Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQZ207TWMAWTV9B5K6SJ9F

The rain fell on London in sheets, turning the cobblestones of Soho into slick, black mirrors that reflected the city’s bleeding neon. Detective Harlow Quinn’s lungs burned, a familiar fire that did little to slow the piston-pound of her boots on the pavement. Fifty feet ahead, her target, Tomás Herrera, risked a frantic glance over his shoulder. His face, pale under the greenish wash of a streetlamp, was a mask of pure panic. He wasn’t fighting. He wasn’t even trying to lose her in a clever way. He was just running. A straight, desperate, adrenaline-fueled sprint that was starting to fray at the edges. Quinn could see it in the way his shoulders hunched, the slight list to the left. He was tiring. She was not. Eighteen years on the Force had honed her body into an instrument of endurance, a fact she clung to as the cold rain seeped through the collar of her coat. They splashed through a crosswalk, the horn of a black cab blaring as it swerved to miss her. Quinn ignored it, her focus locked on Herrera’s dark jacket and the flash of a silver chain around his neck—his Saint Christopher medallion, a detail from his file. He’d been a paramedic, once. A healer. Now he was the off-the-books doctor for a clique of people Quinn was increasingly convinced were something more than just eccentric criminals. People tied to the same kind of strangeness that had swallowed her partner, DS Morris, whole three years ago. The thought was a jolt of icy electricity in her veins, sharpening her focus. Herrera veered sharply, darting down a narrow service alley between a curry house and a shuttered pub. The stench of stale beer and damp rubbish hit her a second before she plunged into the darkness after him. Here, the city’s ambient light was choked out, and the only illumination came from a single, flickering bulb over a back door. It cast long, dancing shadows that made the bins look like crouching beasts. Herrera stumbled, catching himself on a overflowing dumpster, the metal screeching in protest. It was the opening she needed. Quinn closed the distance, her movements economical and precise, a stark contrast to his panicked flailing. She was ten feet away. Five. The worn leather strap of her watch dug into her wrist as she tensed, preparing to tackle him. But he found a reserve of energy, a final, terrified burst. He shoved off the dumpster, his feet slipping on the greasy pavement, and scrambled toward the alley’s far end. He didn’t emerge onto another street. Instead, he wrenched open a heavy, unmarked metal door set into a grimy brick wall and disappeared inside. Quinn skidded to a halt, her hand instinctively going to the grip of her pistol before she stopped herself. This wasn’t a standard armed response situation. The door, painted a chipped and peeling grey, looked like a maintenance access for the Underground. A faded, circular logo of a long-defunct railway company was the only marking. No handle on the outside. He’d pulled it open with surprising ease. She approached slowly, her breathing the only sound in the confined space besides the relentless drumming of rain on the corrugated iron roof above. The air wafting from the dark gap was different. It wasn’t just the damp, earthy smell of a Tube tunnel. It was thicker, laced with something acrid and herbal, like burnt incense and ozone. A low hum vibrated through the soles of her boots. Curiosity, the detective’s ultimate curse and greatest tool, warred with her training. Protocol was clear: wait for backup. Secure the perimeter. Don’t go blundering into an unknown, potentially hostile environment alone. But protocol didn’t account for the ghost of DS Morris, for the three years of dead-end reports and official whispers that she was losing her grip. It didn’t account for the nagging certainty that the answers she needed were just beyond that door. Herrera was her first real, live thread to this world she’d only glimpsed in bloodstained files and nightmares. She pressed her ear to the cold metal. Silence. He hadn’t locked it behind him. A mistake, or an invitation? Drawing her weapon, she eased the door open wider, wincing at the faint groan of the hinges. Beyond was a short, steep flight of concrete stairs, descending into absolute darkness. The humming was stronger here, a resonant thrum that she felt in her teeth. The strange smell was a palpable presence, thick and cloying. She clicked on the small, powerful torch mounted under her pistol’s barrel. The narrow beam cut a clean white circle into the gloom, illuminating grimy, tiled walls slick with condensation. She started down, her steps careful and silent, the beam of her light sweeping back and forth. The air grew colder with each step. The tiles gave way to rough-hewn brick, then to dark, packed earth. This was no longer a part of the public transport system. The stairs opened into a large, natural-seeming cavern. Quinn froze, her light beam sweeping across a scene that made no sense. The cavern was lit by a haphazard collection of lanterns, candles, and glowing crystals that cast long, dancing shadows. Stalls, cobbled together from driftwood, scrap metal, and old market trolleys, lined the walls. Behind them, figures in heavy cloaks and hoods bartered in hushed tones. She saw a table stacked high with jars containing shimmering, unidentifiable liquids. Another displayed cages of silent, watching creatures that defied easy classification. A woman with intricate, swirling tattoos on her face examined a dagger that seemed to drink the light around it. The Veil Market. The name was a whisper from a confiscated note, a piece of intel she’d half-dismissed as fantasy. And then she saw him. Herrera, near the far side of the cavern, was talking to a hulking figure whose face was obscured by a horned mask. He wasn’t just a suspect anymore; he was a part of this. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the market’s low hum. This was it. This was the rabbit hole. She raised her pistol, its weight a familiar comfort in a world that had suddenly tilted on its axis. She had to move, to act, before he saw her. But as she took a step forward, her boot dislodged a small stone. It skittered across the cavern floor, a sharp, clear *clack* that seemed impossibly loud in the unnatural quiet. Every head in the market turned. Dozens of eyes, some human, some not, fixed on the circle of her torchlight. On her. The low, resonant hum of the cavern ceased, replaced by a silence so profound it felt like a pressure against her eardrums. Herrera’s head snapped around, his eyes widening in terror. He hadn’t been running from the law. He’d been running to this. And now, she was trapped in here with him. With all of them.