Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQZ8D3GNNG90J41RVRC76J

Rain hammered against the pavement, turning the London streets into a slick mirror of fractured neon and shadow. Harlow Quinn pushed through the downpour, her breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts that matched the rhythm of her boots striking the wet concrete. She checked the time without breaking stride, tilting her left wrist just enough to catch the glow of the streetlamp. The worn leather of her watch strap was saturated, clinging to her skin like a second pulse. Three minutes behind. Too far. She wiped water from her eyes, her fingers brushing against the closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair that offered no protection from the storm. At forty-one, her body felt every mile of the chase, but eighteen years on the Metropolitan Police force had drilled a military precision into her movements that age hadn't dulled. She kept her shoulders square, her sharp jaw set tight against the chill. The suspect was ahead, a darker shadow detaching itself from the gloom near the Camden Lock. She had been trailing him since Soho, since he slipped out the back of a bar with a distinctive green neon sign she knew too well. The Raven's Nest. She had spent weeks watching that establishment, convinced the clique operating out of it was laundering more than just dirty money. The suspect wore a hooded jacket, head down, moving with a desperation that suggested he knew exactly what waited for him if he stopped. Harlow didn't call out. There was no point. The rain would swallow her voice, and silence was her only advantage left. She navigated around a group of late-night revelers huddled under an awning, their laughter dying as she shoved past. Her brown eyes locked onto the target. He turned sharply off the main road, heading toward the skeletal remains of an old Tube station entrance that had been boarded up since the nineties. Harlow slowed her pace as she approached the corner, pressing her back against the damp brickwork. She listened. The city noise faded here, replaced by the rhythmic dripping of water and a low hum that seemed to vibrate in her teeth. She peeked around the edge of the building. The suspect stood before a gap in the plywood hoarding, a space too narrow for a person to squeeze through unless the physics of the world had bent slightly in his favor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out something pale and curved. Even from twenty yards away, Harlow recognized the shape. A bone. Not a replica, not plastic. Real bone. He pressed it against the air itself, right where a turnstile should have been. The space rippled like heat haze on a summer road, though the night was freezing. The suspect stepped through the distortion and vanished. Harlow stepped out from the shadows, her hand hovering near the holster at her hip. The rain seemed to avoid the entrance, curving around the invisible barrier like water around a stone in a stream. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat that had nothing to do with the run. Three years ago, DS Morris had walked into a situation just like this. He had chased a lead into the underground, into the places the official reports called abandoned and the street rumors called cursed. He never came back. The file on his disappearance was closed, marked as desertion, but Harlow knew the truth. She had seen the look in his eyes the week before he vanished. Fear. Not of men, but of something older. She looked down at the ground. Mud churned by the suspect's boots led right up to the shimmering threshold. Beyond that, nothing. No footprints. Just a void that smelled of ozone and old earth. The Veil Market. She had heard the name whispered in interviews with informants who looked over their shoulders while they spoke. A black market that moved with the phases of the moon. Tonight, the full moon hung low and bloated behind the clouds, casting a sickly light over the Camden skyline. If the rumors were true, this was the entrance. A place where enchanted goods and banned alchemical substances changed hands beneath the city. A place where the law didn't reach. Harlow touched the badge in her pocket. It felt heavy, useless. What jurisdiction did the Metropolitan Police have over a hole in reality? If she stepped through, she might not find a suspect. She might find whatever took Morris. The rational part of her brain, the part that filed reports and testified in court, screamed at her to turn around. Call for backup. Wait for daylight. But there was no backup for this. There were no forms to fill out for supernatural disappearances. She glanced at her watch again. The second hand swept past the twelve. Time was moving normally here, at least. She thought of the clique in Soho, the way they moved like a single organism, the way money flowed into their accounts from sources that didn't exist. If this market was the source, closing it down was the only way to bleed them dry. And if Morris was somehow involved, if there was even a shred of truth left down there, she owed it to him to look. The rain intensified, drumming harder against her jacket, urging her to seek cover. Harlow took a breath, filling her lungs with the cold, wet air of London. She adjusted the collar of her coat, ensuring her weapon was loose in the holster. Her reflection stared back at her from a puddle near the entrance. A woman of sharp angles and weary eyes, standing on the precipice of the unknown. She stepped forward. The hum grew louder, vibrating through the soles of her boots. The air pressure dropped, popping her ears. She reached out a hand, expecting resistance, expecting the cold shock of the rain. Instead, her fingers met a surface that felt like warm silk. The ripple expanded from her touch, widening the gap. Harlow Quinn did not hesitate. She thought of Morris, of the empty chair in the briefing room, of the lies she had told his widow. She tightened her grip on the frame of her resolve and stepped through the shimmer. The sound of the rain cut off instantly, replaced by a cacophony of voices and the clatter of goods. The smell of ozone vanished, replaced by sulfur, spices, and the copper tang of blood. She was inside. The street behind her sealed up like a healing wound, leaving her standing in the dim light of an abandoned Tube station that was no longer abandoned. She was in the Veil Market. There was no going back now.