Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQFZ10WCSSMQP8K8YZ7MNR

The rain fell in sheets, turning the Soho streets into a slick, reflective maze. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she sprinted past the flickering green neon of *The Raven’s Nest*, her breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. The suspect—lean, wiry, moving with the desperate agility of a cornered rat—ducked into an alley between a boarded-up record shop and a kebab joint reeking of grease and stale onions. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She followed. Her left wrist ached where the worn leather of her watch strap dug into her skin, the second hand ticking relentlessly. Eighteen years on the force had honed her instincts, and right now, every one of them screamed that this wasn’t just another chase. The suspect—*Tomás Herrera*, according to the file—had been flagged for off-the-books medical work, the kind that didn’t show up in NHS records. The kind that got people killed. Or worse. The alley narrowed, the brick walls pressing in like the jaws of a trap. Quinn’s fingers brushed the baton at her hip, but she didn’t draw it. Not yet. The suspect was fast, but she was faster. She’d spent years chasing ghosts—literal and figurative—and she wasn’t about to let this one slip through her fingers. Herrera skidded around a dumpster, his dark curls plastered to his forehead, his olive skin glistening under the sickly yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. He glanced back, his warm brown eyes wide with something Quinn couldn’t quite place. Fear? Guilt? Or was it the wild, feral look of a man who knew he was being hunted by something far worse than the law? “Police! Stop!” Quinn barked, her voice cutting through the drumming rain. Herrera didn’t stop. He vaulted over a low chain-link fence, landing hard on the other side. Quinn was right behind him, her muscles burning as she scrambled over the metal links. The fence rattled under her weight, but she didn’t slow down. The suspect was heading toward the old Camden Tube station, its entrance boarded up with rotting plywood and graffiti-scarred metal sheets. Quinn’s pulse hammered in her throat. *This isn’t right.* The station had been abandoned for decades, but the boards over the entrance looked fresh, the nails gleaming. Someone had been here recently. Someone who didn’t want to be followed. Herrera didn’t even break stride. He ripped one of the boards free with a strength that belied his slender frame and slipped into the darkness beyond. Quinn hesitated for half a second—just long enough to register the cold prickle of unease crawling up her spine—before she followed. The air inside was thick, stale, like the breath of something long dead. The beam of her torch cut through the gloom, illuminating peeling posters and rusted turnstiles. The station was a skeleton of its former self, the tiles cracked and blackened with grime. But it wasn’t empty. Footsteps echoed ahead of her, quick and light. Quinn moved cautiously, her free hand resting on her baton. The torchlight flickered over something on the ground—a bone, small and yellowed, lying in the dust. She crouched, her fingers hovering over it. It wasn’t human. Not entirely. A low hum vibrated through the air, a sound that wasn’t quite music but something deeper, something that resonated in her bones. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. “Herrera!” she called, her voice swallowed by the darkness. “This is Detective Quinn. You’re not in trouble. I just need to talk.” Silence. Then, a whisper of movement. Quinn spun, her torch beam catching a flash of dark fabric disappearing around a corner. She followed, her boots crunching over broken glass. The hum grew louder, pulsing like a heartbeat. The air smelled different here—sharp, metallic, with an underlying sweetness that made her stomach clench. She rounded the corner and froze. The tunnel opened into a vast chamber, its ceiling lost in shadow. Stalls lined the walls, their wares glowing with an eerie, unnatural light. Jars of swirling liquids, bundles of dried herbs, weapons that hummed with barely contained energy. People—if they could be called that—milled about, their forms shifting in the dim light. Some had too many eyes. Others moved with a fluidity that wasn’t quite human. Quinn’s breath hitched. *The Veil Market.* She’d heard the rumors, of course. Whispers in the break room, half-drunk confessions from informants who swore they’d seen things that couldn’t be explained. But she’d never believed it. Not really. Until now. Herrera stood near the center of the chamber, his back to her, his shoulders tense. He was talking to a figure cloaked in shadows, their voices too low for her to make out the words. Quinn’s fingers tightened around her torch. She should turn back. She should call for backup. But something—instinct, stubbornness, the ghost of her lost partner—kept her rooted in place. She took a step forward. The humming stopped. Every head in the chamber turned toward her. Quinn’s blood turned to ice. The air thickened, pressing in on her like a physical weight. She could feel their eyes on her, assessing, calculating. She was an intruder here. A threat. Herrera turned slowly, his face pale. “Detective,” he said, his voice tight. “You shouldn’t be here.” Quinn swallowed hard. “Neither should you.” The cloaked figure beside Herrera let out a low, amused chuckle. “Well, well. A human cop in the Veil Market. How… unexpected.” Quinn’s hand drifted toward her baton. “I’m not here for trouble. I just need to talk to Herrera.” The figure stepped forward, the shadows peeling away to reveal a face that was all sharp angles and cold, calculating eyes. “Talking isn’t what we do here, Detective. But if you’re looking for answers…” They spread their hands, gesturing to the market around them. “You’ve come to the right place.” Quinn’s jaw tightened. She could feel the weight of the bone token in her pocket—the one she’d found outside the station, the one that had let her pass through the barriers. She hadn’t known what it was at the time. Now, she did. She was in over her head. But she wasn’t leaving without Herrera. “Tomás,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Come with me. Now.” Herrera hesitated, his gaze flickering between her and the cloaked figure. “You don’t understand what’s happening here, Detective. It’s bigger than you. Bigger than the law.” Quinn took another step forward. “Then explain it to me. But not here.” The cloaked figure sighed, as if disappointed. “Very well. If you insist on playing the hero…” They snapped their fingers. The market erupted into chaos. Stalls collapsed, their contents spilling across the ground in a cascade of glowing liquids and shattered glass. Figures lunged toward her, their forms twisting, shifting. Quinn barely had time to react before a hand—too long, too many fingers—grabbed her arm. She twisted free, her baton snapping out in a wide arc. It connected with something solid, and a pained hiss filled the air. “Quinn!” Herrera’s voice cut through the noise. “Run!” She didn’t need to be told twice. Quinn bolted, her torch beam bouncing wildly as she dodged through the chaos. The market was a labyrinth, the stalls and tunnels shifting around her like a living thing. She could hear Herrera behind her, his footsteps close, his breath ragged. “Left!” he shouted. She veered left, her shoulder slamming into a stall. Jars shattered around her, their contents splashing against her skin. It burned. She gritted her teeth and kept running. Ahead, a faint glow cut through the darkness—the exit. Quinn poured on a burst of speed, her lungs screaming. She could feel the market closing in behind her, the air thick with something dark and hungry. She burst out of the tunnel and into the abandoned station, her boots skidding on the wet tiles. Herrera was right behind her, his face streaked with dirt and sweat. “Keep moving,” he gasped. Quinn didn’t argue. She sprinted for the boarded-up entrance, her fingers scrambling at the plywood. It gave way with a splintering crack, and she tumbled out into the rain-soaked alley, Herrera tumbling after her. They didn’t stop. Not until they were blocks away, hidden in the shadows of a narrow side street. Quinn doubled over, her hands on her knees, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her skin still burned where the liquid from the jars had splashed her, and her watch strap was soaked through. Herrera leaned against the wall, his chest heaving. “You shouldn’t have followed me.” Quinn straightened, wiping the rain from her face. “I had a job to do.” He shook his head. “You have no idea what you’ve just walked into.” Quinn met his gaze, her brown eyes sharp. “Then tell me.” Herrera hesitated, his fingers brushing the Saint Christopher medallion around his neck. “It’s not safe. Not for you. Not for anyone.” Quinn stepped closer, her voice low. “I lost my partner three years ago. To something I couldn’t explain. Something like *that*.” She jerked her chin toward the direction of the market. “I’m not walking away from this. Not again.” Herrera studied her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Fine. But we do this my way.” Quinn exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. “Your way.” Herrera pushed off the wall, his expression grim. “Then we start with *The Raven’s Nest*. Silas will know what to do.” Quinn fell into step beside him, the rain still falling around them. The night was far from over. But for the first time in three years, she wasn’t chasing ghosts. She was hunting answers.