Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6P0D3S0S27V13GZ2Y8F

The downpour had turned Great Windmill Street into a slick black mirror, reflecting the stuttering neon of *The Raven’s Nest*. Harlow Quinn squinted, the rain lashing against her face with a brutal, cold efficiency. She pushed a damp strand of closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair from her eyes, the sharp jaw of her face set in a grim line. Her worn leather watch on her left wrist read 2:17 AM. Too late for anything good. She’d been watching *The Raven’s Nest* for three hours, the distinctive green neon sign a beacon of suspicion in the Soho night. Tomás Herrera had slipped out barely a minute ago, a silhouette against the garish light, disappearing east down the street. Quinn took off after him, her thirty-one years of military precision in every stride. Tomás was quick, his short curly dark brown hair plastered to his head, his olive skin gleaming under the streetlights. He moved with a practiced ease through the narrow, twisting lanes of Soho, each turn taking him deeper into the labyrinthine heart of London. Quinn kept pace, her gaze locked on the Saint Christopher medallion that bounced against his back, a small, silver target in the oppressive night. He was going somewhere in a hurry, not just home. He cut down Rupert Street, then veered sharply into Greek Street, the rhythmic slap of their shoes on the wet pavement the only sound save for the drumming rain. Quinn’s breath hitched, a stitch forming in her side, but she pressed on, the memory of DS Morris a cold, hard knot in her gut. She’d lost Morris, lost him in a way she still couldn’t explain, three years ago. This clique, these people hovering in the shadowed edges of the city, they were connected. She knew it. Tomás glanced over his shoulder, his warm brown eyes wide with surprise and a flicker of something close to recognition. He sped up, a renewed urgency in his stride. He must have known she was there, had been running her. The realization tightened Quinn’s jaw, a fresh burst of adrenaline flooding her system. She accelerated, closing the distance. They burst out onto Charing Cross Road, the traffic a blurry stream of red and white lights. Tomás risked a direct path, darting between two taxis, a blare of horns in his wake. Quinn didn’t hesitate, slipping through the same gap with an almost surgical precision. He was heading for Tottenham Court Road, towards Camden. And Quinn knew what that meant. Camden… the Veil Market. She'd been hearing rumors, whispers among informants about a black market that moved with the full moon, a place hidden, selling things that shouldn't exist. She’d never had concrete proof, never had a lead. Until now. Tomás ducked into an alleyway, a gaping maw between two derelict buildings. Quinn followed, her hand instinctively going to the Glock at her hip. The air grew heavy, thick with the smell of damp brick and something else, something metallic and faintly sweet. This wasn’t just an alley. It felt… older, deeper. The alley opened into a small, grimy courtyard, overlooked by blackened windows. At the far end, a set of crumbling concrete steps descended into darkness. Tomás was already halfway down, his figure swallowed by the inky black. Quinn paused, her heart thumping against her ribs. This was territory she knew nothing about, a place the official records wouldn’t touch. Every instinct screamed at her to stop, to call for backup, to wait. But then she pictured Morris’s face, etched in her memory, and the cold logic of her mission reasserted itself. She had to know. She descended the steps, one hand on the cold, damp wall. The air grew colder, the sound of the rain fading to a distant murmur. A faint, greenish light pulsed from below, casting strange, elongated shadows. The steps ended at a rusted metal door, slightly ajar. Pushing it open, Quinn found herself in a narrow, decaying tunnel. The air was thick with dust and the metallic tang she’d noticed earlier, but now it was sharper, laced with something else, something earthy and ancient. The greenish light source was clearer now, emanating from around a bend in the tunnel. She moved cautiously, her hand never leaving the Glock. Her military bearing, honed over 18 years of decorated service, held her rigid, her senses on high alert. The tunnel opened into a vast space, a cavernous chamber where the greenish light was stronger, pulsing from bioluminescent fungi clinging to the walls and ceiling. Below her, a scene unfolded that defied explanation. It was a market, but unlike any she had ever seen. Stalls fashioned from salvaged materials were overflowing with strange, glowing objects, vials of shimmering liquids, and intricate carvings that seemed to shift and writhe in the dim light. Figures moved among the stalls, some clearly human, others… less so. She saw things that looked like shadows given form, creatures with too many limbs, and others whose eyes glowed with an unsettling inner light. This was the Veil Market. This was what Morris had been getting close to. Tomás was already down there, weaving through the throng, his Saint Christopher medallion a familiar anchor in a sea of the unknown. He was making for a stall at the far end, manned by a gaunt figure whose face was obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. Quinn hesitated at the edge of the opening, the noise of the market washing over her – a low hum of chatter, the clink of strange coins, the occasional unearthly cry. Every fiber of her being screamed caution. This was not her world, not something she was equipped for. But years of detective work, of chasing down the inexplicable, had taught her that sometimes, you had to step into the darkness to find the light. She had to go. She had to know what Tomás was doing here, what her instincts had been telling her all along. Steeling herself, she took the first step down into the market, her gaze fixed on Tomás, her hand firm on her weapon.