Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQWCDEX76F63GWQZ9HHKP2

The rain in London didn’t wash the grime away; it just made the city look slicker, a ballroom floor of black tarmac, orange brick, and leaking neon. Harlow Quinn adjusted the grip on her service revolver, the leather strap of her holster damp against her thigh. At forty-one, she was faster than she used to be, but the three hours of sleep she’d managed the night before were already beginning to feel like a distant memory. She watched him through the downpour, a silhouette cutting through the grey mist near the derelict scaffolding of the Old Kent Road. Tomás Herrera. Her face was plastered on every screen in the squad room, wanted for questioning regarding the distribution of unregulated compounds that had already claimed two lives this week. The forensic report had called it an overdose, a toxin induced by a sloppy batch of designer drugs. Harlow called it murder. Herrera turned the corner, melting into the shadows of an alleyway that looked like it hadn't seen sunlight in a decade. Harlow broke into a run, her boots splashing through a puddle that sucked at her heel, the sound swallowed instantly by the volume of the rain. She could hear him ahead, the rhythmic thud of his sneakers fading into the gloom, but he was moving erratically, likely because he knew he was being tracked. She reached the mouth of the alley and skidded to a halt, the gravel crunching under her heel. No sewer grate. No fire escape. Just brick. He was gone. Vanished. For a heart-stopping second, the sirens of a passing ambulance drowned out the silence, and she thought she’d lost him. But then, a dim, sickly light flickered just ahead, reflecting off something wet and metallic. She moved closer, her breath pluming in the frigid air. The light was coming from behind a stack of wooden crates marked with faded rail signs. Harlow drew her gun, the metal warm in her hand, and peered around the edge. The entrance was a heavy steel door set into the brickwork of the old Tube station ventilation shaft, but the mechanism was gone. In its place was a slotted gap about the width of a human hand. She heard a voice. Soft, hesitant. Spanish. "Please. I only need a moment." Harlow’s jaw tightened. Her gut told her that was the wrong place to look, that this was a trap, but every instinct in her body demanded she follow. Her partner’s ghost, DS Morris, was hanging over her shoulder, whispering that she needed to solve this before it happened again. Before the unexplained swallowed someone else whole. She didn't kick the door down. She didn't announce herself. Instead, she slipped through the slot, the metal edge grazing her jacket. The smell that hit her was like a punch to the sinuses: ozone, wet earth, and the copper tang of old blood. She dropped to a crouch in the darkness. Her eyes took a moment to adjust. She wasn't in an alley anymore. She was underground. Above her, dripping pipes cast rhythmic shadows on the rough concrete walls. Ahead, the smell of dampness was replaced by the cloying scent of incense—sandalwood and something sweeter, like rotting fruit. "Tomás?" she called out softly. A figure turned. It was Herrera, though he looked disheveled, his curly dark hair plastered to his forehead. He clutched a small, tarnished pouch to his chest. When he saw her, the relief on his face was instantaneous, followed immediately by a panicked struggle as he fumbled to shove the pouch back into his pocket. "You're supposed to be wearing that." It was a weird thing to say, but Harlow was acutely aware of the watch on her left wrist. The worn leather strap chafed her skin. She wore it always. "I..." Tomás stammered, his olive skin pale in the underground light. "I didn't think you'd follow me here, Detective." "Where are we?" Harlow stood up, holstering her weapon but keeping her hand near her hip. She couldn't shake the feeling that the walls were watching. He looked around as if realizing for the first time how isolated they were. "The Market. It moves." "Where?" Harlow stepped closer, invading his personal space. "Is it the crackhouse on Oxford Street?" "Lower than that." Tomás reached up and tugged at the chain around his neck, revealing a silver Saint Christopher medallion that caught a stray beam of light from above. "We have to get out. They'll scan my hand, but if they check the database..." "Who are 'they'?" "Runners. Glitchers." He looked terrified. "Just go. The rain will wash your tracks away, but they'll know I came back down." Harlow studied him. At twenty-nine, Herrera was half her age, built like a dancer, with that terrifying speed she’d been chasing for three blocks. But there was something else in his eyes—panicked but also desperate. He wasn't running from the police; he was running from *this* place. She looked past him. The "Market" was a warren of stalls set up on the old subway platform. It wasn't a street brawl. The lights here were low and colored, casting shadows that seemed to dance of their own accord. Vendors were hawking things in hushed tones—faintly glowing potions in glass vials, daggers that looked too light to be made of steel, stacks of paper that might have been maps to somewhere Harlow didn't recognize. She stepped around him, edging toward the platform entrance. "How do you get out?" "Up. There's a maintenance door near the ticket booth. If we can get to the track level, we can climb." "Is it guarded?" He shook his head violently. "Not here. Not now. But once the bell rings..." A low, mournful chime echoed through the tunnels. Harlow tensed. "Bell?" "The opening," Tomás whispered. "They close it when the moon turns full. We have about five minutes." Five minutes. In a city this big, five minutes was enough to buy an escape. But Harlow looked at the stalls. People were looking at her. Not with the curiosity of a street cop, but with the anticipation of a shark scenting blood. She thought of DS Morris. His body had been found washed up on the south bank, days after his disappearance. The coroner had ruled it a mugging gone wrong, a stray bullet in a dark alley. Harlow knew better. There was no mugging that left a man shredded without a struggle, and there was no "mugging" that involved a substance that left burns on the bone. She looked at Tomás. He was standing on the edge of the abyss, terrified of what was behind him, terrified of what was in front of her. "You're not selling to them, Tommy," Harlow said. "It's not like that," he said, stepping back, raising his hands. "I'm just... I'm borrowing money. For family." Harlow didn't believe him. She never believed people on the run. But the decision was already made in her mind. She took a step toward the maintenance ladder. "Don't," he pleaded. "Quinn, listen to me. Once you're inside, you're part of the net. You see one thing, you're compromised. You kill someone, you're branded." "You think I'm scared of a little alchemy?" she asked, her voice hardening. She didn't reach for her weapon; the energy in the air felt charged, volatile. A wrong move here would get her shot by a shadow rather than a badge. "You don't understand," he said, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "It's not just laws here. It's magic. Worse. Trust me, the streets are safer." "Is DS Morris down here?" Tomás froze. The blood drained from his face. He looked at the ground. "I... I don't know." "Where is he?" "I don't know!" He screamed, then covered his mouth with his hands, looking around in terror. "Please. He's gone. The clique took him. That's why I have to sell... to pay the fee." Harlow felt the air crackle between them. The veil had been lifted, however briefly. The clique. The very name she suspected but couldn't prove. If Tomás was telling the truth, if DS Morris was here, buried under the rot and the neon lights of this underground bazaar, then she couldn't walk away. Not even for self-preservation. She holstered her gun properly, smoothing the leather over her hip. She turned her back on the exit, away from the safety of the rain-soaked streets, and stepped fully into the gloom of the Veil Market. "Show me," she said. "Show me where your partner went." Tomás looked at her, the fear curdling into a grim sort of respect. He started moving toward the crowd, his head ducked, but Harlow walked beside him, her military bearing keeping the rabble at bay, her eyes scanning the horizon for threats that looked more like nightmares than crimes. The bell chimed again, closer this time, and the underground city seemed to hold its breath.