AI The rain fell in sheets, a cold, grey curtain that slicked the cobbles of Soho and turned the neon signs into bleeding watercolors. Detective Harlow Quinn’s breath clouded the air in sharp, controlled puffs, her movements an exercise in military precision even as her heart hammered against her ribs. Ahead, a figure—a smear of dark clothing and panic—shoved past a group of tourists huddled under an awning, sending a burst of angry shouts into the wet night.
“Met Police! Stop!” Her voice was a whip-crack, swallowed almost instantly by the drumming rain Of course he didn’t.
He was her only lead. A low-level fence named Danny “Fingers” McGraw, who’d suddenly developed a bankroll far beyond his usual pickpocketing take. The case was a tangle of missing persons with odd, unexplainable details—faint, phosphorescent residue at one scene, whispers of strange symbols at another. Echoes of the case that had taken Morris. Quinn pushed the thought down, a familiar , cold stone in her gut. Focus.
McGraw ducked into an alleyway so narrow it was little more than a fissure between two buildings. Quinn followed, her shoulder scraping against wet brick. The alley opened onto a slightly wider service lane, cluttered with overflowing bins and the sour smell of decay. McGraw was faster than he looked, scrambling over a chain-link fence with a clatter.
Quinn took the fence cleanly, the worn leather of her watch strap catching for a second on the cold metal. She landed with a splash in a deep puddle, the water soaking through her trousers. She ignored it. Her sharp jaw was set, her brown eyes fixed on her quarry as he disappeared through a rusted service door.
She wrenched the door open. It led not into a building, but down. A set of steep, concrete stairs descended into darkness, smelling of damp earth and ozone. The sound of the rain faded, replaced by a low, subterranean murmur. A green neon sign, flickering erratically, cast a sickly glow over a heavy oak door at the bottom. *The Raven’s Nest *. Silas’s bar. A known haunt for the city’s stranger elements.
She descended, her hand resting on the butt of her service weapon. The door to the bar was slightly ajar. She pushed it open.
The air inside was thick with the smell of old wood, spilled beer, and something else, something metallic and sharp she couldn’t name. The bar was a long, dark throat, the walls lined with yellowed maps and photographs of a London that no longer existed. A few patrons hunched over their drinks, their faces obscured by shadow. None of them looked up. None of them seemed to care about the soaked detective in their midst.
Behind the bar, a tall man with a face like a rumpled sheet was polishing a glass. Silas. His eyes, pale and knowing, flicked to her, then past her, towards a bookshelf stacked with old ledgers and bottles of dubious-looking liquors. It was a subtle gesture, almost imperceptible, but Quinn caught it. The bookshelf stood slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of deeper darkness behind it.
The hidden room. McGraw had gone to ground.
She moved quickly, weaving through the mismatched tables. As she passed a booth in the corner, a man looked up. He had warm brown eyes and short, curly dark brown hair, his olive skin looking sallow in the dim light. A faint, silvery scar ran along his left forearm. Around his neck, a Saint Christopher medallion glinted. Tomás Herrera. She knew his file. Lost his paramedic’s license for playing doctor with patients who had… unusual ailments. He was watching her with a calm, assessing intensity that felt out of place. He gave a minute, almost weary shake of his head. A warning.
She ignored him. Her focus was on the bookshelf. She squeezed through the gap.
The room beyond was small, windowless, and empty save for a single figure slumped against the far wall. It wasn’t McGraw. It was a young woman, her skin pale and waxy, her breathing shallow and ragged. She was unconscious, one hand curled around a small, carved bone token. A medic’s kit, unprofessional and well-used, was open on the floor beside her. Herrera’s work.
A muffled scraping sound came from the opposite wall. A section of the brickwork, cleverly disguised, was swinging inward. McGraw’s panicked face appeared for a second in the new darkness before he vanished into it.
Quinn hesitated. This was beyond procedure. This was off the map. She had a sick woman who needed help and a suspect fleeing into a hole in the wall. The choice was a physical weight on her shoulders.
She keyed her radio. “Dispatch, this is Detective Quinn. I require immediate medical assistance at The Raven’s Nest , Soho. Unconscious female, location is a back room. Suspect has fled the scene through an unknown egress. I am in pursuit.” The static that hissed back was thick, distorted, as if the signal was struggling to penetrate the old walls. She wasn’t sure the message had gone through.
Cursing under her breath, she made her choice. She couldn’t let McGraw vanish. Not with what he might know. She left the woman, trusting that Silas or the unsettlingly calm Herrera would do something, and plunged into the opening.
A narrow, rough-hewn tunnel sloped sharply downward. The air grew colder, carrying with it a bizarre cacophony —the murmur of a crowd, the clink of glass, strange, melodic chimes, and the low thrum of something that felt like a misplaced heartbeat . The tunnel ended at an archway, and the world opened up.
Quinn stopped dead, her breath catching in her throat.
She stood on a metal gantry overlooking a vast, cavernous space. It was an abandoned Tube station, its old tiled walls now covered with vibrant, chaotic graffiti depicting symbols and creatures from a fever dream. Below, stretching along the ghost of a platform and into the dark tunnels beyond, was a market. But it was like no market she had ever seen.
Stalls made of scrap metal and rich velvet were lit by glowing orbs that floated in the air, casting shifting, unnatural light. The crowd was a tapestry of the bizarre. A woman with iridescent scales dusted across her cheekbones haggled over a jar of swirling smoke. A tall figure whose shadow didn’t quite match its form examined a dagger that wept a black, oily substance . The air was thick with the scent of exotic spices, ozone, and the coppery tang of blood.
The Veil Market. She’d heard the whispers, dismissed them as the ramblings of cranks and junkies. But here it was, real and humming with a dangerous energy.
And there, fifty yards away, scrambling down a ladder from the gantry and melting into the throng, was McGraw.
Her training screamed at her to hold back, to call for backup that would never come, to observe and assess this unbelievable crime scene. But Morris’s face flashed in her mind—his laughter, the confusion in his eyes just before it all went wrong. This place, this underground world, was connected . She knew it in her bones.
Clenching her jaw, her salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her scalp, Quinn descended the ladder. The hum of the market seemed to intensify, a physical pressure against her skin. She moved through the crowd, her posture rigid, her eyes scanning constantly. People turned to look at her, their gazes curious, hostile, or unnervingly blank. She was an intruder here. A predator who had wandered into a much larger, much darker jungle.
She spotted McGraw ducking behind a stall selling what looked like bottled lightning . She quickened her pace, her hand never leaving her weapon.
A man stepped into her path. He was gaunt, dressed in immaculate, out-of-fashion clothes. He didn’t speak, just held out a skeletal hand. In his palm lay a small, carved bone token, identical to the one clutched by the sick woman upstairs. The entry requirement.
“The market has rules, little knife,” he whispered, his voice like dry leaves skittering on stone. “You cut, you pay. You have not paid.”
Beyond him, McGraw glanced back, a flash of triumph in his eyes, before he disappeared around a corner into one of the dark, branching tunnels.
Quinn stared at the token, then at the gaunt man. She was in their territory now. Deep in it. The rules had changed. She could either pay the price for entry or be bled dry. The chase was over. The real danger had just begun.