Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR3SRNS3PJVWMBGP23BEBX

The rain lashed down, a cold curtain of water blurring the neon glow of Soho. Detective Harlow Quinn, her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her scalp, pushed through the deluge. Each stride of her 5'9" frame was precise, a soldier’s pace hammered into her by years of the Met. The worn leather watch on her left wrist, a ghost from another life, pressed against her skin. Three years. Three years since Morris, and tonight, the familiar tightness in her jaw meant she was close to something. Up ahead, a flash of short, curly dark brown hair – a glint off a Saint Christopher medallion. Tomás Herrera. The former paramedic, the off-the-books healer to London’s hidden. Quinn’s gut clenched. She knew his type: always on the edge of something illicit, always with a good reason. But good reasons didn’t explain the bodies that were turning up, the strange energy signatures her forensics teams were starting to flag. Herrera darted into an alley, his olive skin slick with rain. Quinn didn't hesitate, surging after him. The puddles in the alley were deep, splashing cold water over her shoes. The air stank of damp refuse and something coppery, like old blood. She ignored it, her focus locked on the retreating figure of Herrera. He moved with a practiced agility, dodging overflowing bins and loose bricks. Her uniform, heavy with rain, clung to her, but her military precision never faltered. He wasn’t running like a common criminal. He was running like someone who knew the city’s underbelly, someone who had navigated these shadowed paths many times before. He flung himself through a narrow gap between two overflowing dumpsters, a shortcut Quinn hadn't anticipated. She slammed into the wet brick, grimacing. The gap was too tight, even for her lean frame. She wheeled around, her keen eyes scanning. There. A service door, half-hidden by a overflowing skip, slightly ajar. She kicked it open. Darkness greeted her, thick and musty. A narrow stairwell descended into the earth, the stone steps slick and treacherous. A faint, earthy smell drifted up, mingling with the metallic tang of something alien. Herrera’s footsteps, though faint, echoed below. Quinn descended, her hand gripping the cold, damp banister. The sounds of the city faded, replaced by the drip, drip of water somewhere in the shadows, and her own pounding heart. Her hand instinctively went to her sidearm, a reassuring weight. She was a detective with eighteen years on the job, but this felt different. This felt like the cases Morris had started to whisper about, the ones that made her dismiss him as stressed, overworked. Now, she wondered if he’d simply seen it first. The stairs opened into a vast, echoing space. It was an abandoned Tube station, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and something else, something sweet and cloying. Murmurs, hushed conversations, drifted from the depths. Flickering lights – not electric, but the unsteady glow of oil lamps and torches – cast long, dancing shadows across what had once been a platform. The abandoned Tube station beneath Camden. She’d heard the whispers. The Veil Market. A place for forbidden goods, for forbidden people. And forbidden knowledge. Her sharp jaw tightened. This was far beyond unauthorized medical treatments. This was the rabbit hole Morris had fallen down. She moved cautiously, hugging the wall. Her keen brown eyes scanned the chaotic scene. Stalls made of salvaged wood and tarpaulins lined the platforms, displaying an array of bizarre and unsettling wares. Jars of shimmering dust, intricate metalwork that seemed to writhe with an inner light, bundles of dried herbs whose scent was utterly alien. Faces, half-hidden by hoods and shadows, moved through the throng. Some were human, yes, but others… she wasn’t sure. Their eyes gleamed with an unnerving intensity in the gloom. Then she saw him. Tomás Herrera, his dark brown hair still slick with rain, stood at a stall where a figure with an unnaturally pale complexion was displaying what looked like rows of carved bone tokens. The glint of his Saint Christopher medallion was a beacon in the gloom. He was haggling, his voice low, urgent. His scar, the faint line along his left forearm from a knife attack she’d read in his file, was visible as he gestured. Quinn leaned back against the rough concrete wall, trying to blend into the shadows. Her gaze lingered on the bone tokens. She knew what they were. An entry requirement. A key to this particular iteration of the Veil Market, which moved locations every full moon. Morris had mentioned them, in passing, before he’d disappeared. A chill, colder than the rain, snaked its way down her spine. Her sensible uniform felt utterly out of place, her badge a useless piece of metal. This was not the London she knew, the one she policed. This was something else entirely. Something ancient, something dangerous. Herrera finished his transaction, tucking a small, pouch-like object into his pocket. He turned, his gaze sweeping the crowd. For a terrifying moment, his eyes seemed to lock with hers, even though she was sure she was hidden. A flicker of recognition, then he was moving, melting into the throng of market-goers. Quinn pushed herself off the wall. She had a choice. Walk away, retreat back to the relative sanity of the rain-swept streets, and report a chase that had led her to a fantastical underground market she couldn’t even explain. Or, she could follow. The air in the market pressed in on her, a cacophony of strange languages, the hiss and crackle of unseen energies, the pungent smell of unknown substances. She was out of her depth. This wasn’t a mugging, or a drug deal gone wrong. This was a world she hadn’t known existed, a world her partner had died trying to understand. Her hand tightened on her sidearm. She was a detective. She pursued the truth, no matter where it led. And the truth, she realized, was down here. Here, in the flickering torchlight, among the hushed whispers and the unsettling array of enchanted goods. She took a deep breath, the stale air filling her lungs. The salt-and-pepper hair, the sharp jaw, the unwavering bearing—all of it spoke of a woman who didn't back down. The whispers, the strange faces, the overwhelming sense of the uncanny—she pushed it all aside. Her brown eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Herrera. She had to know. For Morris. For whatever was happening in her city, under her nose. Quinn stepped into the heart of the Veil Market, the sounds of her world fading behind her, replaced by the unsettling hum of this new, terrifying one. She was hunting. And she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she herself was now being hunted by something she couldn’t possibly comprehend.