Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6PAXCCHBY27NS2TA7ME

The rain came down in sheets, turning Soho's narrow streets into rivers of reflected neon. Detective Harlow Quinn's boots slapped against the wet pavement as she rounded the corner onto Frith Street, her eyes locked on the figure thirty meters ahead. Tomás Herrera. The man moved like someone who knew these streets intimately, ducking through alleys and cutting across traffic with the fluid ease of a local. Quinn's breath came in sharp bursts, her lungs burning against the cold November air. Eighteen years on the force had kept her fit, but Herrera was younger, faster, and apparently desperate enough to run despite the weather. The green neon glow of The Raven's Nest flickered past on her left—she'd been watching that bar for weeks now, certain it served as a meeting point for whatever network Herrera had gotten himself tangled up in. But she couldn't stop, couldn't pause to consider the implications of what she was doing out here alone, off the clock, chasing a man who technically wasn't wanted for anything concrete. She'd spotted him by accident. Or maybe not by accident at all. Quinn didn't believe in coincidences anymore, not since Morris. Herrera glanced back over his shoulder, his dark curly hair plastered to his forehead. In the strobing light of a passing taxi, she caught the panic in his warm brown eyes—the look of a man running from something far more frightening than a lone detective. That should have given her pause. It didn't. "Metropolitan Police!" she shouted, though the words were swallowed by the rain and the rumble of traffic. "Stop!" He didn't stop. If anything, he accelerated, his olive skin gleaming under the streetlights as he vaulted a row of rubbish bins and disappeared into a narrow passage between buildings. Quinn followed, her worn leather watch catching on the rough brick as she squeezed through the gap. The passage opened onto a small courtyard she'd never seen before, despite knowing this area like the back of her hand. A dead end, she thought—until Herrera dropped to his knees and wrenched open what looked like a storm drain cover. Quinn drew her weapon. "Herrera! Don't—" He dropped into the darkness without hesitation. The cover clanged shut behind him. She stood there for a moment, rain streaming down her face, staring at the rusted metal disc set into the concrete. Her training screamed at her to call for backup. To report her position, request support, follow procedure. But procedure had gotten Morris killed. Procedure had left a dozen questions unanswered and a case file stamped UNEXPLAINED that still haunted her dreams three years later. Quinn holstered her weapon and crouched beside the cover. Her fingers found the edge, slick with rain, and she pulled. It opened with a grinding shriek that set her teeth on edge. Below, a ladder descended into absolute darkness—no, not absolute. Somewhere far below, she could see a faint amber glow, like candlelight filtered through fog. The smart thing would be to walk away. To add this location to her notes, to come back with a team, to do this properly. But Herrera was connected to the same network she'd been investigating since Morris's death. The same whispered names, the same impossible evidence, the same trail that always seemed to vanish just when she got close. She descended. The ladder was old, its rungs rough with rust that bit into her palms. The shaft was narrow enough that her shoulders brushed the walls on either side, and the air grew warmer as she climbed down—warmer and thicker, carrying scents she couldn't quite identify. Something herbal. Something metallic. Something that reminded her, absurdly, of the incense her grandmother used to burn in the small shrine she kept in her bedroom closet. The ladder ended on a platform of corroded metal, overlooking a space that shouldn't exist. Quinn's breath caught in her throat. She stood at the edge of what had clearly once been a Tube station—she could see the curved walls, the tiled alcoves, the ghost of old advertisements still clinging to the ceramic surfaces. But the platform below had been transformed into something out of a fever dream. Stalls crowded every available space, their canopies a patchwork of moth-eaten velvet and oilcloth, their tables laden with objects that caught the firelight in ways that defied logic. The amber glow came from hundreds of lanterns suspended from the vaulted ceiling, their flames burning in colors she'd never seen fire produce—deep purple, vivid green, a blue so bright it hurt to look at directly. And the people. Dozens of them, moving between the stalls with an ease that suggested familiarity. Some looked ordinary enough—men and women in coats and scarves, haggling over prices, exchanging small packages. Others were... different. A woman with skin that seemed to shift between shades of grey and blue, like a living oil slick. A man whose shadow moved independently of his body, reaching out to touch merchandise he hadn't approached. A child—or something child-sized—with eyes that reflected the lantern light like a cat's. The Veil Market. She'd heard the name whispered in interrogation rooms, seen it scrawled in the margins of confiscated notebooks. A myth. A story criminals told each other. A place that supposedly moved every full moon, accessible only to those who knew the right people, carried the right tokens. It was real. Quinn pressed herself against the wall, her hand instinctively moving to her weapon. The platform she stood on seemed to be a kind of observation point, separated from the market floor by a rusted railing and a series of old service stairs. Below and to her left, she could see Herrera pushing through the crowd, his pace urgent but not panicked anymore. He was heading for a stall near the far end of the platform, where a hunched figure sat surrounded by glass jars filled with liquids that glowed with their own inner light. She could follow him. The stairs were right there, and the crowd was dense enough that she might be able to blend in if she moved carefully. But everything about this place screamed danger—not the familiar danger of armed suspects and dark alleys, but something deeper, something her body recognized even if her mind couldn't name it. The same feeling she'd had three years ago, standing in that warehouse in Whitechapel, looking at the symbol drawn in Morris's blood on the concrete floor. The same feeling she'd been chasing ever since. Quinn checked her weapon. Fifteen rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. Her phone had no signal this far underground. No backup. No procedure. Just her and whatever truth lay waiting at the bottom of those stairs. She thought of Morris. Of the way he'd laughed when she told him she didn't believe in the supernatural. Of the way his body had looked when they'd finally found it, three days after he'd gone in alone. Of the coroner's report that made no sense, the wounds that matched no known weapon, the expression frozen on his face that suggested he'd seen something in his final moments that defied comprehension. Quinn took a breath. Then another. Then she started down the stairs. The crowd didn't part for her so much as flow around her, conversations pausing mid-sentence as she passed, eyes tracking her progress with expressions ranging from curiosity to alarm. She kept her hand near her hip, her bearing straight, channeling the military precision her father had drilled into her during childhood. Look like you belong, and people will believe you do. It had worked in interrogation rooms and crime scenes. She had to hope it would work here. A hand caught her elbow. Quinn spun, her other hand closing around her weapon—but the figure who'd grabbed her raised both palms in a gesture of peace. An old woman, barely five feet tall, her face a map of wrinkles beneath a shawl that seemed to be woven from actual feathers. Around her neck hung a pendant that pulsed with a faint inner light, and her eyes—Quinn forced herself not to look away from those eyes, which held no whites, only a deep and swirling silver. "Bone token," the woman said. Her voice was dry as autumn leaves. "Show me your bone token, or leave." Quinn's mind raced. "I'm pursuing a suspect. A man who just—" "I don't care if you're pursuing the Devil himself." The old woman's grip tightened with surprising strength. "The Market has rules. Bone token, or you don't pass." Over the woman's shoulder, Quinn could see Herrera completing his transaction at the distant stall. He accepted a small package from the hunched figure, tucking it inside his jacket—his jacket, where she knew he kept the Saint Christopher medallion he never removed. Whatever he'd come for, he had it now. In moments, he'd be gone. "I don't have a token," Quinn said. The admission tasted like ash. "But that man—" "Then you don't belong here." The old woman's expression softened slightly, though her grip didn't loosen. "Go back, surface-dweller. Go back to your world of paperwork and procedure. What hunts in the dark is not for you to chase." "What hunts in the dark?" But the woman was already releasing her, already turning away, already disappearing into the crowd with a speed that belied her apparent age. Quinn stood frozen at the base of the stairs, watching as Herrera slipped through a gap in the far wall—another exit, another passage into the London underground, another trail going cold. She could push forward. Force her way through the crowd, damn the consequences. But the old woman's words echoed in her mind, mingling with the memory of Morris's final voicemail, the one she'd listened to a thousand times since his death. *Quinn, I found something. Something big. But listen—don't follow me, alright? Whatever happens, don't follow me down. Some doors aren't meant to be opened.* She'd followed anyway, three days too late. Now, standing in this impossible market beneath the streets of Camden, surrounded by things that couldn't exist, Quinn made her choice. Not the choice Morris would have wanted. Not the choice her training demanded. Not even the choice that might keep her safe. She stepped forward into the crowd. The hunt wasn't over. It was only beginning.