Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQP3C0EFB55NZADSJAA3JX

Rain hammered against the pavement of Soho, a relentless, grey curtain that turned the streetlights into smeared halos of neon and sodium. Detective Harlow Quinn didn't feel the cold anymore. She was running on pure adrenaline and the lingering, bitter aftertaste of failure. Three years of failure, if she was honest with herself. Three years since Morris died in that damp, locked room with no explanation and no witnesses. Tonight, she had a witness. Sort of. Fifty yards ahead, Tomás Herrera was sprinting. He moved with a fluid, desperate grace, cutting through the puddles like he was trying to outrun his own shadow. Quinn knew his file: ex-paramedic, discharged for 'unauthorized procedures,' now the off-books fixer for a clique of criminals who operated just below the radar of the Met. He wasn't a killer, at least not on paper, but he was the key. The link. "Herrera!" Quinn bellowed, her voice lost in the drumming of the storm. "Stop! Metropolitan Police!" He didn't even look back. He just ducked around the corner of a brick Victorian tenement, his dark coat flapping behind him like a broken wing. Quinn pursued, her boots skidding on the slick cobblestones. Her breath hitched in her chest, a sharp burn that she ignored through sheer force of will. She checked her watch—a battered leather thing she’d worn through eighteen years of service—as she ran. It was past two in the morning. The streets were largely deserted, save for the rats and the desperate. She rounded the corner, her hand hovering over the grip of her service weapon. The alleyway was narrow, choked with refuse bags and the smell of rot. Herrera was scaling a chain-link fence at the far end, his movements practiced. He vaulted over the top with an athleticism that belied his lanky frame. Quinn hit the fence running. She didn't bother with the gate; she grabbed the cold metal mesh, hauled herself up, and swung over the top, landing hard on the other side. Her knees absorbed the shock, and she was moving again before the pain could register. She was gaining on him. They burst out onto a wider street near Camden. The traffic here was lighter, the air thick with the scent of the nearby canal and wet asphalt. Herrera made a sharp right, disappearing down a flight of stone stairs that led toward the Underground. Quinn hesitated for a fraction of a second. The tube station entrance was boarded up— condemned, slated for renovation years ago and forgotten by the council. There was no light, just the gaping maw of a tunnel leading into the dark underbelly of the city. "Damn it," she hissed, plunging down the stairs after him. The air down here was different. It was heavier, cooler, and smelled of ozone and something ancient, like wet earth and old copper. The sound of the rain faded to a distant thrum, replaced by the echo of her own footsteps and the rhythmic slap of Herrera’s retreating pace. The tunnel stretched out before her, curved walls of brick glistening with moisture. Emergency lights flickered at intervals, bathing the corridor in a sickly, strobing yellow. Quinn slowed her pace, transitioning from a sprint to a tactical crouch. She knew better than to rush blindly into the dark. Morris had taught her that. Morris had taught her a lot of things before whatever-it-was took him. Up ahead, the tunnel widened. Herrera stopped running. Quinn pressed her back against the damp wall, inching forward. She peered around the curve of the brickwork. Herrera was standing before a heavy iron gate that blocked the rest of the tunnel. It wasn't standard Transport for London issue. The iron was wrought with twisting, disturbing patterns that looked almost organic, like roots thorns. Standing on the other side of the gate was a silhouette—a man, or something shaped like one, draped in a heavy cloak. Herrera was talking to him, his voice low and urgent. Quinn couldn't make out the words, but she saw the desperation in his posture. He reached into his jacket and pulled something out—a small, white object. He held it up to the gloom. A token. It looked like bone. The figure in the cloak took it, inspected it, then produced a heavy ring of keys. The gate groaned open, the sound of grinding metal echoing painfully loud in the confined space. Herrera slipped through, and the gate began to swing shut. Quinn moved. She sprinted the last twenty yards, covering the distance in seconds. "Police!" she shouted, leveling her weapon at the figure by the gate. "Open it!" The cloaked figure didn't flinch. It didn't even turn its head. The iron gate slammed shut with a finality that vibrated through the soles of Quinn's boots. She skidded to a halt, breathless, the muzzle of her Glock steady despite the heaving of her chest. "Step away from the gate," she ordered, her voice hard. The figure turned slowly. Under the hood, there was no face—just a shifting shadow, a void where features should have been. It looked at her, or through her, with a gaze that felt like ice water down her spine. "Turn back, Detective," the figure rasped, its voice sounding like two stones grinding together. "You have no coin here." Quinn’s jaw tightened. She looked past the creature at the darkness where Herrera had vanished. This was it. The Veil Market. She’d heard whispers of it in interrogations, fragmented mentions in the case files of suicides and missing persons. A hidden place for things that shouldn't exist. The clique’s playground. She was a cop. Her jurisdiction was London. The solid, real world of flesh and blood, laws and order. This wasn't that. This was the unknown. This was the thing that had killed Morris. But Herrera was in there. And if he was in there, he was connected to them. She looked at the iron bars. They were cold, rusted, impregnable. The figure stood like a gargoyle, blocking the way. "I'm not leaving without him," Quinn said, her thumb clicking the safety catch off. The shadow-thing laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "Then you will die with him." Quinn lowered her weapon slightly, her mind racing. Brute force wouldn't open this gate. Bullets would likely pass right through that thing. She needed an edge. She needed to think like they did. She stepped back, keeping her eyes on the guard, and scanned the walls. The market moved every full moon, the file had said. It moved, but it always left a trace. She looked down at the ground near the threshold of the gate. There, in the grime between the flagstones, was a faint residue. Powdered chalk. Salt. Her eyes darted back to the guard. He hadn't moved. He was confident. Arrogant. Quinn holstered her weapon. The sudden lack of a gun seemed to confuse the figure; its head tilted slightly. "You're right," she said, her voice dropping, losing the aggressive command tone. "I don't have a coin." She took a step closer, raising her hands slowly, palms open. It was a gesture of surrender, but her eyes were locked on the mechanism of the lock. It was old. Old iron. Old mechanics. "But I have information," she lied smoothly. "The one who just passed. Tomás. He's compromised. He's being followed. If you let him in there, he leads the law right to your doorstep." The figure paused. The shadows under the hood swirled. "Tomás is trusted," it said, but there was a flicker of hesitation now. "Tomás is terrified," Quinn countered, stepping closer still, within arm's reach of the bars. "I saw his face. He’s running from something worse than me. You want a market that stays secret? You need to know what he’s bringing in with him." It was a gamble. A massive, reckless gamble. But it was the only card she had left. The creature stepped closer to the bars. The air grew colder, smelling of ozone and decay. "What do you know of the burden?" "I know he didn't have it when he left the Raven's Nest," Quinn said, improvising, pulling the name of the bar out of the air. She knew Herrera frequented the place. "But he picked something up. Something hot." The shadow-figure stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. Quinn held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was walking a razor's edge between police work and madness. Slowly, agonizingly, the figure reached into its robes. Quinn tensed, ready to draw her weapon if necessary. But instead of a weapon, it pulled out a small, chitinous object—a token, similar to Herrera's, but darker, stained. "Enter," the figure rasped, sliding a small panel aside in the gate. "But know this, Detective. The Veil takes a toll from all who enter without respect. If you lie, you pay in blood." Quinn didn't hesitate. She grabbed the cold iron bars, slipped through the gap the moment it was wide enough, and plunged into the darkness beyond. She didn't look back at the guard. She didn't look at the iron gate as it clanged shut behind her, sealing her in. She looked forward, down the long, torch-lit tunnel that sloped downward, away from London, away from the world she knew. Ahead, she could see the faint glow of unnatural light. She could hear the murmur of a hundred voices, speaking in tongues she didn't recognize. The smell hit her then—incense, spoiled meat, and copper. She tightened the strap on her vest, checked the leather watch on her wrist, and started walking. She was off the map now. She was in the Veil.