Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQXQWH7A68FSTJSJZ1BEV1

Rain pelted the pavement in sleek rivulets, turning Soho’s narrow streets into a shifting mirror of neon and shadow. Detective Harlow Quinn advanced under the dull glow of a streetlamp, her polished leather boots splashing through ankle-deep puddles. She kept her head low against the deluge, salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her skull, brown eyes narrowed. A lanky figure in a hooded raincoat darted ahead of her, silhouette flattened by the street’s phosphorescent sodden sheen. Quinn tightened her grip on the flashlight in her right hand, its beam a blade of light in the night. Thunder murmured overhead as she followed him past cluttered shopfronts and shuttered cafés. The distinctive green neon sign of the Raven’s Nest flickered in her periphery—Silas’s bar, its walls papered with antique maps and grainy photographs of impossibly distant places. She made a mental note: the suspect had slipped past the bar’s alley entrance. She’d have to circle back later, pry open that bookshelf to the secret room. Tonight, her priority lay elsewhere. A slammed door, a staccato footstep. She gained ground. He rounded a corner and vanished into a narrower lane. Quinn risked a glance up at her worn leather watch—3:17 a.m. She tightened the straps of her long raincoat and pressed on, breathing in the scent of wet asphalt and refuse. Her partner’s voice echoed in her mind: DS Morris, gone these three years under circumstances that left more questions than answers. She could almost feel his presence beside her, whispering cautions about chasing ghosts into dead ends. The alley spat her out onto a deserted stretch of Charing Cross Road. She spotted him again, close to the edge of a blocked-off staircase leading down to a disused Tube station. Graffiti scrawled on the walls, pasted-over flyers for punk shows and lost pets. The suspect paused at the top step, thumb flicking a small object in and out of his palm—a bone token, pale and chipped. He pressed it against the damp brick. The wall shuddered, a section swinging inward to reveal a tunnel faintly illuminated by a sickly green glow. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She plunged after him, water sluicing off her coat as she descended the narrow stairs. The door sighed shut above her, muffling the storm. In the tunnel, the walls curved low overhead, slick with moisture. The glow intensified as she pressed forward, illuminating patches of peeling paint and pooled filth. Somewhere ahead, a faint murmur of voices. She reached a landing where the corridor branched into several paths. The suspect hurried down the leftmost, his footfalls echoing hollowly. Quinn flicked on her flashlight’s high beam, sweeping it back and forth. The beam caught on a mural carved into the brick—sigils and runes coiling around the entrance to a yawning archway. Beyond it, lamplight danced over rough-hewn stalls and timber crates. The Veil Market: whispered about in precinct briefings, a subterranean bazaar for things no honest merchant would sell above ground. Quinn’s pulse quickened. She knew the rumor: this place moved every full moon, required a bone token for entry, dealt in enchanted trinkets, forbidden alchemical powders, secrets likely bartered in blood. She forced herself to move with military precision. Each footstep measured, her shoulder pressed tight against the wall. She recognized the stalls instantly: racks of dried herbs displayed like trophies, glass vials of smoky liquid, bone-handled daggers with runes etched in silver. A low hum of bartered whispers filled the air, a blend of accents and dialects Quinn couldn’t place. The hum dragged at her instincts, tugged at that part of her that resented the invisible lines beyond which the law didn’t—or wouldn’t—reach. She caught sight of him again. The suspect was crouched beside a rough-hewn table, fingers shaking as he slid a small pouch across to a hunched buyer. Quinn’s pulse thumped in her ears. She advanced, boots thudding softly on the damp stone. As she neared, a figure behind the table straightened—a paramedic’s coat, rolled-up sleeves, a Saint Christopher medallion glinting at the sternum. She recognized the olive skin, the dark curls plastered by sweat and damp. Tomás Herrera. He pressed a gloved hand against the buyer’s forearm, where a dark stain bloomed across fabric. He lifted his sleeve, revealing the pale arc of a scar running along the left forearm. With calm efficiency, he drew a syringe filled with a faintly luminescent fluid. The edge of the crowd momentarily parted around him; even in this lawless cavern, Quinn sensed a grudging respect for the man’s skill. She halted three paces back, flashlight trained on them both. Tomás’s warm brown eyes flicked up, met Quinn’s beam. He stiffened, paused mid-injection. The buyer winced but didn’t cry out. That was Tomás’s specialty—unofficial care for the supernatural, side-stepping NHS protocols to keep this underworld quiet. Quinn forced her jaw to unclench. Before she could call out, the suspect twisted from the table and bolted. His sudden sprint sent crates clattering. Tomás hissed a warning—a sound half-command, half-plea—as the wounded buyer strained to sit upright. Quinn darted after the fleeing man. The maze of corridors opened into a larger chamber, lanterns suspended from iron beams casting flickering shadows. She pressed through the crowd, her coat flapping behind her. Shouts followed her: a vendor with a crooked grin barred her path, wagging a bony finger. “No cops!” he hissed, voice rough as gravel. Quinn brushed past him, revealing a row of stalls selling ornamental skulls threaded on leather cords. She ignored the traders’ stares, the rustle of cloaks, the thump of hearts in chests not her own. Lightning rumbled far above; somewhere, rain hammered the earth anew. She spotted the suspect at the far end of the chamber, stepping onto another steep flight of stairs hewn into the rock. He paused only long enough to press a second bone token into a carved receptacle. The wall opened, revealing a narrower spiral staircase descending further into darkness. Quinn hesitated at the top of the main stairs, the tingle of adrenaline mingling with a razor-sharp awareness of risk. This place lived outside her jurisdiction—no jurisdiction at all, perhaps. She glanced back toward the entrance: Tomás knelt beside the buyer, applying a crude splint, murmuring words Quinn couldn’t catch. The paramedic had seen her, but he didn’t approach. He focused on his patient. His eyes flicked to Quinn once more, as if weighing whether to intervene, then returned to the wounded arm. Up ahead, the suspect pressed onward. Quinn’s heartbeat pulsed in her throat. She flexed her gloved fingers around the flashlight. Every instinct screamed to turn back, call in backup, seal off this den of contraband. But three years ago, when DS Morris died under inexplicable circumstances—circumstances whispered to involve inhuman forces—she vowed never to back away from the unknown. She exhaled, the breath steaming in the cold air. She lifted her left wrist, checking her watch: 3:24 a.m. Only seven minutes had passed since she spotted the suspect. Enough time for him to vanish again, slip through some underground catacomb she’d never find. Enough time for him to complete whatever exchange he’d come for. She stepped forward, blade of light cutting into shadow. The stairs beckoned, each stone worn smooth by countless footsteps. She paused halfway, hearing behind her the tinny clink of coins on wood as traders resumed their commerce. The market hummed on, oblivious to her decision. Her pulse steadied. She remembered Morris’s face in his last moments—a look of stunned recognition, like he’d seen something that shouldn’t exist. She would not let fear keep her from answers. With slow determination, she resumed the ascent downwards, letting the walls close in around her. Water dripped onto her shoulder as she continued, each step a promise: I will see this through. No matter where it leads.