Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQJXGYY4EHBRKEQBFWBGHC

Rain fell in relentless sheets, slicking the cobblestones of Soho in oily darkness, each drop exploding like a splintered star against the cracked pavement. Harlow Quinn moved through it like a blade through silk—focused, relentless, her salt-and-pepper hair barely damp despite the downpour, held tight in its military-short crop. The worn leather of her watch creaked faintly with each stride as she pushed harder, boots slapping the wet ground, the echo bouncing off the close-knit terraced buildings. She was closing the gap. Ahead, a shadow darted between two narrow alleyways—the glint of a silver chain caught the dim glow of a neon sign just long enough for her to see it. Then it vanished. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She veered left, her sharp jaw clenched, breath steaming in the cold. She knew the streets, every alley, every bolt-hole. But this one was different. The alley narrowed, the walls closing in like jaws, trash bags split open and spilling dark pulp that clung to her soles. The scent of stale beer and wet concrete mingled with something else—something sharp, almost bitter, like scorched copper. She slowed. Ahead, the alley dead-ended into a rusted iron door, half-hidden behind a boarded-up shopfront for a shuttered record store. But the door wasn’t just there. It pulsed—subtly, like a heartbeat. The air above it shimmered, distorted, as if heat rose from the pavement beneath. And the shadow was gone. Quinn pressed her back against the damp brick, drawing her service weapon. Standard issue. Useless, probably. Three years ago, she’d learned the hard way that some doors weren’t just doors. That some people didn’t just vanish—they stepped through. Her partner, Morris, had screamed once. One scream. Then silence. No body. No evidence. Just a bloodstain on the pavement—and the smell of burnt feathers. She exhaled. Kept the gun low. Something scraped behind the iron door. She edged forward, heart drumming in her ribcage. The door had no handle, no keyhole—just a series of engraved symbols worn nearly smooth by time. And on the ground, embedded in a crack between flagstones, a small object caught her eye. A bone token. She crouched, glove-covered fingers plucking it up. Human? Animal? Impossible to tell. But it was warm—unnaturally so. And the carvings on it matched the ones on the door. *This wasn’t on any police map.* She knew the underground. Knew every disused tunnel, every abandoned Tube line. But this—this was something else. Something beneath the beneath. A flicker of movement in the periphery. Not from the door. From the alley’s mouth. She spun, gun raised. A man stood there. Tall, olive-skinned, rain glinting in his tight curls. He wore a long, oilskin coat, hands tucked into the pockets, a thin scar running the length of his left forearm visible where his sleeve rode up. She didn’t recognize him, but he looked at her like he knew her. “You’re not supposed to be here, Detective,” he said. His voice was soft, accented—Spanish, maybe. Calm. Too calm. “Step back,” she ordered, finger tightening on the trigger. He didn’t move. “That door leads somewhere you don’t want to go. Not tonight. Not without someone who knows the way.” “I’m not asking for a tour guide,” Quinn snapped. “I’m arresting whoever went through that door.” He tilted his head. “Then you’ll be arresting a ghost. Or worse.” She narrowed her eyes. “Who the hell are you?” “Tomás Herrera,” he said. “And if you go through that door, you’ll die before sunrise.” She didn’t lower the gun. “Funny. I’ve heard that before. Right before my partner disappeared.” Something flickered in his eyes—recognition, maybe pity. He glanced at the token in her hand. “That’s a Veil Market pass. The last one to use it was a girl with a hex-brand on her neck. You followed the right trail. Just not the right man.” “There was only one.” “No,” he said. “There were three. The one you chased was a decoy. A mimic. They use them to lead cops like you into the dark.” Quinn’s pulse quickened. “You’re saying I was set up.” “I’m saying you’re in over your head,” Tomás replied. He stepped forward slowly, hands still in his pockets. “And I’m offering to help before you do something irreversible.” She didn’t believe him. Not yet. But the bone token thrummed in her palm, and the door groaned—just slightly—like something on the other side had turned. A sound like wind, but not wind. A susurration of voices. Too many. Too close. Tomás reached into his coat—not for a weapon, but a small silver medallion on a chain. Saint Christopher. He held it up. “I used to save lives. Real ones. But not here. Here, I save people from things they can’t even name.” Quinn’s mind raced. Rules. Procedures. Orders. None of it applied. Not here. Not anymore. “You expect me to trust you?” she said. “No,” Tomás admitted. “But you want the truth about what happened to your partner. Don’t you?” Her breath caught. “How do you know about that?” “We keep records,” he said simply. “People like Morris… they leave marks on the Veil. Echoes.” She took a step back, pressing against the door. It shuddered beneath her, the symbols glowing faintly now—blue, then red, then black. “You go in alone,” Tomás said, “and you won’t come out. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen what they do to intruders.” “Who are *they*?” “The brokers. The collectors. The ones who trade in things that shouldn’t exist.” He stepped closer. “But if you come with me, I can get you in. Get you answers. And get you out before the veil closes at dawn.” Her mind flashed—Morris’s last call. Static. Then a whisper: *“It’s not underground, Harlow. It’s underneath.”* She looked at the door. Then at Tomás. She holstered her weapon. “I don’t trust you,” she said. “But I’m walking in. And you’re coming with me.” He nodded once. Then extended his hand. “Give me the token.” She hesitated. “This isn’t a game,” he said quietly. “There are rules down there. You break them, you don’t just die. You become part of the market.” She handed it over. Tomás pressed the token into a recess in the door that hadn’t been there a second ago. It sank in like it was being swallowed. The door groaned open. Beyond, a staircase spiraled down into the earth, lit not by bulbs, but by floating orbs of cold blue flame. The air that rushed up was thick with the scent of myrrh and rotting parchment, and beneath it—blood. Tomás stepped to the threshold, then glanced back at her. “Last chance,” he said. Quinn adjusted her jacket, felt the weight of her partner’s badge in her inner pocket. The one she never took off. “No,” she said. “It’s the first one.” And she followed him into the dark.