Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMRBFE2PBM8Z833MVXG8DA9

Rain lashed against the pavement as Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted through the narrow Soho alley, her boots splashing through puddles that reflected the city's neon glow. Three years after losing DS Morris, and the same fire drove her forward—the need for answers, for justice. The suspect, a man with olive skin and dark curls she'd been tracking for weeks, ducked around the corner ahead. Tomás Herrera. Former paramedic turned black-market medic. The connection between him and Morris's last case had been tenuous at best—until tonight. "Stop! Police!" Quinn's voice cut through the downpour as she rounded the corner, her 5'9" frame moving with the military precision that had defined her eighteen years on the force. The worn leather watch on her left wrist caught the light as she checked the time reflexively. 2:17 AM. The streets were nearly empty, the rain keeping sensible Londoners indoors. Herrera glanced back, his warm brown eyes wide with panic before he disappeared into the green glow of The Raven's Nest. Quinn cursed under her breath. Silas's bar—a known haunt for the supernatural element she'd been investigating since Morris died. The official case files called it "unexplained circumstances," but Quinn knew better. Something otherworldly had taken her partner, and Herrera was her first real lead. Quinn pushed through the bar's heavy door, the sudden warmth of the space a stark contrast to the chill of the rain outside. The dim lighting did little to hide the maps and black-and-white photographs covering the walls—a history of London that most people never saw. Patrons turned to stare, their faces half-hidden in shadow. "Which way did he go?" Quinn demanded, flashing her badge. The bartender, a gaunt man with silver hair, merely pointed toward the back wall. Quinn moved swiftly, ignoring the wary glances from the bar's patrons. As she approached the back wall, she noticed something odd—a bookshelf that seemed slightly ajar, with dust disturbed around the edges. Of course. A hidden entrance. She scanned the room quickly, confirming no one was watching before pressing against the books. The bookshelf swung open silently, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. Quinn pulled her torch from her jacket pocket, flicking it on as she descended. The air grew cooler, damper, carrying the scent of earth and something else—something metallic and ancient that she couldn't quite place. The stairs opened into a tunnel that clearly hadn't been used by the London Underground in decades. Quinn moved carefully, her torch beam cutting through the darkness. Water dripped from the ceiling, echoing in the confined space. Up ahead, she could hear footsteps—Herrera was running. "Tomás!" she called out. "I just want to talk!" No response, just the fading sound of footsteps. Quinn pushed forward, her torch beam catching glimpses of graffiti on the walls—strange symbols she didn't recognize. This was deeper underground than she'd expected. Where was he leading her? The tunnel widened suddenly into a massive cavernous space. Quinn stopped short, her breath catching in her throat. An entire market stretched before her, tucked away in what appeared to be an abandoned Tube station beneath Camden. Stalls and tables were set up in a haphazard maze, selling everything from antique books to what looked suspiciously like animal parts in jars. The air hummed with low conversation and the flickering light of hundreds of candles. The Veil Market. Quinn had heard whispers of it—a supernatural black market that moved locations every full moon. But hearing about it and standing in it were two entirely different things. Her investigation had been theoretical until now, a series of strange reports and unexplainable evidence. But this—this was tangible, real, and utterly illegal. She spotted Herrera across the market, talking urgently with a stall vendor. As if sensing her presence, he turned, their eyes meeting across the crowded space. For a moment, he seemed to consider something, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a small bone token—the entry requirement she'd read about in her research. Quinn hesitated at the entrance to the market, her hand instinctively going to the weapon at her hip. Protocol screamed at her to call for backup, to wait for reinforcements. But backup wouldn't understand what they were walking into. Her superiors still thought she was chasing a hunch, nothing more. If she called this in, they'd think she'd lost it—especially after what happened with Morris. Herrera disappeared into the crowd, and Quinn made her decision. She couldn't let him get away, not when she was this close. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the market, moving with purpose despite the knots forming in her stomach. The market was unlike anything she'd ever experienced. Patrons of all shapes and sizes browsed the stalls, some clearly human, others... not so much. A woman with scales along her neck examined a set of antique daggers while a man with elongated fingers negotiated over a crate marked with warning symbols. Quinn kept her expression neutral, her detective's mask firmly in place, though her heart raced. She spotted Herrera near the back of the market, slipping through a curtained doorway. Quinn quickened her pace, pushing through the throng of shoppers. As she approached the doorway, a hand grabbed her arm. "You don't belong here, Detective," a voice hissed. Quinn turned to find a small man with too many teeth grinning up at her. "The Veil Market doesn't take kindly to police." Quinn shook off his hand, her sharp jaw tightening. "I'm investigating a crime. That man—" she pointed toward the doorway Herrera had disappeared through "—is connected to a death." The man's grin widened. "Many deaths happen in our world, Detective. Which one interests you?" "DS Morris. Three years ago. Died in pursuit of a suspect who vanished without a trace." Recognition flickered in the man's eyes, and his grin faltered slightly. "Ah. The one who saw too much. You should leave while you still can, Detective Quinn. Some truths are better left buried." Quinn's eyes narrowed. "How do you know my name?" "Everyone knows who you are," the man said, backing away. "The detective who won't let sleeping dogs lie. The one who keeps digging into things she doesn't understand." He melted back into the crowd before she could question him further. Shaken but determined, Quinn pushed through the curtained doorway into a smaller chamber. Herrera stood in the center, facing a woman who seemed to be made of shadow itself. Both turned as Quinn entered. "You should have listened to them, Detective," Herrera said, his voice calm despite the panic she'd seen earlier. The Saint Christopher medallion around his neck glinted in the candlelight. "Some doors shouldn't be opened." "Tell me about Morris," Quinn demanded, her hand near her weapon. "Tell me what happened to him." The shadow woman laughed, a sound like rustling leaves. "Brave, aren't you? Coming here without protection, without understanding what you're walking into." "I understand that you're breaking about a dozen laws," Quinn retorted, though she could feel her confidence wavering. This was beyond anything she'd prepared for. "Morris was like you," Herrera said quietly, his warm brown eyes meeting hers with something like pity. "He was a good detective, a good man. But he discovered truths that humans aren't meant to know. Truths that got him killed." "By who? By what?" Quinn pressed, taking a step closer. "Was it you? Were you involved?" Herrera shook his head. "I tried to save him. That's why I lost my medical license—administering unauthorized treatments to patients the NHS couldn't help. Patients like DS Morris, when whatever attacked him left him with wounds that wouldn't heal properly." Quinn's breath caught. "What kind of wounds?" "The kind that don't exist in your medical textbooks, Detective," the shadow woman interrupted. "The kind caused by things that go bump in the night." Quinn looked from Herrera to the shadow woman, the weight of eighteen years of police work pressing down on her. Every instinct screamed at her to retreat, to call for backup, to pretend she'd never seen this place. But the memory of Morris—his smile, their last conversation, the empty casket at his funeral—kept her rooted to the spot. "I'm not leaving until I have answers," she said firmly, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Whatever this is, whatever killed my partner—I'm bringing it to justice. Even if it means following you into hell." The shadow woman smiled. "An admirable sentiment, Detective. But justice is a human concept. It doesn't always apply here." Herrera reached into his pocket, pulling out another bone token. "The Veil Market moves tomorrow, with the full moon. If you want answers, follow me. But know this—once you cross this threshold, there's no going back to the world you knew." Rainwater still dripped from Quinn's hair as she stood at the precipice between the known and the unknown, her worn leather watch ticking away the seconds until she had to make her choice. The path back to the surface was clear, but the path forward—into the depths of London's supernatural underworld—was anything but. For Morris, for justice, she took a step forward.