Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQFNXEV0VW5MA9TTAXBKRP

The rain fell in sheets, turning the Soho streets into a slick, reflective maze. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she wove between the umbrellas of late-night stragglers, her sharp jaw set, her breath steady despite the burn in her lungs. The suspect—*Tomás Herrera*—had bolted the second he’d spotted her outside *The Raven’s Nest*, his dark curls plastered to his forehead as he’d ducked into the alley like a rat into a sewer. She’d been tailing him for weeks, ever since his name had surfaced in connection with the clique, that tight-knit group of misfits who kept popping up in cases that didn’t add up. Cases like the one that had taken her partner. *Morris.* The thought was a knife twist, but she shoved it down. No time for ghosts. Herrera was fast, but she was faster. Eighteen years on the force had honed her instincts, and she could read the city like a map—knew which alleys dead-ended, which fire escapes were rusted through, which shadows could hide a man. She cut left at the corner of Dean Street, her leather watch snapping against her wrist as she pumped her arms. The neon glow of the *Raven’s Nest*’s sign bled into the rain behind her, a sickly green smear in the downpour. Ahead, Herrera skidded around a corner, his boots slipping on the wet pavement. Quinn grinned, feral. *Got you.* She rounded the bend just in time to see him vanish into the mouth of an abandoned Tube station, its entrance boarded up with rotting plywood. The sign above—*Camden Town*—was half-peeled, the letters flaking like old skin. Her pulse spiked. *No.* That station had been closed for decades. There was no way through. But Herrera had gone in. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She yanked a flashlight from her belt, the beam cutting through the dark as she pried at the plywood. The nails groaned, then gave way with a splintering crack. The stench of damp concrete and something older, something *wrong*, hit her like a wall. She stepped inside, her boots crunching on broken glass. The platform was a graveyard of forgotten things—peeling posters, rusted turnstiles, the skeletal remains of a long-dead ticket booth. But the air hummed, thick with the kind of tension that made the hairs on her neck stand up. Her flashlight flickered as she swept it over the walls, the beam catching on something glinting near the edge of the platform. A *token.* She crouched, picking it up between her fingers. Bone-white, carved with a symbol she didn’t recognize—a crescent moon cradling a serpent. Her stomach twisted. She’d seen enough in her time to know when she was standing on the edge of something that wasn’t meant for her. A scuffle of footsteps echoed from the tunnel ahead. Quinn’s grip tightened on the token. *Damn it.* She followed. The tunnel sloped downward, the air growing colder, damper. The flashlight’s beam wavered, as if the darkness itself was pressing in. Then, without warning, the tunnel opened into a vast cavern, its ceiling lost in shadow. Stalls lined the walls, their wares illuminated by flickering lanterns—jars of swirling liquid, bundles of dried herbs, weapons that hummed with an unnatural energy. The air smelled of ozone and something metallic, like blood. *The Veil Market.* Quinn’s breath hitched. She’d heard whispers of it—rumors, half-truths, the kind of stories that got you laughed out of the station if you repeated them. But here it was, real as the rain still dripping from her coat. And there, weaving through the crowd, was Herrera. He moved with purpose, his scarred forearm glinting in the lantern light as he reached into his jacket. Quinn’s hand went to her holster, but she didn’t draw. Not yet. She needed to see where he was going. She slipped into the crowd, keeping her head down. The market’s patrons were a motley bunch—pale figures with too many teeth, a woman with eyes like polished obsidian, a man whose shadow didn’t quite match his movements. Quinn’s skin crawled. She’d faced dangerous men before, but this was different. This was a place where the rules didn’t apply. Herrera stopped at a stall near the back, its counter draped in black velvet. The vendor—a gaunt man with fingers too long, too many joints—leaned in close as Herrera slid something across the counter. A vial. Dark liquid sloshed inside. Quinn’s pulse roared in her ears. *Drugs.* Or worse. She stepped forward, her hand finally closing around the grip of her pistol. “Herrera.” He froze. Then, slowly, he turned. His warm brown eyes locked onto hers, and for a second, she saw something like regret flicker across his face. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by cold calculation. “Detective Quinn,” he said, his voice low. “You shouldn’t be here.” “Neither should you,” she shot back, her finger hovering over the trigger. “Step away from the counter. Now.” The vendor let out a hissing laugh, his too-long fingers twitching. “Oh, this is *rich.* A human cop in the Veil Market. How long do you think you’ll last, *detective*?” Quinn didn’t take her eyes off Herrera. “I’m not leaving without you.” Herrera exhaled, his shoulders tensing. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with.” “Then explain it to me,” she said, her voice steel. “Or I drag you out of here in cuffs and let the supernaturals sort you out.” A beat of silence. Then, from the shadows behind the stall, a voice—smooth, amused, *dangerous*—spoke. “Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Quinn’s blood turned to ice. A figure stepped into the light, tall and lean, his sharp features cast in shadow. He wore a long coat, the fabric shifting like smoke, and his eyes—*god, his eyes*—were the color of a storm at midnight. “Detective Quinn,” he said, smiling. “Welcome to the Veil Market.”