Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQVGC56ZYK11BEW4WTT6ND

Detective Harlow Quinn pressed her back against the rain-slicked brick of Dean Street, the green neon letters of The Raven’s Nest flickering overhead. Each pulse of light painted her sharp-jawed profile in jaundiced green, then snuffed it into shadow. Rain drummed against her shoulders, seeped through her trenchcoat collar, and pooled on the leather strap of her watch. She glanced at the alley’s mouth, heart hammering against ribs that had long ago hardened to adrenaline. A figure emerged from the bar’s open door—slender, coat hood drawn low, boots skidding on the stone. Quinn recognized the way they moved: deliberate, practiced. She didn’t know the suspect’s name yet, only the tip-off that this person trafficked in secrets darker than any Soho backroom. Quinn stalked into the street as the stranger broke into a sprint, a dark shape unspooling down the avenue. “Stop! Metropolitan Police!” Quinn’s voice cracked like a pistol shot. She raised her flashlight, beam slicing through the rain, but the suspect vanished around a corner before she could flick the siren on. She tore after them. Her boots slapped puddles. Narrow streets of Soho unfolded ahead—cobbled, slick, glimmering with displaced neon. Quinn’s breath came in frosty bursts. She lurched through a web of steam rising from a manhole, water sluicing off her hair. Three steps behind, she knew, maybe less. Each time she risked a glance over her shoulder, she saw only empty street and the wavering pool of her beam. At the intersection of Greek Street, the figure darted left into a dimly lit courtyard cluttered with overturned crates. Quinn slid to a halt at the entrance, inhaled ragged air, then plunged in. Boxes scraped across stone; she vaulted over one, foot catching on rotting wood. She stumbled, grabbed the edge of a crate, twisted free, and sprang back up. No time for pain. A rusted fire escape loomed above her. The suspect scrambled up its wrought-iron rungs in a fluid blur. Quinn matched the pace, fingertips numb as she gripped the metal, boots echoing on metal plates. She passed a window, glass streaked with rain, flickers of a lonely lamp inside. She saw movement: the suspect’s coat brushed past. Then they vanished at a landing above. Quinn surged upward, boots thudding. At the third floor, raindrops speared through holes in the platform. She peered over the railing—streetlights glowed distant, fog drifting between buildings. No sign of her quarry. She pressed on. From somewhere below, water pattered—a pool on the concrete landing. Quinn’s watch told her it was nearly midnight. Three years ago, DS Morris would have called now: check your six. But Morris had died chasing ghosts, and Quinn carried the memory of that loss like a weight in her gut. Nothing could distract her now. She edged along the fire escape to a ladder that descended two flights to a rusted door. The suspect yanked it open, slipped inside. Quinn followed, shoulder first, flashlight beam skittering over peeling paint and warped floorboards. They spilled into a narrow corridor lined with dingy mailboxes and flickering fluorescent tubes. The suspect ran for a battered metal gate at the far end. Rainwater tracked down the walls, pooling at the threshold. The figure pressed a palm against a weathered keypad, fingers tapping out a code. Before they could complete it, Quinn lunged, shoulder crashing into their back. The suspect pitched forward, code forgotten. Buttressed by momentum, Quinn barreled through the gate. The lock screamed and snapped. She recovered to see the suspect recoil, hand flying to a hilt at their waist. Quinn’s heart stuttered. A blade. She clicked her flashlight beam onto the figure. Rainwater traced rivulets down the suspect’s face, obscuring identity. They hesitated, then turned, coat flaring like a dark banner. In that instant, they disappeared through a low archway beneath the platform. Quinn sprinted after them. The corridor opened onto an abandoned Tube station beneath Camden—a cavernous space of damp bricks and cracked tiles, lit by a single sputtering bulb. Stagnant air smelled of mildew and rust. The platform was deserted, except for the suspect: a silhouette hunched by a steel door marked “Service.” The fugitive rapped gloved knuckles on the door’s cold surface. It swung inward at their touch, revealing a narrow staircase that sloped downward into blackness. Quinn paused at the arch, flashlight trembling in her fist. Somewhere below, muffled voices and the scrape of metal reached her ears. She assessed the run-down station. The sign overhead, half-chipped, read “Camden Market Station” though no trains sounded. She knew better: the Veil Market moved every full moon. Rumors said it opened here tonight. No ordinary subway at this hour. This place was a gateway to the supernatural underworld. Her pulse picked up speed. She glanced back the way she came—cold, empty corridors, rain dripping through a grate overhead. No backup. Radio signal died beneath this concrete tomb. She clicked her tongue. The suspect was already halfway down the stairs, pausing to glance over a shoulder. “Detective Quinn.” Their voice echoed, distant, amused. “You really want to go down there?” Quinn sucked in a breath. She straightened, fingers tightening on the flashlight like it was a lifeline. “You’re under arrest,” she called, voice harder than she felt. “Come back up.” They laughed softly, a sound that slid through her bones. “Up’s closed.” Then they turned and vanished into the jet-black stairwell. Quinn swallowed. Mud clung to her boots. The steel door rattled behind her. She stepped forward, flashlight beam quivering as she picked her way down the winding stairs. Each step echoed, her own breathing loud in her ears. The passage ended in a low-ceiling tunnel. Damp stone walls closed in; the air was warmer, heavier. She flicked her beam left and right. Cobwebs fluttered at the edges. Somewhere ahead, she heard muffled haggling, the clink of glass. She followed the noise, emerging at last into a vaulted chamber lit by lanterns hung from iron hooks. Tables of mismatched wood lined the space, laden with battered chests and burlap sacks. Strange wares glimmered under flickering light: vials filled with glowing powders, feathers scented with herbs, rusted locks that opened without keys. A thick undertone of spices and ozone made the air electric. A gaunt vendor in a threadbare coat looked up at her, eyes red-rimmed, and slid a bone token across the table to a hunched buyer. The token was small and white, carved in the shape of a vertebra. Quinn’s breath hitched. This was the Veil Market: the hidden black market of the supernatural, forbidden to all but those bearing bone tokens. She clicked on her watch. Midnight had come and gone. The market pulsed around her: a vendor offering a caged raven whose eyes gleamed red; a man pawing through a pile of tarnished amulets; a woman whispering over a steaming bowl of violet broth. All spoke in low tones, oblivious to her. Quinn swept her gaze, searching for the suspect in the crowd. She spotted them slipping between tables, long coat brushing the floor. In one hand, they held a similar bone token, turning it between fingers. No sign of the knife. Her pulse thrummed so loud she worried the vendors might hear it. She took a step forward and froze. Behind a stall draped with moth-eaten tapestries, a pair of eyes gleamed: a creature crouched on a crate, skin pale and eyes too bright. It chittered something in a language that crawled beneath her skin. She forced herself to advance. A stall carved with arcane runes offered lockets that hummed faintly. Quinn’s mind raced: she had no token. She wasn’t invited. She’d have to find another way out or risk being trapped in this underworld. The suspect disappeared again, melting into a knot of figures at the far end. Quinn crouched behind a barrel, chest pounding. She unzipped her coat and patted pockets. Keys, notebook, a single cigarette lighter—no token. Backing out now meant losing him. If she followed, she risked unknown magic, ambushes. But if she let him escape underground, no court in England could touch him. Her mind flicked back to DS Morris. The last case they chased together had ended in something unspeakable. She had tracked Morris here, to an illegal gathering beneath the city. He’d pressed on without backup, and she’d lost him in the dark. Tonight, she had no partner to save her if she fell. But she had the law on her side. And she had determination. She peeked around the barrel. The suspect had mounted a crate to speak with a tall man shrouded in shadows. The man’s voice was a rumble; Quinn couldn’t hear the words, but the suspect nodded, slipping the bone token into someone’s palm. Then the tall man produced another token and handed it over. A flash of hope: the suspect had procured a second token. They crossed a line of red chalk drawn on the floor and stepped through a curtain of heavy velvet. The curtain billowed as they passed, leaving Quinn’s path clear—if she dared to follow. She took a shaky breath, head spinning from the incense and whispers of the crowd. With one hand on her watch strap, she threaded her other hand into her coat and produced her badge. She waited until the suspect had vanished behind the curtain, then strode forward and pushed the velvet aside. Silence swallowed her. The curtain fell back like a closing eyelid. Ahead lay a narrow tunnel lit by phosphorescent fungi. The walls pulsed with an otherworldly glow. Quinn allowed herself a single, steadying moment. Rain still pattered somewhere above, far beyond this hidden world. She checked the strap of her watch, the only token she possessed of her mortal life. Then she squared her shoulders. She stepped through the curtain into darkness.