Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQEY7GTT0R7SKP5VHDM7PK

Rain hammered London like it had a personal vendetta. Detective Harlow Quinn pressed forward against the downpour, her breath sharp in her lungs, boots splashing through flooded gutters. The city's neon bled into the wet pavement—red, gold, green—reflecting fractured signs and headlights that smeared into liquid light. She didn’t need to see clearly. She knew the outline of him: hooded, lean, moving with the desperate precision of someone who knew how to vanish. Tomás Herrera. She’d watched him slip out the back of *The Raven’s Nest* ten minutes ago, unnoticed by the bar’s regulars. She’d been observing the place for three weeks—quiet surveillance, no warrants, no backup. Just her gut and the ghost of Morris whispering in the silence between her thoughts. They’d found another body three days ago—pale, eyes blackened as if scorched from within, skin marked by symbols drawn in ash and old blood. No cause of death. No fingerprints. Just the faint scent of camphor and sulfur clinging to the air like a curse. And a partial print on the victim’s shirt: traced back to a discarded medical glove registered under the name of Tomás Herrera, NHS, terminated two years prior. She’d dug deeper. Found gaps—records with missing dates, a quiet ER report flagged *confidential*, a witness who claimed the man had pulled a woman out of cardiac arrest with “hands that glowed.” Nonsense. Of course. But Morris had said that once too—about a girl found floating upside down in the River Lea with her shadow crawling ahead of her. *You don’t know what you’re dealing with,* he’d said. And then he was gone. Quinn tightened the grip on her sidearm, holster half-open, heart pounding louder than the rain. She didn’t fire. Not yet. She needed answers, not another dead end wrapped in silence and paperwork. Herrera turned hard right into an alley between two shuttered shops. Quinn followed, gun now drawn, shoulders coiled. The alley dead-ended at a rusted fire escape and a graffiti-smeared wall. But he wasn’t there. She slowed, scanning. Her breath fogged in the cold. The rain drummed on dumpster lids, on concrete, on her collar. Then—a flicker. A shadow shifted behind a tattered tarpaulin hanging from a ventilation grate. She moved silently, training overriding exhaustion. The tarp came down, revealing a narrow set of iron steps descending into the earth. No sign. No railing. Just damp stone and the stench of mildew and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or burnt hair. Her wristwatch ticked—11:43 p.m. The green glow of her phone screen showed no signal. She hesitated. Orders said *no off-grid entries*. Not without clearance. Not after the Blackfriars incident. Not after Morris. But the steps led down. And Herrera was below. She took a breath. Pulled the bone token from her coat pocket—the one she’d lifted from the last victim’s clenched hand. It was smooth, pale, etched with a spiral. She didn’t know what it was. But the dead man hadn’t carried anything else. Quinn descended. The air changed fast—warmer, thicker, humming with something beneath hearing, like a wire stretched too tight. The steps fed into a tunnel, arched with cracked tile, lit by flickering sconces that burned with an odd blue flame. The walls were lined with symbols—some carved, some painted—none matching any language she recognized. Her watch stuttered, hands jerking forward, then stuttering back. She pressed on. The tunnel opened into a cavernous space beneath the city—a forgotten Tube station, its platforms cracked, tiles bulging. But it was alive now. Stalls stretched into the darkness, selling wares under dim lanterns: vials of smoking liquid, bundles of dried herbs tied with human hair, clocks with no hands, keys that melted when touched. Figures moved between them—some human, some not. A woman with eyes like polished onyx. A man whose shadow didn’t match his shape. A child who held a caged wind. *The Veil Market.* She’d heard the rumors. Ghost stories. Urban myth. Morris had believed it was real. She tightened her grip on the token. Blended in. Kept her head low, shoulders squared, eyes scanning. Uniformed authority wouldn’t help here. If anything, it’d get her killed. Then—movement to her left. Herrera stood at a stall exchanging a leather pouch for a small glass vial. He touched the Saint Christopher medal at his throat, muttered something under his breath. The vendor—a tall figure wrapped in moth-eaten velvet—nodded, then turned away like he’d never been there. Quinn moved. She stepped in front of him as he turned, gun low but visible. “Tomás Herrera,” she said, voice steady. “Metropolitan Police. You’re under arrest.” He froze. Not with fear—with resignation, like he’d known this moment was coming. “You shouldn’t be here, Detective,” he said, rain still clinging to his curls, his warm brown eyes searching hers. “This place… it doesn’t forgive trespassers.” “I’m not here to forgive,” she said. “I’m here for answers. Three bodies. All linked to you. All with marks no coroner can explain. What the hell are you involved in?” He glanced past her—toward the market, now eerily quiet. Vendors were closing stalls. Figures receding into tunnels. The air thickened, pressure building in her ears. “They’re watching,” he murmured. “And you’re holding a police badge in a place that eats badges for breakfast.” “I have the token,” she said, lifting it. “I got in, didn’t I?” “Luck,” he said. “And it’s run out.” A sound—a low chime, like glass struck in a tomb. From the far end of the platform, figures emerged. Hooded. Silent. Carrying rods of black iron. Their feet didn’t touch the ground. Herrera stepped forward, placing himself between her and them. “They don’t want you,” he said. “They want *her*.” “Who?” “The woman who died on my table last month. The one you’re carrying her token for. She wasn’t just a case. She was a guardian. And you’ve just walked in with her key.” Quinn’s pulse spiked. The token felt too warm in her palm. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I know,” he replied. “But they don’t care.” He turned to face the approaching figures. Reached into his coat. “I can get you out,” he said. “But you have to trust me.” Her finger hovered over the trigger. Eighteen years of procedure screamed at her—*arrest him, cuff him, bring him in.* Rules. Order. Control. But the man standing in front of her had just become a shield. She thought of Morris. His last words: *Some doors, Harlow, you don’t want to open. Some truths, you’re better not knowing.* But she’d come this far. And she was tired of not knowing. Quinn lowered her gun. “Tell me how,” she said. Herrera exhaled. Nodded. “Stay close. Don’t look them in the eyes. And whatever you do—don’t let go of that token.” Around them, the blue flames went out. Darkness swallowed the platform. And the chase began again—not through alleys, but through the veins of something older, hungrier, and buried deep beneath the city’s bones.