Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6P55YTWSBV919YFHJWG

Rain fell in thick, silver needles, slicing through the orange glow of Soho’s streetlamps. Detective Harlow Quinn moved fast, boots splashing through puddles, her breath coming in hard bursts that fogged the cold air. Her leather watch—old, scarred, the strap frayed at the clasp—slid down her wrist as she pushed off a metal trash bin to cut the corner onto Dean Street. The suspect was ahead, just barely, a dark figure in a long coat melting in and out of the shadows between storefronts. *Tomás Herrera.* She hadn’t expected to see his face on surveillance footage from the 4 a.m. gas station robbery on Berwick Street. Not the ex-paramedic turned underground healer. Not a man with a Saint Christopher medallion who’d once saved a child’s life using a concoction the paramedics’ council still refused to name. But there he was—caught mid-frame, face half in shadow, scar visible along his forearm—lifting a lead-lined case from the back of a stolen van. And now he was running. Quinn ducked under a sagging awning, the rain drumming over her like static. Her jacket—navy, unmarked, standard issue minus the badge clipped inside her pocket—clung to her shoulders, heavy with water. The city pulsed around her: a car horn, the distant wail of a siren, a drunk laughing in a doorway. But she heard only the rhythm of her own pulse and the quick, uneven footfalls of the man ahead. Herrera turned sharply into a narrow alley, half-hidden between a shuttered bookstore and an all-night bodega. Quinn followed, drawing her sidearm—standard-issue Glock 17—but holding it low against her thigh. No warnings shouted. Not yet. Not until she knew what kind of game she was playing. The alley dead-ended at a chain-link fence, but Herrera wasn’t there. Quinn slowed, scanning. Wet bricks. Overflowing bins. Graffiti of a raven with wings spread wide. Then she saw it: a rusted service door, barely visible behind a tarp sagging with rainwater. The frame had been pried open—recently. Fresh scrapes on the metal. She holstered her weapon and drew a compact flashlight from her belt. Cracked the door wider, wincing at the screech of corroded hinges. Concrete steps spiraled down into blackness. The air that rose from below was warm, stale, and carried a scent she couldn’t place—burnt sage, perhaps, or something older, earthier. She flicked on the light. The beam cut through damp air, catching the edge of crumbling tiles, a discarded gas mask, a smear of red that might’ve been paint… or blood. *Three years ago, Morris went underground too. Into places the report never mentioned.* She stepped down. The passage opened into a tunnel, low-ceilinged and lined with flickering fluorescent strips that buzzed like trapped insects. The floor sloped downward, curving slightly to the left. Footprints—fresh, boot-shaped—dug into the grime. She moved fast but cautious, back to the wall, hand near her gun. After seventy yards, the tunnel ended at another door. This one was newer, steel-reinforced, set with a keypad and a speaker box. And standing beside it, arms crossed, was a woman in a long gray coat, her eyes sharp under a fringe of wet black hair. “You shouldn’t be here,” the woman said. No question in her voice. “I’m looking for Tomás Herrera,” Quinn said. “He came this way.” The woman studied her. “You’re not Market-registered.” “I’m Metropolitan Police. He’s wanted in connection with a homicide investigation.” Another silence. Then a soft click. The door opened a crack, revealing a sliver of warm, golden light and the low hum of voices. “You go in,” the woman said. “But you don’t draw your weapon. You don’t speak unless spoken to. And you hand over your badge. That’s the price of entry.” Quinn’s jaw tightened. She didn’t like the rules. Didn’t like not knowing who made them. But she reached into her pocket and tossed the badge into the woman’s hand. The door swung open completely. The Veil Market. It wasn’t a market. Not as the world knew it. The space stretched far beyond what geography allowed—a cavernous chamber built in the bones of a decommissioned Tube station, arched ceilings dripping with moisture, platforms long since buried repurposed into stalls. Strings of fairy lights crisscrossed overhead, casting swaying halos over wares that defied logic. A stall selling bottled storms—glass orbs swirling with miniature lightning. Another offering vials of memory, each labeled with a year and a name. To her right, a woman with eyes like polished obsidian weighed out a powder that shimmered like ground stars. The air thrummed—low, electric—not with machinery, but with presence. A thousand whispered incantations, the click of talons on stone, the hiss of creatures that hadn’t yet been named. And people—humans and things that wore human shapes—drifted through the aisles like ghosts. Masks. Tattoos that moved under the skin. A man with antlers wired with Christmas lights. She spotted Herrera near a stall selling enchanted knives. He was speaking in low, urgent Spanish to a vendor with skin like river clay. The lead-lined case was at his feet. Quinn moved toward him. A hand clamped onto her shoulder. She spun, elbow cocked, but stopped short. Standing before her was a man with a raven tattoo curling up his neck, a bone token on a string around his wrist. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, voice like gravel. “I’m not here to cause trouble,” Quinn said, trying to keep her voice level. “I need to speak to Herrera.” “He’s not under arrest.” “Yet.” The man studied her. “You don’t belong in the Veil, Detective. Most who come down here never leave the way they came.” She met his gaze. “I don’t have a choice.” And that was the truth. Because three years ago, her partner had walked into a basement in Whitechapel chasing a lead on a missing child. He’d radioed in: *There’s something down here. Not human. Not anymore.* Then static. Then silence. They found him two days later—alive, but hollow. His eyes didn’t track. His mouth moved, whispering numbers that didn’t mean anything. He died three weeks later. Cardiac arrest, the coroner said. But Quinn knew better. She’d seen the claw marks on the basement wall. The sigils, drawn in ash and something darker. And now, standing in this impossible place, she felt it again—the pull of something just beyond understanding. Herrera turned. His eyes locked onto hers. For a moment, neither moved. Then he picked up the case and began to walk—away from the stall, toward a narrow archway beneath a flickering lantern marked with a raven symbol. She followed. The arch led into a quieter corridor, shelves of old books rising on either side. The air was thick with incense now, the scent cloying, almost medicinal. Herrera stopped. “You shouldn’t have followed me,” he said, his voice quiet. “Why? Because this place scares you too?” Quinn asked. He turned. Rainwater still clung to his curls. The scar on his forearm caught the light. “This place isn’t the danger, Detective,” he said. “It’s what happens when people like you come in with guns and badges and think they can arrest the unaccountable.” “Then explain it to me,” she said, stepping closer. “The case. The robbery. The vials inside it—what were they?” Herrera hesitated. Then, almost inaudibly: “Antivenom.” “For what?” “For the Hollow Maw. A creature that’s been feeding on the homeless beneath King’s Cross. I had five doses ready. The NHS would’ve taken months. People were dying.” “You stole from a registered pharmacy.” “By the time they approved treatment, there’d be no one left to treat.” He touched the medallion at his neck. “I swore an oath. Not to the council. To the ones no one else helps.” Quinn stared at him. She’d heard stories—rumors of doctors vanishing, hospitals with missing patients, wards that didn’t appear on floor plans. And she’d seen the bruises on Morris’s arms—perfect circles, like suction marks. “What happened to my partner,” she said, voice low, “was it something like this?” Herrera’s expression changed. Pity. Then recognition. “You’re Morris’s detective,” he said softly. “I heard about him. I’m sorry.” That wasn’t an answer. But it was close enough. Behind her, footsteps echoed. The raven-tattooed man. Another beside him—taller, face obscured by a hood. Quinn turned. “I need to know what’s happening down here.” Herrera exhaled. “Then stop chasing me. Start listening.” Outside the archway, the Market hummed—a living thing, ancient, indifferent. And for the first time in three years, Harlow Quinn let go of the gun at her side.