Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR640M125ZCQ06MES66AGA

The rain came down in sheets, plastering Harlow’s salt-and-pepper hair to her scalp and running in cold rivulets down her sharp jaw. The worn leather watch on her left wrist was damp, the numerals blurred. Her military precision usually kept her composed, but the infernal weather, combined with the ghost of a pursuit, frayed her nerves. Three years. Three years since Morris. She shook the memory away. Tonight was about Tomás Herrera, not specters. He'd been too easy to spot leaving the Raven's Nest, the green neon sign a beacon in the Soho gloom. Harlow had parked a block away, watching the entrance. When his slight frame, olive skin pale even in the low light, emerged, pulling his collar up against the downpour, she’d felt a prickle of triumph. Herrera, the former paramedic, the quiet man who provided off-the-books medical care to the clique. Harlow had been watching the Raven's Nest for weeks, and finally, a lead. He moved with an agile grace that defied his innocuous appearance. Harlow, all five-foot-nine of her, kept pace, blending into the shadows of doorways and the steady stream of late-night pedestrians. The city's pulse throbbed around them, a cacophony of distant sirens, the rhythmic splash of tires through puddles, and the low hum of conversation from pubs spilling onto the pavement. Her boots slapped against the wet asphalt. Herrera seemed to know every alley, every shortcut, twisting through the labyrinthine streets of Camden. He wasn't running yet, not truly, but his pace was quickening, a nervous energy propelling him forward. Harlow felt her own heart hammering, a familiar thrill mixed with a cold dread. She gripped the cold metal of her service weapon through her coat pocket. They passed a brightly lit shop window displaying antique dolls with vacant glass eyes. For a fleeting second, Herrera’s reflection caught hers. His head snapped around. He saw her. That was the signal. Herrera broke into a full sprint, his dark, curly hair bouncing. The Saint Christopher medallion around his neck, usually hidden, glinted briefly under a streetlamp as he turned a sharp corner. “Herrera!” Harlow’s voice was a rough bark, swallowed by the rain. He didn't acknowledge her. He merely ran faster, an almost desperate energy propelling him. Harlow cursed, digging deep, her strides long and powerful. She wasn't an Olympic runner, but eighteen years on the force had given her stamina and an unwavering resolve. The chase intensified. They careened through a forgotten market square, scattering pigeons from beneath a dripping awning. Herrera vaulted over a series of overflowing bins, his movements fluid. Harlow, less nimble, went around, losing a few precious seconds. By the time she rounded the corner, he was a dark blur disappearing down a narrow, graffiti-scarred alley. The alley reeked of stale beer and something metallic, like old blood. Harlow drew her weapon, the rain slicking her grip, and entered cautiously. The alley dead-ended in what looked like a derelict service entrance to an abandoned building. The metal door hung ajar, revealing a black void. Harlow pushed it open further. A faint light, a sickly yellow, emanated from below. Stairs, steep and grime-coated, descended into darkness. The air grew heavy, damp, and smelled of earth and something else… strange, like burnt minerals. Hesitation. A fleeting moment of doubt. This wasn’t protocol. This was straying from the map, from the realm of the rational. She remembered Morris, and the unanswered questions, the whispers of things unseen. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes, wouldn’t chase shadows into the dark unknown. But Herrera wasn't a shadow. He was a man, a human being involved with whatever unnerving activity brewed in the Raven's Nest, and he was taking her to the heart of it. This was her chance. This was the lead. The memory of the scar running along his left forearm, a deep, jagged line from a knife attack she’d read about in his file, flashed in her mind. He was a survivor. What was he surviving, and what was he tangled in? She descended, one hand on the cold, damp railing, the other gripping her weapon. The stairs twisted and turned, and the sounds of the city faded, replaced by an echoing drip and a faint, distant murmur. The yellow light grew stronger, revealing crumbling concrete walls and exposed pipes. At the bottom, a long, narrow tunnel stretched ahead. The air here was warmer, thicker. The distant murmur resolved into a cacophony of voices, a babel of languages, and the clinking of metal. It sounded like a market. An underground market. A deep thrum vibrated through the floor beneath her boots. She squinted, adjusting to the newfound brightness, though it was still dim, a patchwork of hanging lanterns and flickering torches illuminating sporadic stalls. The tunnel opened into a vast cavern. Her breath caught. This wasn’t just a market; it was an entire world beneath the city. The Veil Market. She'd heard whispers, of course, the kind of dismissive urban legends the seasoned coppers told the rookies. A black market that moved every full moon, nestled in abandoned Tube stations, selling enchanted goods and banned substances. She'd dismissed it as nonsense, another fantastical narrative spun by the fringe. Now, it was real, sprawling before her, a vibrant, terrifying reality. People—and not just people, she realized with a jolt—milled between makeshift stalls piled high with peculiar items. Gleaming blades that seemed to hum with an inner light. Jars filled with swirling, colored mists. Trinkets that shimmered with an unnatural luster. The entry requirement, the legends said, was a bone token. But she was already in. Herrera had led her through a service entrance, unwittingly granting her passage. He was nowhere in sight. But the direction of the crowd, the low murmur of anticipation, drew her gaze. He had to be here, somewhere amongst this throng. Harlow gripped her weapon tighter, the cold steel a reassuring presence against her palm. Her eyes scanned the crowd. Creatures with proportions she'd only ever seen in nightmares brushed past her. Horns, scales, eyes that glowed with an unsettling luminescence. The smell of strange spices mingled with something acrid, almost metallic. This was beyond her jurisdiction. Beyond anything she’d ever encountered in 18 years of decorated service. Her training, her instincts, screamed at her to retreat, to call for backup, to report this utter impossibility. But then, the thought of Morris, of the unexplained circumstances of his death, resurfaced, sharper than ever. This, she realized with a cold certainty, was where those answers lay. This unholy amalgamation of the mundane and the impossible. There was no turning back. She adjusted her grip on her weapon and pushed forward, a lone figure in a world she never knew existed, a detective chasing a ghost of a lead into the heart of the unbelievable. The Veil Market, an underground tide, pulled her deeper into its strange currents.