Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQJB295D9TKKDWHEKVA92W

The rain in London did not wash things clean; it only made the grime slicker. Detective Harlow Quinn pushed through the downpour, her boots striking the pavement with a rhythm that matched the hammering of her heart. She kept her head low, the closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her skull, water streaming down the sharp line of her jaw. Her breath came in white plumes that vanished instantly into the dark. Ahead, the shadow of her suspect darted across the intersection of Camden High Street. The figure was lean, fast, and knew the terrain too well for a civilian junkie. Quinn checked her watch. The worn leather strap was cold against her wrist, the face glowing faintly under the streetlamp. Three minutes since the chase began. Three minutes since the runner had bolted from the alley behind the Raven's Nest. She had been watching the bar for weeks. The distinctive green neon sign hummed with a sickness that reminded her of the static before a storm. Inside, she knew men like Tomás Herrera moved in the shadows, men with olive skin and secrets hidden under long sleeves. She had seen the scar on Herrera's forearm once, through a gap in a crowd, a jagged line that spoke of knife work rather than surgery. He was a medic who no longer held a license, a man who patched up things that should not bleed. But tonight, Quinn was not hunting Herrera. She was hunting the boy who had run from his table. Quinn surged forward, her military precision cutting through the chaos of the wet night. She ignored the burn in her lungs. Eighteen years on the force had taught her that pain was just information, and right now, it told her she was pushing too hard. She did not slow down. The suspect vanished into the mouth of an abandoned Tube station. It was a hollowed-out thing, fenced off with chain-link that had been sliced open at the bottom. Quinn skidded to a halt at the perimeter, her hand hovering over the service pistol at her hip. The air here was different. The smell of wet concrete and ozone replaced the exhaust fumes of the street. It was colder, too. A deep, bone-chilling cold that had nothing to do with the weather. She stepped through the gap in the fence. The stairs descended into darkness, but they were not unlit. Faint blue luminescence pulsed from below, rhythmic like a heartbeat. Quinn descended, her hand trailing along the damp wall. The tiles were cracked, covered in graffiti that seemed to shift when she looked at them directly. At the bottom of the stairs, the platform stretched out into the gloom. This was not merely a squatter's den. Stalls had been set up along the tracks, draped in heavy tarps and velvet. People moved between them, cloaked in hoods that obscured their faces. The air smelled of sulfur, dried herbs, and something metallic, like old blood. Quinn pressed herself against a concrete pillar, watching the suspect approach a guarded archway at the far end of the platform. The runner was shaking, clutching a small bag to his chest. A large figure blocked his path, a bouncer made of scar tissue and silence. The suspect reached into his pocket and produced an object. Even from this distance, Quinn saw the pale gleam of it. It was small, carved, and unmistakably organic. A bone token. The bouncer took the token, weighed it in his hand, and stepped aside. The suspect vanished into the archway. Quinn's hand tightened on the cold steel of her pistol. This was the Veil Market. She had heard the whispers in the precinct, dismissed as folklore or drug-induced hallucinations. A black market that moved every full moon. A place where you could buy information that hadn't happened yet or salves that knit flesh without scars. She looked down at her watch again. The second hand ticked forward, steady and normal. But the air around her felt thick, resistant, like walking through water. A memory flashed behind her eyes, unbidden and violent. DS Morris. Three years ago. They had been chasing a lead in a warehouse just like this, a place that smelled of ozone and wrongness. Morris had walked through a doorway and simply ceased to exist. No body. No blood. Just a gap in the world where a man used to be. The report said accidental death. Quinn knew better. She had seen the look in Morris's eyes before he went in. It was the look of a man who realized the rules of physics no longer applied. A shiver traced the line of her spine. She was forty-one years old. She had a sharp jaw, brown eyes that had seen too much, and a service record that demanded results. She suspected the clique operating out of the Raven's Nest was moving something dangerous, something that got Morris killed. If she turned back now, if she called for backup, they would sweep the station and find nothing. The market moved every full moon. Tonight was the night. If she left, the trail would vanish into the ether. She looked at the archway. The blue light pulsed faster. A woman standing near a stall glanced in Quinn's direction. The woman's eyes were entirely black, no whites, no iris. She did not blink. Quinn forced her breathing to slow. Military precision. Control the variables. She did not have a bone token. She did not have backup. She had a gun loaded with standard issue lead and a badge that meant nothing down here. She thought of Herrera's medallion, the Saint Christopher she had seen glinting against his throat when he thought no one was looking. A protector of travelers. He needed protection down here. That told her everything. Quinn holstered her weapon. A gun would only get her killed in a place like this. She stepped out from behind the pillar. Her boots clicked on the tiles, the sound too loud in the sudden hush of the market. Heads turned. Hoods shifted. The air grew heavier, pressing against her eardrums. She walked toward the archway. She did not run. She did not hide. She walked with the authority of a woman who believed she belonged anywhere she chose to stand. The bouncer at the archway turned to face her. He was massive, his skin textured like bark. He held out a hand, palm up. He did not speak. Quinn stopped before him. She could feel the heat radiating off him, dry and intense. She looked at his hand, then up at his face. There were no eyes in his sockets, only smooth skin. I am looking for the man who just went through, she said. Her voice was steady, though every instinct screamed at her to run. The creature tilted its head. It smelled of wet earth and old graves. It lowered its hand. It did not block her path, but it did not invite her either. It was a test. Quinn thought of Morris. She thought of the empty chair in the briefing room that no one sat in anymore. She thought of the salt-and-pepper hair in the mirror that grew grayer every year she spent chasing ghosts. She stepped forward. The threshold of the archway rippled like heat haze on asphalt. The cold hit her first, a shock that seized her lungs. Then the sound of the market faded, replaced by a low hum that vibrated in her teeth. She crossed the line. The world behind her did not disappear, but it dimmed, as if viewed through thick glass. She was in. There was no going back now. Quinn adjusted the leather watch on her wrist, feeling the familiar texture against her skin, an anchor to the real world. She moved into the crowd, her brown eyes scanning the shadows, hunting for the boy, hunting for the truth, hunting for the thing that had taken her partner. The rain above ground continued to fall, but down here, the storm was just beginning.