Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNETTQWMDHDP5XMHXD4GN1S

The rain fell in silver sheets, slicking the cobblestones of Soho with a treacherous sheen. Detective Harlow Quinn’s breath came in ragged clouds, her worn leather watch strap digging into her wrist as she pumped her arms, her legs burning with a familiar, hated fire. Ahead, a dark shape—a man in a long coat—darted through the neon-lit gloom, a ghost slipping between the late-night crowds spilling from pubs. Her sharp jaw was set, her body moving with the military precision that eighteen years on the force had carved into her. Three years. It had been three years since she’d lost Morris on a night not unlike this one, chasing a suspect who moved with that same unnatural grace into shadows that swallowed all light and reason. She wouldn’t lose another. Not to the unexplained. Not to *them*. The suspect—a weaselly informant named Finch who’d promised her answers about a new, potent alchemical poison hitting the streets—vanished down an alleyway too narrow for anything but desperation. Quinn followed, her shoulder scraping against damp brick, the sound of her own pursuit echoing back at her. The alley dead-ended at a brick wall adorned with a faded, peeling poster for a circus that had left town decades ago. Finch was gone. Her eyes scanned the ground, the walls, the overflowing bins. Nothing. A dead end. A cul-de-sac of failure. The rain plastered her salt-and-pepper hair to her scalp. She was about to turn, to radio for a perimeter, when a sliver of green light caught her eye. A doorway, almost invisible in the shadows, recessed deep into the wall. Above it, a distinctive green neon sign buzzed faintly, depicting a stylized bird: *The Raven’s Nest*. She knew the place. A dive bar, a known haunt for lowlifes and those who preferred their business conducted away from prying eyes. Silas’s bar. She’d never had cause to raid it, but its reputation preceded it. Her hand went to the service weapon holstered at her hip, a cold comfort. Pushing the heavy door open, she was met with a wave of warm, beer-soaked air and the low murmur of clandestine conversation. The interior was exactly as she’d heard: dimly lit, the walls a gallery of old maps and blurred black-and-white photographs of a London that no longer existed. Patrons hunched over their drinks, their faces half-hidden in shadow. None looked like Finch. Her eyes swept the room, cataloging exits, potential threats. A bartender with tattooed knuckles polished a glass, his gaze lingering on her just a moment too long. She was a cop. She stuck out like a sore thumb. Then she saw it. At the far end of the room, a bookshelf swung silently inward, revealing a sliver of deeper darkness before clicking shut. Finch. He’d gone to ground. She moved quickly, weaving between tables, ignoring the stares. The bookshelf was solid, packed with cheap-looking paperbacks and knickknacks. She ran her fingers along the edge, searching for a latch, a mechanism. Nothing. Frustration boiled in her gut. She was so close. Morris’s face flashed in her mind, his laugh, the way he’d always called her “Quinn, my favorite pessimist.” Then the static-filled radio call, the abandoned warehouse, the blood on the floor that didn’t make any sense. The official report had been a masterpiece of obfuscation. She knew, with a certainty that went beyond evidence, that the truth was in places like this. Behind doors that shouldn’t open. She was about to give up, to call it in and have the place surrounded, when a hand touched her elbow. She spun, her hand instinctively moving toward her hip. “Easy, Detective.” The man held up his hands. He had warm brown eyes, short curly dark brown hair, and olive skin. A faint scar ran along his left forearm. A Saint Christopher medallion rested against his throat. He smelled of antiseptic and something else, something herbal and faintly coppery. “Looking for your friend? The jumpy one?” “Who are you?” Quinn’s voice was a low growl, her body tense. “A concerned citizen,” he said, his accent hinting at Spain. “Tomás Herrera. You’re making people nervous. Your friend, he didn’t come out for a pint.” He nodded toward the bookshelf. “He bought a token. Went down.” “Down where?” Tomás’s expression was unreadable, a mix of pity and caution. “Somewhere you don’t have a warrant for. Somewhere your badge is just a shiny piece of metal that might get you killed.” “Try me.” He sighed, rubbing the scar on his arm absently. “It’s called the Veil Market. It moves. Tonight, it’s in an old Tube station under Camden. You need a bone token to get past the… guardians. Your man had one. You don’t.” The words settled over her like a shroud. An underground market. Supernatural black markets were the stuff of rumor, of the wilder case files that got laughed out of the briefing room. But Morris hadn’t been laughing. He’d been taking notes. “How do I get a token?” Tomás looked genuinely alarmed. “You don’t. That’s the point. It’s not for your kind. Look, I used to be a paramedic. I’ve seen what comes out of that place. People missing pieces of their souls, bleeding light instead of blood. You’re a cop. A good one, I’ve heard. Don’t follow him down there. Call it a night. Some doors stay closed for a reason.” He was right. It was the smart play. The professional play. Secure the area. Get a warrant for the bar, tear the bookshelf apart, do it by the book. But the book had failed Morris. The book was full of lies. She saw Finch’s smug face, knew he was down there right now, trading the secrets of a poison that could kill in ways her forensics lab couldn’t even comprehend. He was her only link, her only thread to pull to unravel the whole rotten tapestry that had consumed her partner. She made her decision. It wasn’t a choice made with her mind, but with the raw, bleeding nerve of her grief. “The token. How did he get it?” Tomás studied her face, and something in her expression—the desperation, the grim resolve—must have convinced him arguing was futile. His shoulders slumped in defeat. “Probably bought it from Silas,” he said, nodding toward the bartender. “But he won’t sell to you. Not in a million years.” Quinn’s gaze locked onto the bartender. She could lean on him. Flash her badge, threaten him with a raid. But that would blow any chance of subtlety. She’d be announcing her presence to everyone in the damn market before she even set foot inside. Her eyes fell on Tomás’s medallion, then darted to the scar on his arm. A former paramedic who’d lost his license. Administering unauthorized treatments. To supernatural patients. He had one foot in that world already. “You have one,” she stated, her voice flat. It wasn’t a question. He flinched, his hand moving unconsciously to cover the medallion. “That’s none of your business.” “It is now. I need to get down there. You’re going to help me.” “Why in God’s name would I do that?” “Because I’m not asking.” Her voice dropped, low and dangerous. “I can make your life very difficult, Mr. Herrera. Or you can lend me your token, point me in the right direction, and I will be out of your hair. Your choice.” A war waged behind his warm eyes. Fear, resentment, and a grudging understanding that she was a force of nature he couldn’t stop. With a sound of pure exasperation, he reached under his collar and pulled a thin, pale sliver of bone, intricately carved with runes, from where it had hung beside his saint medal. He pressed it into her palm. It was warm from his skin. “It’s in the Camden tunnels. The old Northern Line station they sealed up in the fifties. The entrance is behind a false wall in the men’s loo of the World’s End pub. You show that to the thing that asks for it. Don’t speak. Don’t make eye contact. Just show it and walk through.” He grabbed her wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. “And for the love of God, don’t buy anything. Don’t eat anything. Don’t make any promises. Find your man and get out. That place… it gets inside your head.” She closed her fingers around the bone token. It felt alien, wrong. A key to a door that should never be unlocked. “Thank you,” she said, the words feeling inadequate. “Don’t thank me,” he whispered, his face pale. “I’ve just probably signed your death warrant. Now go, before I change my mind.” Quinn didn’t need to be told twice. She turned and strode out of The Raven’s Nest, back into the cleansing cold of the rain. The bone token burned a hole in her pocket. Above her, the green neon raven buzzed, a silent sentinel to the threshold she was about to cross. She was leaving her world behind, descending into the underworld on a thread of grief and a sliver of bone. She was going to find Finch, and she was going to get her answers, no matter what awaited her in the dark.