemical substance that radiated a faint, toxic glow. “Thanks.” She followed the shadow, now more certain of her path but not dismissive of its danger. The Market unfolded before her like some macabre dream. Quinn stayed focused, her suspect’s form a whisper ahead—visible only in brief flashes. She heard murmurs of deals and exchanges, glimpses of darker, even supernatural interactions. Deeper into the Market, the environment grew tangled and dense. The bustle seemed to press in around Quinn. The specter she followed darted past a vendor selling rare, ancient maps—the edges frayed and colors almost alive in their intricacy. Quinn’s side ached as her breath came harder, the air thick with incense and something strange she could not place. She dodged between customers and arcane artifacts, eyes locked on her target. The suspect made a sudden turn, slipping behind a tapestry depicting an ancient, otherworldly battle. Quinn drew closer, like a panther to its prey. Her senses were taut—a stretch of vibrance against the oppressive market atmosphere. A final stride and Quinn burst through the heavy fabric. She found herself faced with a small secluded room, faintly lit with scattered, flickering candles. Her breath caught, the scene more clandestine than she anticipated. Her suspect stood there—cornered. The swirl of their cloak was anachronistic against the modernity her mind habitually favored. “Stop right there.” Quinn’s voice was low, steady—a command that brooked no refusal. The figure turned slowly, revealing a young man with pale skin and striking blue eyes—eyes that seemed to pierce through the darkness and her very being. Beneath the cloak, remnants of a scared child could be seen, but a deeper, more twisted knowledge lingered. “Why did you run?” Quinn demanded, stepping closer but keeping her guard up. The weight of her decision to follow now hung in the heavy air, the cramped space. “They would have killed me if I led you to them out there,” the young man’s voice was a tremor, yet it carried an unmistakable truth. “You wouldn’t understand. Not from up there...” Quinn’s heartbeat steadied even as a bone-chilling realization crept in. She was part of something far more intricate, fraught with layers she’d only begun to peel back. She had stepped into the rabbit hole, and the only way out was through, gathering the truth one shredded piece at a time. Steeling herself, Quinn extended a hand, “I’m not here to hurt you. Just tell me what you know.” He nodded, blue eyes wide with a sort of relieved acceptance. From the corner, unseen by all but the deepest shadows, an ethereal presence shifted; the dance of something ancient and unexplained beginning to stir the air once more, leading Quinn into a labyrinth far removed from familiar streets.