Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQZ7Z4T08ZZRBYDD6MDNWH

Rain hammered the pavement of Soho, turning the streetlights into smeared streaks of gold and gray on the asphalt. Harlow Quinn ignored the water pooling in the collar of her coat, her focus narrowed to a single point fifty yards ahead. The target—a lanky man in a hoodie that had seen better decades—slipped around the corner of Brewer Street, his movements unnervingly fluid. Quinn matched his pace, her boots striking the wet ground with military precision. At forty-one, she knew the limits of her body better than she knew the streets of this city, but tonight, adrenaline was a cheap and potent fuel. Her lungs burned with the cold, damp air, but the fire in her gut burned hotter. This was the third runner this week, and all roads led back to the Raven’s Nest. She skidded around the corner, the leather strap of her worn watch catching on her sleeve. The green neon sign of the bar buzzed overhead, casting a sickly pallor over the alleyway. The door to the Nest hung open, swinging on creaking hinges, the silence from within contrasting sharply with the storm outside. She didn't slow down to check the bar; her target hadn't stopped there. He was moving deeper, toward the old network of service tunnels that snaked beneath London. "Police! Stop!" she barked, the command tearing from her throat. The runner didn't even glance back. He vaulted a stack of crates that blocked a service entrance and vanished into the maw of a narrow stairwell. Quinn followed, her hand hovering near the holster at her hip but not drawing. Not yet. The air changed as she descended. The smell of exhaust and damp concrete was gradually replaced by something older—earth, rust, and a faint, metallic tang that reminded her of a butcher’s shop. The sounds of the city faded to a dull roar, then to a dripping, echoing silence. She found herself in an abandoned Tube station. The tiles on the walls were cracked, shedding layers of grime, and the tracks were rusted rails disappearing into absolute darkness. This place wasn't on any modern map. It was a scar on the city's underbelly. Ahead, the runner paused. He wasn't running anymore. He was standing before a heavy iron gate that shouldn't have been there, blocking the tunnel mouth. Quinn slowed, transitioning from a sprint to a predatory stalk. She kept her breathing controlled, scanning the shadows for an ambush. The runner reached into his pocket. Quinn tensed, expecting a weapon. Instead, he pulled out a small, pale object—something carved from bone. He held it up to a recess in the gate's stone post. A low rumble vibrated through the soles of Quinn’s boots, and the iron gate groaned open, revealing a swirl of violet light and the hum of a crowd. The Veil Market. Quinn had heard whispers—nonsense muttered in interrogation rooms by junkies and the desperate—about a market for the things that went bump in the night. She’d dismissed it as superstition, the stress of the job manifesting as fairy tales. But the light ahead was real. The gate was real. The runner stepped through the threshold. The gate began to swing shut. "Hey!" Quinn shouted, breaking into a sprint again. She threw her arm out, catching the heavy iron just before it latched. The metal was freezing cold, biting into her palm. She shoved it open, forcing her body through the gap and into the tunnel beyond. She stumbled into chaos. The station opened up into a cavernous space, an impossible expansion of the underground. Stalls carved from rock and scrap metal lined the walls, glowing with enchanted lanterns. The air here was thick with incense and the scent of roasted meat that smelled entirely unlike pork or beef. Creatures that looked human but moved wrong—too fluid, too stiff—browsed wares that floated in mid-air. Bottles of screaming smoke, daggers made of black glass, jars containing eyes that blinked in unison. Quinn’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. This wasn't just a black market; it was a violation of natural law. Her grip tightened on her service weapon. She was a detective of the Metropolitan Police, with eighteen years of service and a commendation file thicker than her thigh. She dealt with rapists, murderers, and dealers. She did not deal with magic. But she had lost Morris to shadows she couldn't explain. Three years ago, her partner had been erased from a locked room, leaving behind only scorch marks and Quinn’s nightmares. If answers were here, she wasn't leaving without them. The runner was weaving through the crowd, ducking under a hanging tapestry of living moss. Quinn pushed forward, shouldering past a tall figure wrapped in bandages. "Move!" The figure turned, revealing a face that was a smooth, featureless oval. Quinn recoiled, her instinct screaming to pull the trigger, but she shoved the panic down. Focus. The target. She burst through the moss tapestry into a narrower alcove, away from the main thoroughfare. The runner was cornered, his back to a dead end of slick stone. He turned to face her, breathing hard, a smirk playing on his lips. "You're a long way from home, copper," he said. His voice sounded like gravel grinding together. "Hands where I can see them," Quinn ordered, leveling her weapon. "You're under arrest for suspicion of murder, conspiracy, and about a dozen other things I'll figure out when I get you upstairs." The runner laughed, a dry, rasping sound. He glanced at the iron gate behind her, then back to her eyes. "Upstairs? There is no upstairs for you now. You walked through the door. That means you're merchandise. Or meat. Depends on who catches you." "I said hands in the air!" He lunged—not at her, but to the side. His hand scrambled for a loose brick in the wall. Quinn fired. The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space, a flash of muzzle illuminating the dust. The bullet sparked against the stone, inches from his head. Before she could adjust her aim, a figure stepped out from the shadows between them. It wasn't one of the monsters. It was a man, olive-skinned and stocky, wearing a canvas jacket stained with mysterious fluids. He looked tired, the kind of exhaustion that went bone-deep. He didn't look at the runner; he looked straight at Quinn, warm brown eyes widening in surprise. "Stop shooting," the man said, his voice calm but commanding. He had a Spanish accent, soft but firm. "You'll bring the Enforcers down on us." "Step aside, civilian," Quinn barked, keeping her eyes on the runner. "This is Police business." "The Metropolitan Police have no jurisdiction here, Detective," the man said. He raised his hands slowly, showing he was unarmed. As he moved his sleeve, Quinn caught the glint of a silver chain—St. Christopher—and the jagged edge of a scar running along his left forearm. A knife wound. The runner hesitated, looking at the newcomer with recognition. "Herrera. Get out of the way. I'm just passing through." "Tomás, was it?" Quinn said, not lowering the gun. "I'm taking him in. You're interfering with an investigation." Tomás Herrera sighed, rubbing a hand over his short, curly dark hair. He looked at the runner with disdain. "He's not worth the bullet, Detective. And you can't take him back the way you came. Not without a token." "I have a badge." Tomás met her gaze, and for the first time, she saw a deep, welling pity there. It was the same look people gave her at Morris's funeral. "Your badge is just metal down here. It doesn't mean anything to the things that watch the gates." "I don't answer to things," Quinn said, her jawline set sharp, her finger tightening on the trigger. "I answer to the law." "Then you're going to die down here," Tomás said softly. He took a step closer to the runner, not to attack, but to block his path to the tunnel's hidden exit. "You shouldn't have followed him. The Veil eats people like you." The runner saw his chance. He lunged at Tomás, a jagged knife appearing in his hand as if by magic. "Move!" Quinn screamed. Tomás was fast, surprisingly so for a man in a bar. He twisted, the knife slashing through the air, missing his throat but grazing his shoulder. He grabbed the runner's wrist—his scarred forearm straining with the effort—and twisted. The bone snapped with a sickening crack. The runner howled, dropping the knife. Quinn was on them in a second. She kicked the knife away and slammed the runner against the wall, cuffing him roughly. She kept the gun pressed to his temple, her chest heaving. She looked up at Tomás, who was clutching his bleeding shoulder, his face pale but composed. "Thanks," she said, the word grudging. Tomás shook his head, wincing as he touched the wound. "I didn't do it for you. I did it because he's a low-level pusher selling bad alchemy. It hurts my business." He looked at the cuffs, then at Quinn. "Can you walk him out?" "He's going to the station." "You don't understand," Tomás said, stepping closer, lowering his voice. "The way you came in—the gate—it only opens for the living with a token, or the dead without one. You have neither now. You walked through on the wake of his token. The gate is sealed to you." Quinn stared at him. The rain, the chase, the impossibility of the glowing mushrooms overhead—it all pressed in on her. She looked at the runner, who was laughing softly, his face pressed against the cold stone. "Told you," the runner wheezed. "Told you, copper. You're meat." Quinn looked back at Tomás. The medic, or whatever he was, watched her with those tired, warm eyes. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small pouch. "I can get you out," Tomás said quietly. "But not to your police station. And not with him. He stays here for the Judges. You... you come with me if you want to see the sky again." Quinn looked at the runner, then at the exit tunnel leading to the iron gate. She could try to force her way out. She could shoot the lock, kick down the door. But Tomás’s warning hung in the air, heavy as the lead in her gut. She had walked into a fairy tale with a gun and a badge, and she was dangerously close to becoming a cautionary legend. She looked at Tomás Herrera, the man with the Saint Christopher medallion and the knife scar, the man who moved through this nightmare like he owned it. "Where are we going?" she asked. "The Raven's Nest," Tomás replied. "It's neutral ground. And we need to stitch that shoulder." He gestured vaguely toward her. "And maybe figure out how to keep you from evaporating." Quinn holstered her weapon. She uncuffed the runner and shoved him toward Tomás. "Take him," she said, her voice iron-hard. "If he runs, I'll hunt you both down. But I'm not leaving until I know what this place is." Tomás grabbed the runner by the collar, his grip surprisingly strong. "Careful, Detective. You ask too many questions here, and the market starts asking for payment." "I'm good for it," Quinn said, falling into step beside them as the market swirled around them, the shadows lengthening as the moon above—if there was a moon—began its watch.