Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMWTHS3MJ8T18EAS2AKG15T

The rain came down in sharp, staccato bursts against the grimy London pavement. Detective Harlow Quinn's boots slapped wet concrete, each footfall a percussive echo through the narrow Soho side street. Her target—a wiry figure in a dark windbreaker—was twenty meters ahead, moving with a desperation that suggested more than a routine chase. Quinn's breath came in controlled bursts. Eighteen years on the force had taught her to manage her oxygen, to keep her body a machine even when the adrenaline spiked. The suspect dodged left, then right, knocking over a stack of empty delivery crates that crashed behind him like a makeshift barricade. She'd been tracking this lead for weeks. Ever since Morris disappeared three years ago, she'd been collecting fragments—whispers about a network operating just beneath the city's mundane surface. Tonight's chase was more than procedure. This was personal. The suspect darted down a narrow stairwell, the metal fire escape clanging under his weight. Quinn was close now, close enough to see the quick, nervous movements of his hands, the way he kept glancing back with a fear that wasn't just about being caught. At the bottom of the stairs, he produced something from his pocket. A small, pale object that caught the streetlight—looked like bone. A token of some kind. Before Quinn could call out, he slipped through a hidden doorway set into the subway tunnel's concrete wall. The entrance shimmered momentarily, like a heat mirage, then stabilized into what appeared to be a solid metal door. Quinn hesitated. Her training screamed caution. Following an unknown suspect into an unmarked entrance went against every protocol. But Morris had disappeared following similar whispers, similar fragments. And she'd promised herself she would find answers. The bone token. She'd seen references in her off-the-books research. Something about underground markets, supernatural exchanges. Places that existed in the city's margins, invisible to most. Her fingers traced the worn leather of her watch—a gift from Morris years ago. The metal was cool against her skin, a tactile reminder of her promise. She took a breath. Stepped forward. The door opened with a soft hiss, revealing a vast underground space that defied the cramped subway tunnel's dimensions. The Veil Market sprawled before her: a labyrinth of stalls and shadowy alcoves, illuminated by strange, shifting lights that seemed to pulse with their own internal rhythm. Figures moved through the space—some human, some decidedly not. Transactions happened in whispers. Artifacts glinted behind glass cases. The air felt heavy, charged with something Quinn couldn't quite name. Her suspect was already weaving through the crowd, heading toward a section where figures in dark robes clustered around a stall displaying what looked like preserved biological specimens. Quinn knew she was now completely outside her jurisdiction. But some instincts ran deeper than professional boundaries. She followed.