Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR8K2XX6944B9S19DBM4R4

Rain lashed against Detective Harlow Quinn's face as she rounded the corner, her worn leather watch on her left wrist catching the dim glow of a streetlamp. Three blocks now, she'd been chasing Herrera through the winding streets of Soho, her military-precise strides eating up the pavement despite the slick conditions. Ahead, Tomás Herrera's dark figure darted between pedestrians, his short curly hair plastered to his head by the downpour. "Stop! Metropolitan Police!" Quinn's voice cut through the night, but Herrera only glanced back, his warm brown eyes wide with fear before he disappeared around another corner. Quinn cursed under her breath. She'd been sitting in her car outside The Raven's Nest, watching the distinctive green neon sign reflect in puddles on the street, when Herrera had emerged with that young woman—the one with the inexplicable wounds that had healed overnight. The same woman who had vanished from the hospital against medical advice. The same woman whose case file now lay open on Quinn's desk with more questions than answers. Her sharp jaw tightened as she pushed forward, ignoring the protest of her knees after eighteen years on the force. At forty-one, she was still in prime condition, but rain-slicked London streets at midnight tested anyone's resolve. Herrera was younger, faster, but Quinn had something he didn't—determination fueled by the memory of DS Morris, her partner who had died under circumstances that still kept her up at night. Unexplained circumstances with whispers of supernatural origins that Quinn had dismissed until recently. A flash of movement to her left—Herrera was cutting through an alley. Quinn followed, her hand instinctively resting on the grip of her service pistol. The alley narrowed, brick walls pressing in, garbage bins overflowing. Water poured from drainpipes overhead, creating a curtain of rain between her and her quarry. When she emerged, blinking water from her brown eyes, she found herself in Camden. The usual nighttime crowd had thinned in the downpour, leaving empty pavements and shuttered shops. Herrera was nowhere to be seen. Quinn slowed, her breathing controlled despite the exertion. She scanned the area, noting the deserted Tube station entrance ahead—abandoned for years according to city records. But as she watched, a figure slipped through a gap in the fencing surrounding the station entrance. Herrera. Quinn approached cautiously, her steps silent on the wet pavement. The fencing had been cut recently, the edges still raw. She slipped through the gap, finding herself in a concrete concourse that smelled of damp and decay. Emergency lighting cast long shadows across platforms where trains hadn't run in decades. A soft glow emanated from deeper within the station. Quinn followed, her hand resting on her pistol again. She could hear whispers now, a murmur of voices that shouldn't be in an abandoned place. At the bottom of a broken escalator, Herrera stood before a graffiti-covered wall. He reached into his jacket and pulled out something small—a carved bone token that gleamed faintly in the darkness. He pressed it against a specific brick, and the wall seemed to shimmer before parting like a curtain. Quinn's breath caught. Through the opening, she glimpsed a bustling marketplace unlike anything she'd ever seen. Stalls glowed with unnatural light, vendors hawked strange wares, and patrons—some of whom didn't look entirely human—milled about in a cavernous space that shouldn't exist beneath London. The Veil Market. The name surfaced from a file she'd read recently—whispers of a supernatural black market that moved locations with the full moon. She'd dismissed it as fairy tales, the ramblings of a witness high on something. Yet here it was. Herrera disappeared through the opening, and the wall began to solidify behind him. Quinn stood frozen at the bottom of the escalator, rainwater dripping from her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair. Every instinct screamed at her to call for backup, to secure the perimeter, to follow proper procedure. But proper procedure hadn't saved Morris. Proper procedure had closed his case as "unexplained" and left Quinn with unanswered questions that had gnawed at her for three years. Her fingers tightened around the grip of her pistol. This was what she'd been hunting—these people, this place, the truth behind what had happened to her partner. The clique that Herrera belonged to, the one she suspected was involved in criminal activity that defied rational explanation. The wall was almost fully solidified now. In seconds, the entrance would be gone, moving to who knew where for the next full moon. Quinn moved forward, her military precision carrying her across the concourse in three quick strides. She reached the wall just as the last shimmer of magic faded. Her hand pressed against solid brick where moments before there had been an entrance. "Damn it," she muttered, running her hands along the surface, searching for a trigger, a mechanism, anything. A voice spoke behind her. "Looking for something, Detective?" Quinn spun around, her pistol drawn and leveled in one fluid motion. A woman stood there, dark eyes gleaming in the dim light. She held up empty hands, but there was something unsettling about her smile—too many teeth, too sharp. "The entrance is closed," the woman said, her voice like velvet over gravel. "Unless you have a token." Quinn kept her pistol steady. "Who are you?" "A friend. Or an enemy, depending on your perspective. I know what you're hunting. I knew DS Morris too." At the mention of her partner's name, Quinn's finger tightened on the trigger. "What do you know about Morris?" "More than you do, apparently." The woman tilted her head. "The Market will reopen at the next full moon. But if you want answers sooner, there's another way." Quinn hesitated, her mind racing. This could be a trap. This woman could be involved in whatever had happened to Morris. But she also might be the only lead Quinn had had in three years. "What way?" Quinn asked, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart against her ribs. The woman smiled again, those sharp teeth flashing. "There's always a price for knowledge, Detective Quinn. What are you willing to pay?" Rain dripped from the ceiling above, forming puddles at their feet. The abandoned tube station seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her answer. Behind the solid wall, Quinn could almost sense the bustle of the Market, the secrets it held, the truth about Morris that might finally be within her grasp. Her decision made, Quinn lowered her pistol slightly. "Tell me what you want."