Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQQPVYYND0T74GRA7WF8RZ

Rain sluiced off Harlow Quinn’s shoulders as she barreled across Greek Street, boot heels splashing through ankle-deep puddles. Neon lights from the Raven’s Nest painted the slick cobbles sickly green; umbrellas bobbed above tourists and late-night revellers. She kept her gaze fixed on the collapsing form of her suspect: a lean man in a dark jacket, sprinting toward an alley just beyond the bar’s glowing sign. His shoes slapped wet stone, a staccato she matched stride for stride. Quinn pumped her arms, leather watch clapping against her wrist, breath rasping in her chest. Three years of Metropolitan Police, eighteen decorated years of service—it all narrowed to this chase. Behind her, the muffled pings of car tires and a lone siren faded under the rain’s roar. Her partner was gone; DS Morris lost to a case that had turned inexplicable. Tonight, she told herself, she would not lose another lead. The suspect vanished between stacks of broken crates and dumpsters at the alley’s mouth. The walls reeked of mold and stale beer. Quinn’s boots crumbed rust from crumbling brick as she pitched forward, vaulting over a spindly scaffold. A broken streetlamp flickered overhead, its bulb fighting the downpour. She flicked her flashlight on, beam slicing the darkness. A door stood ajar where an advertising poster for a lost-and-found washed against the threshold. She hesitated a heartbeat—her instincts screamed this was no ordinary doorway—but the man’s retreat gave her no choice. She shoulder-rolled through the gap, nearly toppling into a narrow staircase. Metal grates, slick with rainwater, led downward. She hunched, one hand on her pistol, the other brushing against the damp wall. Each stair groaned under her weight. Drip-drip echoes followed her descent. The smell changed to oil and rust, metallic tang stinging her nose. She counted five steps past the door, then seven, then nearly felt the breeze of a platform opening. At the bottom, the staircase spit her onto a cracked platform littered with dead leaves and discarded newspapers. An old tiled sign, half-scraped by vandalism, still read “Camden Road.” Quarters for a ghost station. She crept forward, flashlight bobbing. A faint hum—electric wires overhead—thrummed in rhythm with her heartbeat. The distant scrape of footsteps pulled her deeper, through a breach in a corrugated-iron wall. Beyond lay the Veil Market, invisible to the uninvited. The narrow tunnel widened into a cavern of strange commerce. Lanterns strung from overhead beams cast an amber glow over stalls heaped with curious trinkets. Bone tokens carved into minuscule skulls glinted on one table; jars of charcoal-black powder sat beside rusted vials of ink that shimmered violet in the lamplight. A stall wafted incense so thick that Quinn could taste it on her tongue. Hooded figures moved like ghosts between stalls: one exchanged a scrap of parchment for a pewter dagger; another examined a cage containing a huddled creature that looked half-bat, half-rat. Quinn’s pulse climbed. She crept between a rack of talismans and a display of carved wooden masks, following the echo of hurried footsteps. The suspect’s silhouette flickered ahead, hood drawn low. Rainwater dripped from his shoulders as though he’d carried the storm downstairs with him. With a sudden burst, she lunged. Her hand clamped on the man’s sleeve; he spun, forcing a stall-cart over with a crash. Glass vials shattered, sending sparks of colored liquid across bones and coins. He yanked free, shoulder-driving her into a narrow aisle. Shelves rattled; a group of hooded buyers froze in mid-haggle, faces hidden in shadow. Quinn leveled her pistol as she braced against the stall’s edge. The air smelled of damp earth and something sickly sweet—like decay. “Stop!” she barked. Her voice echoed off the corrugated walls. The suspect bolted again, weaving through a tangle of crates and curtained alcoves. Quinn pursued, flashlight beam illuminating vendors who parted silently before her, their eyes glinting with metallic curiosity. She rounded a corner and nearly collided with a broad-shouldered man in a leather satchel slung across his chest. He stepped back, eyes widening as Quinn’s boot kicked loose a bone token from a table. It skittered across the stones and clinked underfoot. She stooped, snagged it by the carved edge. The token grew warm, pulsing against her glove. She felt a faint tug at her wrist—almost a pulse echoing through the token’s ridges. Quinn froze, scanning the crowd. The man with the satchel approached, hands raised in a placating gesture. “Detective,” he said, voice low, accent subtle. Spanish? She frowned. “You’re bleeding.” He flicked a quick glance at her left hand, knuckles bruised and bleeding from the push into the stall. She straightened, pressing her injured wrist against her side. “Who are you?” she demanded. He dipped his head. “Tomás Herrera. I work down here. Medical.” He touched the satchel strap. Inside, she caught the glint of bandages and vials. “You need a proper dressing.” She flicked her flashlight to the satchel then back to his face. Warm brown eyes stared up at her, concern flickering. Her second gut punch since DS Morris died: that he’d be here, tending secrets. She’d read file notes: ex-paramedic, off-the-books treatments, lost his license. Could this be—no, she was here for a suspect. The suspect’s hooded shape vanished down another corridor. Quinn’s jaw tightened. She glanced at the bone token. No badge, no uniform, no warrants, but if she turned back, he’d escape underground—and with him, whatever connection he had to her partner’s death. She met Herrera’s gaze. “Help me.” He nodded once, swift and silent. He reached into the satchel, withdrew a small antiseptic spray and folded gauze. He elevated her wrist; she winced as he sprayed and pressed the gauze around the wound. Clean, efficient. He worked in seconds, securing a neat wrap. The hum of conversation resumed around them, vendors masking intrigue behind murmurs. Herrera stood, pocketing the remainder of his kit. “They call this place the Veil Market,” he said. “It moves with the moon. It’s not meant for police.” Quinn flexed her hand. The token burned against her glove as though alive. “That’s a bone token, isn’t it?” He glanced at her hand—pause, then a faint exhale. “Yes. It’s your entry ticket. And your one-way pass if you stay.” She stared, heart lodged in her throat. “What am I in for?” He shook his head. “Dangerous. Not always human danger.” Her mind blasted back to Morris’s unexplained disappearance, the whispered rumors of creatures that defied death. Her military-bred bearing bristled. She’d always believed in facts, evidence. But as the antiseptic stung her injury, she realized tonight her case had slipped off every rule she’d ever known. Footsteps approached. Quinn looked past Herrera; the suspect returned, a furtive shape gliding between stalls. He clutched something—a small leather pouch stamped with unknowable runes. He tensed, ready to strike. Quinn sprang forward. “No more running!” she shouted. He froze. Herrera’s gaze darted back. Around them, the market stilled. Clocks in the bars above ground might have ticked obliviously, but down here time bent to other rules. The suspect made a split-second decision. He turned and bolted for a grated doorway in the wall—arch painted with half-erased graffiti. Quinn sprinted, drew on every ounce of her training. Her wet coat slapped her legs, her breath burned. She reached the grate, yanked it open. Beyond lay a narrow shaft, plunged deeper into the void. Quinn hesitated only a wound’s second. She had no backup. No radio; the storm above blocked signals. The echo of footsteps above warned that more might be coming. Locke-jaws of fear scraped at her mind. But this suspect held answers—answers about stolen goods, suspicious deaths, and maybe the truth behind Morris. She pressed a finger to her lips, a silent signal to Herrera. His shoulders squared. He gave her a small nod, the faintest of warnings and encouragements all at once. Quinn stepped forward, flashlight carving a path into the black shaft. Rain still dripped from her hair, but the air here was dryer, heavier with promise and peril. She glanced once at Herrera, then cast her gaze down the metal rungs. She exhaled and climbed, each rung rattling beneath her weight, determination anchoring her to purpose. If she reached the bottom, the market would fold around her like an untamed beast. She’d chase this lead into the underworld itself. The grate clattered shut above her. Darkness enveloped. Snowmelt of streetlights and neon faded behind her, leaving her alone with the pulse of her own resolve—and the man skulking somewhere ahead in the shadows. She tightened her grip, steadied her breathing, and moved on.