Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNF67V8EV7W0J8RKBYM3CVQ

The rain hammered London's streets like a thousand tiny fists, turning the pavement into a mirror of neon and headlights. Detective Harlow Quinn's boots slapped through puddles as she pursued the figure ahead, her breath misting in the October chill. The suspect—a wiry man in a torn bomber jacket—vaulted over a rubbish bin and cut hard left into an alley. Quinn followed, her worn leather watch catching on the corner of a dumpster as she squeezed past. Eighteen years on the force had taught her to read the geography of a chase. This one was heading north, toward Camden. The suspect knew these streets better than she did, but Quinn had something he didn't—the stubborn fury that had driven her every day since Morris died. "Metropolitan Police! Stop where you are!" Her voice cracked like a whip through the rain, but the figure only ran faster. They burst out of the alley onto Camden High Street. Late-night revelers scattered as the suspect barreled through them, sending a kebab flying from someone's hands. Quinn dodged the cursing drunk, her military precision keeping her on course despite the obstacles. The salt-and-pepper strands plastered to her skull dripped cold water down her neck. The suspect glanced back, and in the orange streetlight, she caught a glimpse of his face—pale, terrified, with something clutched in his right hand. He darted between two market stalls shuttered for the night and disappeared down a service stairway she'd never noticed before. Quinn skidded to a stop at the top of the stairs. They descended into darkness, the kind of absolute black that seemed to swallow light. The rain couldn't reach here, but water cascaded down the steps in miniature waterfalls. She pulled out her torch, the beam cutting through the gloom to reveal crumbling Victorian brickwork and the ghost of old London Transport signage. An abandoned Tube station. Christ. She descended carefully, weapon drawn, torch held high and away from her body. The steps were slick with more than just rainwater—something viscous and foul-smelling coated the walls. At the bottom, the beam of her torch swept across an empty platform, the tracks long since removed. But there were fresh footprints in the grime, leading to a maintenance door hanging ajar. Quinn approached, every nerve singing. Through the gap, she could hear voices—dozens of them, maybe more. The air that drifted out smelled of incense and copper and something else, something that made her skin crawl the way it had three years ago, the night Morris had walked into that warehouse and never walked out. She pushed the door wider. Beyond lay a tunnel, but not the abandoned ruin she expected. Strings of lights—not electric but something that flickered like candleflame—illuminated a bustling market. Stalls lined both sides of the tunnel, their wares gleaming in the strange light. People moved between them, but Quinn's trained eye caught details that made her sharp jaw clench: hands with too many fingers, eyes that reflected light like a cat's, shadows that moved independently of their owners. The suspect was there, twenty meters ahead, pushing through the crowd. In his hand, she could now see what he carried—a white disc that might have been carved from bone. Quinn stood at the threshold, her brown eyes taking in every detail, cataloging exits, counting potential threats. This was what Morris had found, what he'd stumbled into that night. She was sure of it. The normal world—her world of evidence and procedure and rational explanation—ended at this doorway. She thought of the crime scene photos scattered across her desk, the connections she'd been tracking for months. The mysterious disappearances, the witnesses who spoke of impossible things before recanting, the evidence that simply vanished from lockup. All roads led here, to this impossible market beneath Camden. A woman at the nearest stall turned to look at her, and Quinn's hand tightened on her weapon. The woman's face was beautiful in the way a snake was beautiful—all wrong angles and too many teeth when she smiled. "First time at the Veil Market, detective?" the woman asked, her voice like honey over broken glass. "That's a brave thing, coming here without invitation." Quinn kept her expression neutral, though her pulse hammered. "I'm pursuing a suspect." "Are you now?" The woman's laugh tinkled like wind chimes made of bone. "And what makes you think your authority extends here? This is neutral ground, older than your Scotland Yard, older than your London above." The crowd was beginning to notice her. Conversations died, replaced by whispers that slithered through the air like living things. Quinn counted exits again—three visible, possibly more hidden. Too many variables. Too many unknowns. But the suspect was getting away, and with him, her only lead to whoever was behind the murders plaguing her district. The same people, she suspected, who had killed Morris. "I don't need authority," Quinn said, stepping across the threshold. "Just answers." The moment her foot touched the tunnel floor, the world shifted. The air became thick, syrupy, like breathing underwater. The lights seemed brighter and dimmer at the same time, casting shadows that bent in impossible directions. Her torch flickered and died. "Bold," the woman said, and now Quinn could see her clearly—the scales beneath her skin, the vertical pupils. "But bone tokens are required for entry. What will you trade?" Quinn's mind raced. This was insane. She should call for backup, establish a perimeter, follow procedure. But procedure hadn't helped Morris. Procedure didn't explain the impossible things she'd been seeing at crime scenes for the past three years. "Information," Quinn said, surprising herself with how steady her voice remained. "I know things about the world above. Recent things. Things that might interest... merchants." The woman's smile widened, showing far too many teeth. "Now you're learning, detective. But first, a small fee. Something precious to you. Something that marks time." Quinn's hand moved unconsciously to her left wrist, to the worn leather watch that had been her father's, that she'd worn every day for fifteen years. She understood instinctively what was being asked. The suspect was almost out of sight now, disappearing deeper into the market. Around her, creatures that shouldn't exist conducted business in languages she didn't recognize. This was the heart of it, the hidden truth Morris had died trying to expose. She unclasped the watch, feeling naked without its familiar weight. "This buys me safe passage?" "It buys you entry," the woman corrected, plucking the watch from Quinn's fingers with nails like talons. "Safety is never guaranteed in the Veil Market. But then, you're a detective. You should be used to danger." Quinn moved past her, into the impossible. The market stretched further than the tunnel should have allowed, twisting and turning like the inside of some vast creature. Stalls sold things that hurt to look at directly—bottles of liquid starlight, cages full of whispers, books that bled when opened. She pushed through crowds of the not-quite-human, following the bobbing head of her suspect. A man with bark for skin tried to sell her "memories of tomorrow," while a child with too many joints offered her a map "to find what was lost." The suspect turned down a side passage, and Quinn followed, leaving the main thoroughfare behind. Here, the lights were dimmer, the crowds thinner. She could hear his ragged breathing, smell his fear-sweat even over the market's alien scents. He stumbled, the bone token flying from his grasp to skitter across the floor. Quinn lunged forward, her hand closing around his collar just as her fingers brushed the token. The moment she touched it, images flooded her mind—Morris in this very market, following a lead about supernatural artifacts being smuggled into London. Morris asking too many questions. Morris being led to a private stall where— "Please," the suspect gasped, twisting in her grip. "I didn't mean to. They said if I brought them subjects, they'd fix me. Make me normal again." Quinn processed this, even as the token's visions continued. She saw herself from the outside, saw how she looked to the market's denizens—a woman out of place, burning with the kind of determination that could either save her or destroy her. "Who are 'they'?" she demanded. But before he could answer, a shadow fell across them both. Quinn looked up to see a figure she recognized from the token's vision—the last person Morris had spoken to before he died. The figure smiled, and the market lights dimmed in response. "Detective Quinn," the figure said, voice like grinding stone. "We've been expecting you."