Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQWFPTV9KC5HM41C58Q98F

The rain in Soho didn’t just fall; it hammered against the pavement, a relentless drumming that blurred the neon signs into bleeding smears of pink and green. Harlow Quinn didn’t mind the wet. It was a uniform, a layer that made the city anonymous. She adjusted her collar, the damp wool clinging to the skin of her neck, and checked her watch. The worn leather strap was slick with condensation. 11:47 PM. Time was a luxury she couldn't afford. She moved through the crowd, her pace faster than the rest, a deliberate glide that parted the wet umbrellas like a bow cuts a ribbon. She wasn't running—not yet—but the posture of a man preparing to sprint lived in her shoulders, coiled like a spring. Her target, a slender figure in a navy mac, had the jittery energy of someone who knew he was running out of road. She turned the corner, the wet brick of the building wall slick against her gloves. There. He’d ducked into a service entrance that opened off a narrow alleyway designated "No Entry." Quinn didn't hesitate. She vaulted the low iron fence, her boots splashing through a particularly deep puddle, scattering oily reflection. She hit the asphalt running, the silence of the service alley wrapping around her like a shroud. She heard him before she saw him. A heavy, desperate gasp, followed by the scuff of rubber on stone. Ahead, the mouth of a tunnel yawned open, the concrete archway dripping with water that pooled into black, opaque lakes at her feet. He was halfway down the steps. Harlow lengthened her stride, the cold air rushing into her lungs, tasting of exhaust and ozone. "You're not getting away, kid," she gritted out, her voice rough in the quiet. "I can see your breath." The suspect didn't respond. He didn't stop. He scrambled down the concrete stairwell, the flicker of his blue shirt vanishing into the abyss. Harlow followed, the gloom deepening as she descended. The air grew colder, carrying a scent that stopped her dead in her tracks. It wasn't just the smell of old stone and rot. It was copper, sulfur, and something sweet—like burnt sugar left to caramelize in a heat. It was the smell of magic, or at least, the chemical residue of whatever the club downstairs did to its patrons. She reached the bottom of the stairs. This wasn't just a maintenance tunnel. The walls here were plastered with peeling, damp wallpaper, but the ceiling was pockmarked with old bolt holes, rusted rust, and what looked like claw marks. Scraped deep into the concrete by something heavy and desperate. The tunnel opened up abruptly into a cavern. Dim, flickering light pulsed overhead, powered by something that hummed with a low, vibrating energy that made her teeth ache. It was an abandoned Tube station—a ruin, really. But it wasn't empty. The market was a chaotic sprawl of trestle tables and scavenged shelves, illuminated by glass jars filled with bubbling liquids and lanterns that cast long, dancing shadows. Vendors shouted over one another, selling things that had no business being sold to anyone without a prescription: jars of black thorns, eyeballs staring out from silver spheres, dried roots that looked suspiciously like fingers. Harlow stood still, her breath misting in the harsh light. She should have stayed above. She should have turned around, called for backup, and waited for the patrol car. This place smelled wrong on a fundamental level. It wasn't just illicit; it was predatory. She scanned the crowd for the blue shirt. Her eyes, usually sharp, felt tested by the flickering lights. To her left, a man with too many gold rings on his hands was haggling over a length of rope that seemed to writhe of its own accord. To her right, a woman wrapped in layers of fur was muttering over a scrying bowl, the surface rippling with nothing inside. She moved deeper into the sprawl, her boots silent on the concrete. She had to find him before he could access whatever cache he was protecting. She thought about DS Morris. The empty space beside her in the Bullpen was still a physical weight, a dull ache that hadn't faded despite eighteen years of service. He had been here, she knew it. He had been chasing a lead, a whisper of a street name that sounded nothing like a proper address. He had gone down into a hole just like this, and the only thing they’d found of him was his badge, found three days later in the mud of a canal. *Don't think about him,* she ordered herself. *Think about the job.* She spotted a flash of color ahead. A flash of navy. He was near the far wall, near a stand selling knives that glowed with a faint blue heat. She began to move, her gaze locked on the target. But as she drew closer, the suspect stopped. He didn't continue. He spun around and stumbled back, crashing into the rack of vials. Glass shattered, a cacophony of noise that silenced the market instantly. Harlow’s hand dropped to her holster. She reached the intersection of the narrow aisles, her gun drawn, her finger resting on the trigger. "Freeze!" The suspect looked up, his face pale and terrified. He pressed his back against the broken rack, his hand trembling in his pocket. He reached in, fumbling. Harlow took a step forward, eyes narrowing. "Show me your hands." The man pulled something out—a small, jagged object. It was white and translucent. Bone. Before Harlow could fire, the man raised the object high. He didn't look at her. He looked at the rough concrete wall to his left, directly where a pile of rubble had gathered. "By the Veil," he whispered. Harlow froze. Veil. A word she’d heard in whispered corridors, among drunks and junkies. A concept she’d dismissed as superstitious nonsense until she found Morris’s wallet and realized the stories were true. The bone token didn't glow. It dissolved. It fell to the ground and crumbled into ash. With a grinding groan of rusted metal and grinding stone, the pile of rubble on the wall seemed to shift. A section of the wall dissolved into mist, revealing a dark opening behind it—a mouth swallowing the air. The man didn't look back. He didn't run toward her. He dropped to his knees, bowed his head to the passage, and shrank into the darkness. For a moment, the market stood still. The vendors turned their heads, watching the man vanish. The fear in the air thickened, a palpable dread that pressed against Harlow’s skin. She holstered her weapon, but her pulse hammered against her ribs. She stepped forward, crossing the line of ash. The air here was different. Heavier. It tasted of ancient dust and secrets. She looked into the mouth of the tunnel. It led down, deeper, into absolute blackness. The walls were lined with shelves, but they weren't filled with vials. They were filled with people. Shadows pressing against stone. And in the center, blocking the only way through, was a figure sitting on a crate. A woman with eyes like molten gold and skin that seemed to reflect the light of the market in ripples. The woman didn't speak. She just watched. Harlow stood at the threshold. Behind her, the smell of the rain and the wet street was gone. She was alone in the dark. She looked at her watch again. 11:51 PM. She was late. She was exhausted. She could leave. She could walk back up those concrete stairs, grab a cold cup of tea, and tell Sergeant Miller that she’d lost the tail in the sewers. She could tell herself the city was still just a city, and the monsters were just bad men. But she thought of the bone token, the way it had crumbled away into dust. She thought of the gold-ringed man and the writhing rope. She thought of DS Morris. The silence of the tunnel called to her. It was a trap, she knew. It was a snare designed to catch men who thought they were immune. It was dangerous territory, perhaps the most dangerous she had ever entered. But to walk away now was to accept that she would never find out the truth about Morris. She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, inhaling the scent of the underground. Then she stepped into the dark, the heavy iron door of the market sealing shut behind her with a slam that echoed like a gunshot.