Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQFE0VH9WZF2BAJRBMTP4A

The rain hammered down in sheets, turning the Soho streets into rivers of neon and shadow. Detective Harlow Quinn's boots splashed through puddles as she rounded the corner onto Greek Street, her breath coming hard and steady. Thirty meters ahead, Tomás Herrera's dark jacket disappeared into the crowd spilling out from a late-night pub. She'd been watching him for three weeks now. The former paramedic had a pattern—Tuesday and Friday nights, he slipped away from his flat in Clerkenwell and made his way to various locations across the city. Always carrying that weathered medical bag. Always meeting people who looked over their shoulders too often. Tonight she'd finally decided to follow. "Stop! Police!" Her voice cut through the rain, but Herrera didn't even glance back. He vaulted over a newspaper stand with the ease of someone half his age, scattering tabloids into the wet pavement. Quinn swore and followed, her knee protesting as she cleared the obstacle. Eighteen years on the force, and somewhere along the way her body had started keeping a tally. Herrera cut left down Old Compton Street, weaving between couples huddled under shared umbrellas and groups of tourists who shouted as he pushed past. Quinn stayed on him, her sharp jaw set with determination. The worn leather watch on her left wrist caught the streetlight as she pumped her arms, keeping pace. Whatever this man was running from, it was worth staying ahead of the Metropolitan Police. That fact alone told her she was onto something. He took another turn, this one sharper, down a narrow alley between a Turkish restaurant and an adult bookshop. Quinn's hand went instinctively to her radio, but she hesitated. What would she say? That she was pursuing a suspect who hadn't technically committed a crime in her presence? That she'd been conducting unauthorized surveillance on a civilian based on nothing but instinct and three-year-old nightmares? The alley ended at a junction. Herrera went right, toward Camden. Quinn followed, the rain soaking through her coat now, plastering her salt-and-pepper hair to her skull. Her military bearing kept her moving forward with mechanical precision even as her lungs burned. They crossed over into Camden proper, past shuttered market stalls and graffitied walls. The crowd thinned here, the hour growing late enough that even London's night owls were seeking shelter from the downpour. Herrera's olive skin gleamed with rain and sweat when he glanced back, his warm brown eyes widening as he registered how close she'd gotten. He ran harder. So did she. The Saint Christopher medallion around his neck caught the streetlight as he vaulted a low fence. Quinn grabbed the top rail and hauled herself over, feeling something pull in her shoulder. She'd pay for this tomorrow, but tomorrow didn't matter if she lost him tonight. Herrera ducked into what looked like a dead end—a service entrance behind a row of shops, blocked by rusted gates and warning signs. Quinn slowed, approaching cautiously now, one hand on her baton. The alley was darker here, the streetlights blocked by overhanging buildings. Water streamed from a broken gutter overhead, creating a curtain of rain. "There's nowhere to go," she called out, her voice echoing off brick walls. "Let's talk, Herrera. I just want to ask you some questions." No response. She moved forward, scanning the shadows. Bins lined one wall, and a fire escape hung overhead, but there was no sign of movement. Had he gone up? She craned her neck, searching the metal framework above. Then she saw it—a gap in the brick wall, barely visible behind an overflowing skip. Not a door exactly, more like a section of wall that had been moved aside. Fresh scrape marks scored the pavement, visible even in the dim light. Quinn approached slowly, every instinct screaming caution. The opening led down, a set of stairs descending into darkness. From below came a faint sound: voices, many of them, and something else. Music? The smell that wafted up was strange—incense mixed with something metallic and earthy, like pennies and freshly turned soil. She pulled out her torch and shone it down the stairs. The beam illuminated rough-hewn stone walls and steps that looked far older than the buildings above. The stairs curved away after a dozen steps, disappearing into blackness. This wasn't on any city map she'd ever seen. Quinn's mind raced. She should call for backup. She should mark the location and return with a team and proper equipment. She should follow procedure, the same procedure that had kept her alive and advancing through the ranks for nearly two decades. But procedure hadn't saved Morris. Her partner's face flashed through her mind—that last night, the confusion in his eyes when he'd seen something that shouldn't exist, couldn't exist according to everything they'd been taught. The official report listed his death as accidental, a fall during a pursuit. Only Quinn had seen the marks on his body, the way his skin had gone gray and brittle, like something had drained him from the inside out. Whatever Herrera was involved in, it was connected to the same shadows that had swallowed her partner. She knew it the way she knew her own name, the same bone-deep certainty that had made her a good detective even when it made her a difficult one. The scar along Herrera's left forearm—she'd noticed it during surveillance. A defensive wound from a knife attack, or so the medical records claimed. But defensive wounds didn't usually have that particular pattern, that ritualistic precision. From below, she heard footsteps fading, and with them, her chance. Quinn adjusted her grip on the torch and started down the stairs. Each step took her deeper into darkness, deeper into something that existed beneath the city's official surface. The air grew colder, damper. The walls glistened with moisture that looked too thick to be water. After twenty steps, the staircase opened into a wider space. Quinn emerged onto what appeared to be an abandoned Tube platform, except the tracks had been covered over with wooden planks, and the platform itself had been transformed into something else entirely. Stalls lined both sides of the old station, their wares displayed under mismatched lamps and candles. People—if they were all people—moved between them, conducting business in low voices. She saw Herrera's medical bag disappearing into the crowd, his curly dark hair visible for just a moment before he was swallowed by the throng. A woman near the entrance turned to look at Quinn. She wore layers of scarves despite the underground warmth, and her eyes reflected the candlelight like an animal's. Her smile showed too many teeth. "First time at the Veil Market, darling?" the woman asked, her accent impossible to place. "You'll be needing a token for entry. Bone, not money. House rules." Quinn's hand tightened on her baton, her military precision the only thing keeping her feet planted when every survival instinct screamed at her to run back up those stairs. But running meant losing Herrera. Losing answers. Losing any chance of understanding what had really killed Morris. The detective took a breath and stepped forward into the market.