AI Rain lashed the streets of Soho, turning the neon lights into smears of color on slick pavement. Detective Harlow Quinn hunched her shoulders against the downpour, her sharp jaw clenched as she followed the silhouette weaving recklessly through the crowd ahead. Tommy Herrera darted between umbrellas and raincoats, his Saint Christopher medallion catching the light as he glanced over his shoulder.
Quinn’s fingers tightened around the radio in her hand, the worn leather strap of her watch digging into her skin. She’d been chasing leads on Tommy for weeks, ever since she’d connected him to a string of underground medical operations that smelled too rotten to ignore. Tonight, she’d finally cornered him outside The Raven’s Nest, but Tommy had bolted the moment he saw her.
"Unit Three," she barked into the radio, her voice cutting through the static. "Suspect heading south on Dean Street. I’m in pursuit."
The response crackled back barely intelligible over the drumming rain. Quinn shoved the radio into her coat pocket and quickened her pace. Tommy was fast, but Quinn’s military precision gave her an edge. She kept him in sight, her eyes narrowed against the rain, her breath steady despite the ache in her side.
Tommy veered into an alley, and Quinn’s instincts flared. Alleys were traps—or escapes. She hesitated for a split second before plunging in after him, her boots splashing through puddles that reflected the faint glow of distant streetlights. The alley twisted and narrowed, the walls closing in like a throat. Tommy’s footsteps echoed ahead, muffled by the rain.
Quinn’s hand went to her sidearm, but she didn’t draw it. Not yet. She needed answers, not a body.
The alley spilled out into a deserted courtyard, the rain drumming harder against the cobblestones. Tommy was nowhere in sight. Quinn scanned the area, her eyes darting to every shadow, every conceivable hiding place. Her jaw tightened. He hadn’t just vanished—there had to be a way out.
Then she saw it: a rusted grate in the corner of the courtyard, partially lifted and propped open. Water cascaded over its edges, pooling in the darkness below. Quinn crouched beside it, peering into the abyss. A ladder descended into the gloom , slick with rain and rust.
Her radio crackled again, but she ignored it. This was her chance.
Quinn swung her legs over the edge and lowered herself onto the ladder. The rungs were cold and slippery beneath her fingers, but she moved with practiced efficiency, descending into the darkness. The rain grew distant above her, replaced by the steady drip of water echoing through the tunnel.
When her boots hit solid ground, she paused, letting her eyes adjust. The tunnel was narrow and damp, the air thick with the scent of mildew and something else—something metallic, like coins left to tarnish. She drew her flashlight and clicked it on, the beam cutting through the darkness.
The tunnel led deeper, branching off into smaller passages. Quinn hesitated, her instincts warring with her training. She was out of her jurisdiction—whatever this place was, it wasn’t on any map. But Tommy had gone this way, and she wasn’t about to let him slip through her fingers.
She followed the main tunnel, her footsteps echoing against the curved walls. The beam of her flashlight caught glimpses of graffiti—symbols she didn’t recognize, spirals and eyes and letters in languages she couldn’t read. The air grew colder, and the dripping water sounded almost rhythmic , like a heartbeat.
Finally, the tunnel opened into a vast, cavernous space. Quinn’s flashlight swept across rows of makeshift stalls, their tarps swaying in the damp air. The place was eerily silent, save for the drip of water and the faint rustle of fabric. It was an abandoned Tube station, she realized, repurposed into some kind of market.
Her pulse quickened . She’d heard whispers of a place like this—an underground bazaar where the city’s underbelly traded in things best left unseen. The Veil Market, they called it. A black market for the supernatural.
Quinn stepped forward, her hand resting on her sidearm. The stalls were empty now, their wares packed away, but the scent lingered—herbs and oils, blood and ash. She moved cautiously, her flashlight cutting through the shadows.
Then she heard it: a faint scraping sound, like metal against stone. She turned, her beam catching a flicker of movement in the corner of the station. Tommy. He stood there, watching her, his face pale in the harsh light.
"Tomás Herrera," Quinn said, her voice steady despite the chill in her bones . "You’re under my jurisdiction now."
Tommy didn’t answer. He glanced over his shoulder, toward a narrow archway adorned with more of those strange symbols. Quinn stepped closer, her flashlight trained on him.
"Don’t make this harder than it has to be," she said. "You’re coming with me."
Tommy shook his head, his expression unreadable . "You don’t understand, Detective. You don’t belong here."
"Funny," Quinn said dryly. "I was about to say the same to you."
Tommy turned and bolted toward the archway. Quinn cursed under her breath and gave chase. The archway led to another tunnel, this one narrower and darker than the last. The air grew thicker, heavier, and the walls seemed to press in around her.
She rounded a corner and skidded to a halt. Tommy stood at the end of the tunnel, his back to her, facing a makeshift gate made of wrought iron and bone. The gate creaked open, revealing a space beyond that Quinn couldn’t quite make out .
He glanced back at her, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t name. "Last chance, Detective. Turn back."
Quinn’s grip tightened on her flashlight. "Not a chance."
Tommy stepped through the gate, and it began to swing shut behind him. Quinn lunged forward, her boots slamming against the damp stone. She grabbed the gate just before it closed, her muscles straining against the weight of it.
The space beyond was a blur of shadows and movement. She stepped through, her heart pounding in her chest. The air shifted, growing warmer, thicker. The scent of incense and something metallic filled her lungs.
She was in a chamber now, lit by flickering candles and draped with curtains of black silk . Figures moved in the shadows, their faces obscured. Tommy stood in the center of the room, his hands raised as if in surrender.
"Detective Quinn," a voice said, low and resonant. It came from everywhere and nowhere, echoing off the walls. "You’ve come a long way."
Quinn’s hand went to her sidearm as she scanned the room. "Identify yourself."
The shadows parted, and a figure emerged. Tall and lean, draped in a cloak embroidered with silver thread. The face beneath the hood was pale and sharp, the eyes a cold, unnatural blue.
"This is my domain," the figure said. "And you, Detective, are trespassing."
Quinn’s jaw tightened. "I’m here for Tommy Herrera. He’s wanted for questioning."
The figure tilted its head, a faint smile playing on its lips. "And what makes you think he’ll go with you?"
Quinn didn’t answer. She drew her sidearm, the metal cold and familiar in her hand. "Step aside."
The figure laughed, a sound like ice cracking. "Brave words, Detective. But bravery alone won’t save you here."
The figures in the shadows moved closer, their shapes indistinct but menacing. Quinn’s pulse thundered in her ears. She was outnumbered , out of her depth. But she’d faced worse—she hoped.
Tommy stepped forward, his hands still raised. "Detective," he said quietly. "This isn’t your fight."
Quinn’s eyes flicked to him, then back to the figure. "If you’re involved in this," she said, "then it is."
The figure’s smile widened. "Very well, Detective. Let’s see how far your bravery takes you."
The room seemed to close in around her, the shadows deepening, the air growing heavier. Quinn tightened her grip on her sidearm, her mind racing . She’d come this far. She wasn’t turning back now.
Even if it killed her.