Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMZ17HBWMRPJ59CXCQTQKAY

Detective Harlow Quinn pressed her back against the brick wall of the alley, rain streaming down her face as she watched Tomás Herrera duck through the shadows fifty meters ahead. Her worn leather watch caught the dim streetlight—11:47 PM. She'd been tailing him for three hours through the maze of Soho's rain-slicked streets, ever since he'd left The Raven's Nest carrying a leather satchel that hadn't been there when he'd arrived. The storm had turned the city into a watercolor painting, neon signs bleeding their colors across the wet pavement. Quinn's service boots splashed through puddles as she quickened her pace, keeping to the walls where the shadows ran deepest. Herrera moved with purpose, checking over his shoulder every few steps, his Saint Christopher medallion catching occasional flashes of light from passing cars. Quinn had been building a case against the group that frequented The Raven's Nest for months. Her superiors called it paranoia, the lingering effects of losing Morris three years ago. They didn't understand that Morris hadn't simply died—something had torn him apart in ways that defied explanation, left him a broken shell of a man who spoke in whispers about things that shouldn't exist. The official report called it a psychotic break. Quinn knew better. Herrera turned left onto a narrow street lined with shuttered shops. Quinn counted to five before following, her hand instinctively moving to the grip of her Glock. The former paramedic had always struck her as the nervous type during her surveillance, constantly fidgeting with that medallion, glancing around like a man expecting trouble. Tonight felt different. Tonight he moved like someone with a destination. The rain intensified, drumming against fire escapes and overflowing gutters. Quinn's closely cropped hair was plastered to her skull, water running down the sharp line of her jaw. She wiped her eyes and quickened her pace as Herrera's silhouette began to fade into the storm. He stopped abruptly at what appeared to be a dead end—a narrow passage between two Victorian buildings that looked like it led nowhere. Quinn pressed herself into a doorway, watching as Herrera glanced around one final time before disappearing into the passage. She waited thirty seconds, then followed. The passage opened into a small courtyard dominated by what looked like a maintenance entrance to the Underground. Heavy metal doors were set into the ground at an angle, secured with chains that should have been rusted solid after decades of London weather. Instead, they gleamed dully in the rain, as if they'd been recently maintained. Quinn crouched behind a collection of wheelie bins, watching as Herrera produced something from his pocket—small, pale, roughly the size and shape of a domino. He pressed it against a section of the chain, and the metal links simply fell away, clattering to the wet ground with a sound like breaking bells. The former paramedic lifted one of the heavy doors as if it weighed nothing, revealing a set of stairs descending into absolute darkness. Before disappearing inside, he turned and looked directly at Quinn's hiding spot. Even through the rain and shadows, she could see his warm brown eyes reflecting an impossible amount of light. "I know you're there, Detective," he called softly, his Spanish accent more pronounced than usual. "The question is whether you're brave enough to follow." Quinn's blood went cold. She rose slowly from behind the bins, her hand on her weapon, water streaming from her jacket. "Tomás Herrera, you're under arrest for—" "For what?" He smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Following a path you've been walking toward for three years? Looking for answers about what really happened to DS Morris?" The mention of her partner's name hit Quinn like a physical blow. She stepped forward, her military bearing keeping her spine straight despite the fear crawling up from her stomach. "What do you know about Morris?" Herrera's expression softened slightly. "More than you might think. And less than you need to know." He gestured toward the open entrance. "The Veil Market moves every full moon, Detective. Tonight's your only chance for answers." Quinn had heard whispers of something called the Veil Market during her investigation—fragments of conversations, coded references in text messages she'd intercepted. Her informants either claimed ignorance or went suddenly quiet whenever she pressed for details. Now she stood at its threshold, rain washing over her like a baptism into something beyond her understanding. "This is police business," she said, though her voice lacked conviction. "I'm ordering you to surrender that bag and come with me." Herrera shifted the leather satchel to his other shoulder, the movement causing his shirt to ride up slightly, revealing the pale scar that ran along his left forearm. Quinn had seen similar scars during her investigation—all of them on people connected to The Raven's Nest, all of them claiming no memory of how they'd been wounded. "Some things are bigger than police business," he said. "Some truths exist beyond the jurisdiction of Scotland Yard." He began descending the stairs, his voice echoing strangely in the enclosed space. "But the choice is yours, Detective. You can follow me and learn what really happened to your partner, or you can go home to your flat and spend another sleepless night wondering if you're going mad." Quinn stood at the edge of the entrance, rain pooling around her boots. The stairs descended into darkness so complete it seemed to swallow light rather than simply lacking it. Every instinct screamed at her to call for backup, to follow proper procedure, to retreat and regroup with a tactical team and proper equipment. But Morris's broken voice echoed in her memory—his rambling about shadows with teeth and doorways that led to impossible places. Three years of nightmares, three years of unanswered questions, three years of her superiors looking at her with the same mixture of pity and concern they'd once reserved for her partner. Quinn checked her watch one final time—11:52 PM. Eight minutes until midnight. Eight minutes until the full moon reached its peak overhead, hidden though it was by storm clouds and the city's electric glow. She drew her Glock, holding it low and ready, and stepped onto the first stair. The metal rang hollow under her boots as she descended into darkness, following a suspect deeper into London's hidden arteries, toward answers that might destroy everything she thought she knew about the world. The heavy door swung shut above her with a sound like a coffin closing.