Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR8XYHP8GA5HQPPWQ2FP26

The rain hammered down in sheets, turning the gutters of Soho into rushing streams that reflected the garish neon of late-night establishments. Detective Harlow Quinn's shoes slapped against the wet pavement as she rounded the corner onto Old Compton Street, her eyes locked on the figure fifty meters ahead. Tomás Herrera glanced back over his shoulder, rain plastering his short curly hair to his forehead. His olive skin caught the amber streetlight for a moment before he darted left, cutting through the alley beside a darkened betting shop. Quinn swore under her breath and pushed harder, feeling the burn in her calves. Eighteen years on the force had kept her fit, but the suspect was younger and desperate. She'd been watching The Raven's Nest for three weeks now, documenting the unusual clientele that filtered in and out of that bar with its distinctive green neon sign. When she'd spotted Herrera leaving through the back exit, alone, she'd made her move. He was connected to them. The clique of criminals—or worse—that she'd been tracking since that night three years ago. The night Morris died. The alley stank of rotting garbage and piss. Quinn's hand instinctively touched the worn leather watch on her left wrist, a habit she'd developed when her pulse quickened. She burst out of the alley onto Greek Street, scanning left and right. There. Herrera was booking it north toward Camden, weaving between late-night pedestrians who shouted curses as he shouldered past them. Quinn's radio crackled at her hip. She ignored it. This was her case, her lead. She wasn't calling it in until she knew where he was going. The chase continued through Soho's tangle of streets, each turn taking them further from the bright lights and into the quieter residential areas beyond. Rain drummed on Quinn's Metropolitan Police jacket, seeping through the collar and running down her spine. She kept her breathing measured, controlled, the way she'd learned in the army before she'd ever thought about joining the force. Herrera vaulted over a low wall into a small park. Quinn followed, landing hard on the grass, mud splashing up her trousers. Through the trees she could see him sprinting toward Camden Road, toward the tube station. Her mind raced through the possibilities. If he got on a train, she'd lose him. But the last tube had run twenty minutes ago. So why was he heading there? They emerged onto Camden High Street. The market stalls were shuttered for the night, metal barriers pulled down, graffiti-tagged and anonymous. Herrera cut right, then disappeared down a narrow gap between two buildings that Quinn had never noticed before. She slowed, approaching the gap with her back against the wall. Her hand moved to the ASP baton at her belt. The gap was barely wide enough for one person, a slice of darkness between a vintage clothing shop and a curry house. Quinn clicked on her torch and edged into the passage. Water dripped from above, and the walls were slick with moss. The beam of her torch caught something on the ground—footprints in the accumulated grime, fresh, leading deeper. The passage opened into a small courtyard, completely hidden from the street. In the center stood a metal door set into the ground at an angle, like an old coal chute. It was ajar. Quinn crouched beside it, listening. Voices drifted up from below, multiple people, speaking in languages she didn't recognize. The air that rose from the opening was warmer than the night air, carrying scents of incense and something chemical, acrid. This wasn't just Herrera running scared. He'd led her somewhere specific. She pulled out her radio, thumb hovering over the call button. Protocol dictated she request backup. But protocol had gotten Morris killed, back when they'd called in a disturbance at a warehouse and the response team had arrived to find him dead, throat torn open, and Quinn herself unconscious with no memory of what had happened. The official report said wild dogs. Quinn knew better. The voices below grew momentarily louder, and she caught a glimpse of light—not electric, but flickering, like torches. She killed her own torch and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. Eighteen years of decorated service. That's what her commendations said. What they didn't say was that for the last three years, she'd been chasing shadows. Following leads that her superiors dismissed as the grief-stricken delusions of a detective who'd lost her partner. She'd documented impossible things: people who vanished into thin air, wounds that healed overnight, evidence that disappeared from locked rooms. And now one of them had led her here, to this hidden entrance beneath Camden. Quinn clipped the radio back to her belt without calling in. She checked her baton, her phone, made sure both were secure. Then she pulled the metal door wider, wincing as the hinges creaked. Stone steps descended into darkness. She could see perhaps ten steps before they curved out of sight. The voices had gone quiet—had they heard the door? She took the first step down, then the second. The temperature rose with each descent. By the time she reached the curve, she could feel sweat mixing with the rain on her face. The walls were old brick, older than anything that should exist in this part of Camden. Victorian era, maybe earlier. The steps bottomed out into a tunnel, and Quinn pressed herself against the wall, peering around the corner. Her sharp jaw tightened. The tunnel opened into what must have been an abandoned tube station, but it had been transformed into something else entirely. Market stalls lined both platforms, lit by strings of paper lanterns and actual torches mounted in brackets on the walls. People moved between the stalls—dozens of them—examining goods laid out on tables. But even from this distance, Quinn could tell something was wrong. Some of the vendors didn't look quite right. Too tall, or with eyes that reflected the torchlight like animals. The Veil Market. She'd heard whispers of it in her investigations, dismissed it as urban legend. A supernatural black market that moved locations, that dealt in things that shouldn't exist. She spotted Herrera immediately. He was at a stall near the far end of the platform, talking urgently to a woman whose silver hair seemed to move independently of any breeze. His hand gestured to his left forearm, where his sleeve was pulled back to reveal a long scar. The medallion around his neck—Saint Christopher, she'd noted from her surveillance photos—caught the torchlight. Quinn's hand moved to her watch again, feeling her pulse hammer against her wrist. She could turn back now. Pretend she'd lost him in the rain. File a report about a failed pursuit and move on. But Morris's face flashed in her mind. The way his brown eyes had looked at her in those final moments, confused and afraid, as something they couldn't see tore him apart. Detective Harlow Quinn stepped out of the tunnel and into the impossible market, rain still dripping from her salt-and-pepper hair, military bearing keeping her spine straight even as she crossed into a world she didn't understand. The first vendor to notice her stopped mid-transaction, his yellow eyes widening. Then another looked up. And another. Tomás Herrera turned, saw her, and his warm brown eyes filled with something that looked almost like pity. She kept walking forward, hand near her baton, every instinct screaming that she'd made a terrible mistake.