Run: 2026-02-17-01KHN0EV3KSVE9D101JSGFPD2W

The rain sliced sideways, cutting sharp diagonal lines across the sodium-lit streets of Soho. Detective Harlow Quinn's boots splashed through puddles, each step precise and deliberate. Ahead, her suspect wove between parked cars and darted around a corner, a dark silhouette against the gleaming wet asphalt. Quinn's hand instinctively brushed her holster. Eighteen years on the force had taught her that hesitation killed cops. Her salt-and-pepper hair was plastered to her skull, rainwater trickling down her sharp jawline. She hadn't planned on a foot chase tonight—she'd been tracking this lead for weeks, and now, suddenly, everything was moving fast. The suspect—a thin, wiry man in a dark coat—moved with unexpected agility. Quinn recognized his movement: practiced, trained. Not some random street criminal. Something else. Something connected to the case that had haunted her since Morris died. Her worn leather watch caught a streetlight's reflection as she checked her pace. She wasn't losing this one. Not tonight. The suspect ducked down a narrow alleyway between two Victorian-era buildings, their brick facades slick with rain. Quinn followed, her breathing controlled, each breath a measured exhale. The alley narrowed, trash bins and fire escapes creating a claustrophobic tunnel. Halfway down, the suspect suddenly stopped. Turned. For a split second, Quinn saw something in his eyes that wasn't human. A reflection, a depth, something that didn't belong. Then he was moving again, pulling what looked like an old brass token from his pocket. He struck a section of tiled wall—Quinn realized they were near an old Tube entrance—and something shifted. A hidden door, camouflaged perfectly against the underground station's aged surface. The Veil Market. Quinn had heard whispers, fragments of rumors from informants. An underground marketplace that moved with each full moon, trafficking in things beyond normal comprehension. Her training screamed warning. Follow an unknown suspect into a hidden supernatural market? Completely irrational. Potentially suicidal. Her instinct—the same instinct that had solved impossible cases, that had tracked supernatural anomalies others ignored—said: Go. The heavy door was already swinging closed. Quinn lunged, catching it with her fingertips just before it sealed. The token her suspect had used glimmered briefly—bone-white, etched with symbols she didn't recognize. Darkness enveloped her as she entered. The air changed immediately. No longer London's damp chill, but something thick with incense, metal, and an undercurrent of something alien. Voices murmured in languages she didn't understand. Soft light came from sources she couldn't identify—not electric, not flame, something else entirely. Stalls stretched in every direction, their contents hidden behind silk curtains and dark leather coverings. Objects gleamed—some metallic, some liquid, some seemingly in motion even when stationary. Vendors watched her with eyes that didn't quite look human. Quinn's hand moved closer to her weapon. She knew she was massively out of her depth. But somewhere in this labyrinth was a connection to Morris's death. To the case that had haunted her for three years. And she was going to find it.