Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQEFN1YRX2YH33XNGW1M6Q

Rain lashed against the pavement, each drop exploding in tiny bursts of silver under the streetlights. Detective Harlow Quinn pressed forward, her worn leather watch catching the glow as she checked the time—23:47. Eighteen years on the force had taught her that nothing good happened after midnight, especially in Soho. Her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair was plastered to her scalp, but her military-precise stride never faltered. Across the street, a figure in a dark hooded jacket glanced back before darting down an alley. Quinn recognized him—Tomás Herrera, the paramedic turned back-alley doctor who'd been showing up in her investigation with uncomfortable frequency. Three years since DS Morris had died under those impossible circumstances, and Herrera's name kept surfacing around the edges of her cases, always wrapped in whispers of things that defied explanation. She dodged traffic, ignoring the angry honk of a black cab, and plunged into the alley after him. The walls narrowed, closing in like the jaws of a trap. Water streamed from overflowing gutters, forming miniature waterfalls that drenched her already sodden trench coat. Her sharp jaw clenched as she spotted Herrera's silhouette turning a corner up ahead. "Metropolitan Police! Stop!" Her voice cut through the drumming rain, but he only moved faster, his shorter curly dark brown hair visible when he turned his head again. The alley opened onto a quieter street, dimly lit and deserted. Herrera was twenty yards ahead, running with practiced efficiency. Something glinted at his neck as he moved—Saint Christopher medallion, protective charm, or something else entirely? Quinn added it to her mental catalog of observations, alongside the olive skin she'd noted from his file and the scar that supposedly ran along his left forearm from a knife attack. She'd seen plenty of scars in her line of work, but something about this one didn't add up. He led her through a maze of streets, the neon signs of Soho giving way to the darker, grittier landscape of Camden. Her brown eyes tracked his every move, missing nothing—the way he favored his right leg slightly, the practiced rhythm of his breathing, the certainty with which he navigated the labyrinthine passages. This wasn't a man running scared; this was a man leading her somewhere. The rain intensified, hammering on corrugated metal roofs and turning the pavement into a treacherous mirror. Quinn's boots slipped but she recovered, maintaining her pursuit. They were approaching the Tube station now, the one that had been abandoned for decades. Officially closed, structurally unsound. Unofficially, something else entirely. Herrera disappeared down a set of concrete stairs leading to what appeared to be a maintenance entrance. Quinn slowed her pace, reaching instinctively for the weapon holstered under her arm. The metal door stood slightly ajar, darkness beyond it absolute. She drew her firearm, the weight familiar and reassuring in her hand. The station's tiled walls echoed with the sound of dripping water, each drop counting down like a timer. She edged forward, sweeping her flashlight beam across the debris-strewn floor. No sign of Herrera, but fresh footprints led deeper into the abandoned station. The air grew colder as she descended, smelling of damp earth and something metallic she couldn't identify. The passageway narrowed, the ceiling lowering until she had to duck slightly. At the end of the corridor stood another door, this one solid steel with no visible handle or lock. Quinn approached cautiously, running her fingers along the doorframe. There—a small indentation in the shape of a bone. She'd seen similar mechanisms in old vaults and safe houses, but never something quite like this. The Veil Market. The name surfaced from one of Morris's last case files, a footnote he'd circled three times before his death. A hidden supernatural black market, moving locations every full moon, entry granted only to those with the proper token. A sound from behind made her spin around, weapon raised. Nothing but shadows and the relentless echo of dripping water. When she turned back, the steel door was open, revealing a sliver of impossible light and sound beyond. Quinn hesitated, her military training warring with three years of unanswered questions. Everything she knew about law enforcement, about the rational world she'd sworn to protect, told her to call for backup, to secure the perimeter, to proceed with caution. But the memory of Morris's final moments, of the things she'd seen that night that defied all logical explanation, pushed her forward. She tightened her grip on her weapon and stepped through the doorway. The transformation was instantaneous and disorienting. The abandoned Tube station had vanished, replaced by a cavernous underground marketplace that shouldn't have been possible. Rows of stalls stretched into the distance, each one glowing with its own unearthly light. The air hummed with energy and dozens of languages she couldn't identify. Creatures that couldn't exist mingled with humans who moved with unnatural confidence. Quinn's breath caught in her throat. This was the world Morris had been chasing, the one that had killed him. And Herrera, who stood just twenty yards ahead, removing his hood and looking back at her with those warm brown eyes that showed no surprise at all, was her way in. He raised his left arm, and in the market's strange light, Quinn could see his scar clearly now. Too precise for a knife attack, too deliberate to be accidental. He met her gaze and gave a slight nod, as if acknowledging a choice she had yet to make. Around her, the market continued its impossible business, oblivious or indifferent to the human detective who had just stepped across the threshold into a world she was never meant to see. Quinn holstered her weapon, recognizing that it would be useless here. Her worn leather watch ticked against her wrist as she took another step forward, following Herrera deeper into the Veil Market, knowing there was no turning back.