Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR1CX2XNE952B34TRQ5MNS

Rain hammered against the pavement, turning the London streets into slick mirrors that fractured the glow of streetlights. Harlow Quinn ignored the water streaming down her face, her eyes locked on the figure sprinting fifty meters ahead. Her boots slapped against the wet concrete, a rhythmic percussion that matched the pounding in her chest. She checked her wrist, the worn leather of her watch strap slick with rain. 2:14 AM. Too late for honest citizens, too early for the morning shift. Perfect time for ghosts and rats. The suspect wore a dark hoodie, face obscured, moving with a desperation that suggested they knew exactly what waited at the end of the line. Quinn tightened her grip on her torch, keeping it low. She didn't draw her service weapon yet. Not until she knew what kind of hole she was crawling into. Eighteen years in the Met had taught her that patience kept you breathing. Losing Morris had taught her that sometimes breathing wasn't enough. They turned sharply off Camden High Street, ducking into the shadowed mouth of an alleyway that smelled of stale urine and ozone. Quinn followed, her military precision keeping her movements economical even as her lungs burned. She was forty-one, not twenty, but she'd kept herself sharp. She pushed a wet strand of salt-and-pepper hair out of her eyes, her sharp jaw set hard. The alley dead-ended at a boarded-up entrance to an abandoned Tube station. Rust coated the iron gates, and graffiti scarred the brickwork, but the suspect didn't stop. They produced a key from a pocket and unlocked a side door hidden beneath a tarp. Quinn slowed, pressing her back against the damp brick. She watched through the gap in the tarp as the suspect descended the stairs. This wasn't a normal squat. The air down there hummed, a vibration she felt in her teeth rather than heard. She remembered the files on Morris's death. Unexplained circumstances. Supernatural origins she didn't yet understand. She had spent three years chasing shadows, trying to put a name to the thing that took her partner. This felt like the same frequency. Quinn moved to the door. It was ajar. She pushed it open, the hinges groaning in protest. The staircase descended into darkness, but light bloomed from below—not electric, but something warmer, flickering like torchlight. She took the steps two at a time, her hand finally resting on the grip of her Glock. At the bottom, the tunnel opened into a cavernous space. The Veil Market. She had heard the rumors in the pubs near Soho, whispers about a place that moved with the moon, beneath the city's skin. The ceiling was high, lost in shadow, supported by Victorian pillars wrapped in ivy that shouldn't have been able to grow underground. Stalls lined the platform, draped in heavy fabrics. People moved between them, but they weren't normal shoppers. Some wore masks carved from bone. Others moved with a fluidity that defied anatomy. The suspect was ahead, approaching a turnstile that blocked access to the main platform. A figure stood guard there, tall and gaunt, wearing a coat made of feathers. The suspect reached into their pocket and pulled out an object. Even from this distance, Quinn saw it catch the light. White, curved, polished. A bone token. The guard nodded and lifted the barrier. The suspect slipped through. Quinn stopped at the edge of the platform. The air here was thick, tasting of copper and dried herbs. She looked down at her own hands. She had a badge, a gun, and the law. None of that mattered down here. She checked her pockets. No bone. No token. Just her watch and her wallet. A woman at a nearby stall turned to look at her. The woman's eyes were entirely black, no sclera, no iris. She smiled, revealing teeth that were too sharp. Quinn didn't flinch. She held the woman's gaze until the merchant looked away, busying herself with jars of glowing liquid. This was the edge. Cross the turnstile without a token, and she was an intruder. In this world, intruders didn't get arrested. They got consumed. She thought of Morris, of the empty chair in the briefing room that nobody sat in anymore. He had chased a lead just like this. He had never come back. The crowd surged slightly, masking the sound of her breathing. Quinn watched the turnstile. The guard was distracted, arguing with a vendor selling bundles of dried sage that smoked without burning. She had a window. Maybe ten seconds. If she went back, she lost the trail. The Market moved every full moon. If tonight was the night, she might not find this entrance again for a month. A month was a lifetime for people involved in the things she suspected the clique of handling. Tomás Herrera might be down there. The former paramedic who patched up things the NHS couldn't touch. He was the link. If she lost him, she lost the thread to the whole operation. Rain dripped from her hair onto her collar. She touched the cold steel of her badge in her pocket. It felt useless here. She needed to be something else. Something harder. Quinn adjusted her stance, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet. She wasn't entering as a detective. She was entering as a predator. She watched the guard turn his back. Five seconds. She stepped forward. The ground beneath her boots felt soft, like packed earth rather than tile. The hum in the air grew louder, vibrating against her sternum. She reached the turnstile. The gap was narrow. She sucked in her stomach and slid through the metal bars, careful not to touch the iron. It crackled with static energy that made the hair on her arms stand up. She was in. The market swallowed her immediately. Shadows lengthened and twisted around her legs. She kept her head down, mimicking the hunched posture of the locals. She scanned the stalls, looking for the hoodie of her suspect. She saw him near a stall selling maps that shifted when you looked away from them. He was handing the bone token to a vendor in exchange for a small parcel wrapped in oilcloth. Quinn moved closer, blending into the flow of bodies. Her heart rate slowed, returning to the steady rhythm of control. She was out of her depth, walking into a den of things she couldn't name, driven by a grief three years old. But she was here. The rain outside was forgotten. The only weather that mattered now was the storm brewing in the dark beneath Camden. She tightened her grip on her torch, ready to use it as a blunt instrument if the gun failed. There were no rules down here. Only survival. And Harlow Quinn intended to survive long enough to find out what killed Morris. She stepped past a pillar where the ivy whispered as she brushed against it, and disappeared into the crowd.