Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQM7EWDX1S36Q7WWPWRJQM

Rain pelted the pavement, turning Soho’s narrow streets into slick mirrors of neon. Harlow Quinn’s boots slapped against wet asphalt as she sprinted toward the flickering green glow of The Raven’s Nest. Her raincoat, cinched tight at the waist, slapped against her thighs. Water dripped from the brim of her cap, rolling down the bridge of her nose into her eyes, stinging. She didn’t slow. She couldn’t afford to. A shadow detached itself from the Nest’s rain-streaked windows and darted down the alley. Quinn’s heart hammered beneath her chest. She adjusted her grip on her service pistol, rain pelting the barrel in frantic staccato. “Stop! Metropolitan Police!” she barked into the night, voice firm, unyielding. She had eighteen years of chasing bad actors through worse weather, and nothing chilled her more than the feeling of a suspect slipping through her fingers. The figure twisted around a dented fire escape, slipping past discarded crates of rotting fruit. Quinn vaulted a low wall, leather watch glinting on her left wrist as she risked a glance. Four-fifty. The streets emptied at this hour. Shops shuttered. Taxis idled with their engines off. Only the distant rumble of a Tube train broke the silence. The suspect hesitated at the mouth of a boarded-up storefront, pressing a hand to damp plywood. Quinn closed the gap, breath coming in ragged gusts. He forced the boards aside—more easily than they should have come—and slipped into darkness. Quinn’s pulse sky-rocketed. She wrenched the boards free with a grunt and plunged after him. A narrow metal staircase spiraled into gloom, each step slick with condensation. Quinn flicked on her flashlight with the heel of her palm. The beam cut a swath through the black, illuminating rivets and rivulets of moisture on the girders. She counted her steps: twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two... The echo of her boots chased her, swallowed by deeper echoes she couldn’t name. Beneath the city, the air felt older, heavier. She could taste rust. At the bottom, she emerged onto a deserted platform. The tiles underfoot were cracked and stained; old adverts for shows and tabloids peeled like dying skin from the walls. She swept her light across the tracks—no train. Only the faint hiss of a broken pneumatic valve somewhere down the tunnel. The suspect was gone. Quinn’s jaw clenched. This station wasn’t on any active line. She squinted at a faded map: Camden Town, scribbled in chalk. An abandoned Tube station beneath Camden. Urban myth said it was a dead-end, sealed off for decades. But she’d heard other stories too—whispers of wrongdoers using old tunnels to slip in and out of the city unseen. A flutter of movement near the tunnel entrance snapped her attention back. A canvas drape, stained brown around the edges, shielded a yawning arch of bricks. Beyond it came voices—low murmurs, a distant clink of glass on metal. Quinn advanced, gun raised, flashlight slicing the fabric. She caught sight of a pale attendant, tall and slender, sliding a bone-white token across a wooden ledger. The token glowed softly, as if lit from within. A man with a wool cap—familiar build—stepped forward. The suspect. Quinn’s breath caught. A bone token. She’d heard the rumors. The Veil Market: supernatural black market. Banned alchemical substances, enchanted relics, secrets sold to the highest bidder. Officially, it didn’t exist. Extra-legally, it pulsed beneath the city, moving every full moon. Tonight it had found home in this hollow under Camden. And now, as the suspect passed through the veil, she stood at the edge of forbidden territory. Her instincts fought her hesitation. Years of training told her to go in hot, take him by surprise, cuff him, read his rights. The detective in her stroked the grip of her pistol, steady, ready. But another voice—older, more cautious—whispered of danger beyond her understanding. Three years ago she lost DS Morris in a case that had supernatural roots. She didn’t know what had happened to him—only that he’d vanished into the unknown and never come back. The thought curled cold in her gut. Rainwater dripped from the folds of canvas as she peered through the gap. Inside, the tunnel widened into a vaulted chamber lit by lanterns swinging from wrought-iron brackets. Rows of stalls lined a center aisle: one draped in tattered velvet offered jars of glowing ichor; another displayed vials of iridescent powder. Shoppers in hooded cloaks drifted between booths, voices hushed, trading in coin and questions. A stall farther back exhibited a severed hand preserved in amber, its fingers twitching ever so slightly. Quinn’s military bearing squared her shoulders. She raised her voice, low but firm. “This is the Metropolitan Police! Step away from the suspect!” Heads snapped around. A dozen pale faces turned toward her, eyes reflecting lantern light like animals caught in headlights. The attendant with the bone token froze, ledger half-open. The suspect, sensing the shift, ducked behind a pillar of rough stone. She clenched her teeth. Official jurisdiction didn’t extend to black markets for the supernatural, but she would not let him vanish again. Not after everything. She stepped forward, flashlight beam quivering, revealing her badge clipped to her coat. “I have a warrant for his arrest!” Every syllable felt expensive in this place where the normal rules didn’t apply. A slender man in a dark coat, face half-shadowed under a cowl, stepped between her and the crowd. He cocked his head, voice soft as damp earth. “Detective Quinn,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.” Her pulse thudded against her ribs. Expecting her? She held up her badge. “You’re under no obligation to speak, but you’re obliged to cooperate.” He smiled, but it was a slow, deliberate thing. “This market relies on discretion. And you, Detective, have a reputation for making waves.” He folded his arms. In the lantern light, she saw the flicker of something unnatural in his eyes—something that made the hair prickle at the base of her skull. She glanced back toward the drape. The suspect had slipped further into the crowd. She had a fraction of a second to choose: pursue deeper into this labyrinth of enchantment and danger, or retreat and regroup with backup. Her phone lay in her coat pocket, but signals never penetrated these tunnels. If she called for help, the Market’s guardians would intercept the transmission, tip off the suspect, and vanish him before she returned. The detective in her bit back fear. She thought of Morris—the empty desk, the unanswered radio call, the smell of ozone on his uniform three nights after he disappeared. She reminded herself that bad men sought to hide behind mysteries. She would not let the supernatural scare her away from a case. She squared her shoulders and drew a deep breath, the scent of damp stone and occult trade filling her lungs. She said, “I’m going in,” and stepped past the man in the cowl. Her boots clicked on the tile as shoppers parted like dark water around her. Lantern light glinted off her leather watch. She felt every eye shift, every quiet murmur trailing in her wake. The market hush rippled with potential violence. A hand touched her arm—warm skin, calloused. Quinn spun, gun raised, only to find a man with olive-toned skin and short, curly dark-brown hair. He pressed a small medallion into her palm: Saint Christopher, tarnished silver. He whispered, “Tomás Herrera. You shouldn’t be here.” His warm brown eyes held both reproach and relief. He looked like a man who’d walked tightropes between two worlds and earned a few scars—she noticed the faint line along his left forearm. He knew this place. He traded here, she suspected, but his eyes told her he didn’t belong in the same category as the cowl’d figures and their illicit wares. Quinn tucked the medallion into her coat. She forced her voice calm. “Where’s the suspect?” Tomás shook his head, solemn. “He’s gone deeper, toward the ritual chamber.” He gestured behind a row of stalls. Flickering runes painted the walls. “If you follow, you break the Market’s code. There’s no turning back.” She stared down the tunnel. Every instinct screamed to curl back into the rain and wait for daylight, for uniformed backup, for something she could control. But she couldn’t watch him vanish again. “I don’t have much choice,” she said. He pressed a hand to the small of her back and guided her forward, away from prying eyes. “Just—be careful. This place isn’t like anything on your training syllabus.” Her pulse rattled her sternum. She inhaled, steeling herself against the unknown. The suspect’s footsteps echoed faintly ahead, accompanied by a low hum that seemed to weave through the brickwork, tugging at her nerves. The deeper they went, the thicker the air became, suffused with something quiet and hungry. She didn’t answer. She clicked off her flashlight, letting the lantern glow guide her. Every heartbeat hammered in her ears as she stepped beyond the threshold, into the hush of the Veil Market.