Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNF9SKQNXWE4730QVBBM4EB

The rain came down in sheets, turning the Soho streets into a shimmering maze of neon reflections. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted after the figure disappearing around the corner, her boots splashing through oily puddles. The suspect—some low-level dealer she'd been tailing for weeks—had finally led her somewhere interesting. Right to the doorstep of The Raven's Nest. She skidded to a stop outside the bar, catching her breath. The green neon sign buzzed overhead, casting an eerie glow on her salt-and-pepper hair. Through the rain-streaked window, she saw the dealer exchange quick words with the bartender before vanishing behind a bookshelf that didn't look like it should move. Quinn's sharp jaw tightened. She'd heard rumors about Silas' place, but this was the first time she'd seen proof of its secrets. The door creaked as she entered, the smell of whiskey and damp wool hitting her nostrils. Every eye in the place turned toward her—some curious, most hostile. She flashed her badge anyway. "Metropolitan Police. Looking for a man just came through here—" "Didn't see anyone," the bartender lied smoothly, polishing a glass with a rag that had seen better days. Quinn's worn leather watch ticked loudly against her wrist as she weighed her options. She could push it, demand to see the back room. But eighteen years on the force had taught her when to press and when to play along. She nodded curtly and turned on her heel, letting the door swing shut behind her. She didn't go far. Just around the corner, into the shadows of a service alley where she could watch the bar's rear exit. The rain soaked through her coat, but she stood motionless, military precision in her stance. Twenty-three minutes later—she counted—a figure slipped out the back. Not her dealer. Someone else. Taller. Moving with purpose. Tomás Herrera pulled his collar up against the rain, the Saint Christopher medallion glinting at his throat as he hurried down the alley. Quinn fell into step behind him, keeping her distance. The former paramedic had crossed her path before—always on the edges of cases that never quite added up. Tonight, he was heading somewhere in a hurry. They wound through backstreets, down into Camden, until Herrera stopped at a rusted service door beside an abandoned Tube station entrance. Quinn watched from behind a stack of pallets as he pulled something from his pocket—a small white object that looked like carved bone—and slipped it into a nearly invisible slot beside the door. The mechanism clicked. The Veil Market. She'd heard the whispers in the squad room, the stories cops told each other over bad station coffee. A place that shouldn't exist. Herrera disappeared inside, and Quinn found herself frozen at the threshold, hand hovering near her sidearm. Three years ago, Morris had chased a lead into shadows like these. They'd never found his body. Rain dripped from her hair as she made her decision. She reached into her coat pocket, fingers brushing the spare bone token she'd confiscated from a junkie last month. The dealer had babbled about "market prices" before clamming up. Now she understood. The door groaned as she pushed it open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The air smelled of damp stone and something sharper—ozone and burnt herbs. At the bottom, flickering gas lamps illuminated a cavernous space where the old ticket hall had been. Stalls lined the walls, their proprietors hawking wares that made her stomach turn. Glass vials of swirling liquid. Books bound in what looked like human skin. A cage containing something with too many eyes. She kept her badge hidden, moving through the crowd with forced casualness. Up ahead, Herrera was speaking urgently with a hooded figure near a stall selling what appeared to be antique surgical tools. Quinn edged closer, pretending to examine a display of cursed jewelry. "—can't keep doing this," Herrera was saying in his Spanish-accented English. He rubbed the scar on his forearm absently. "They're getting closer every time." The hooded figure responded in a voice like grinding stones. "Then perhaps you should have chosen a different line of work, medic." Quinn's pulse jumped as Herrera's hand went to his medallion. She'd seen that gesture before—right before things went sideways in an interrogation room two years back. The air around them seemed to thicken, and she instinctively reached for her gun. A hand closed around her wrist. "I wouldn't do that here, detective." The voice at her ear was honeyed poison. She turned to find a woman with violet eyes smiling at her. "Newcomers should browse before they make trouble." Quinn yanked her arm free, but the moment was broken. When she looked back, Herrera and the hooded figure were gone. The woman with violet eyes melted into the crowd before Quinn could stop her. The detective stood there, rain still dripping from her clothes onto the ancient tiles. Somewhere in this den of nightmares was the truth about what happened to Morris. About what kept drawing her to these cases that defied explanation. She took a deep breath and stepped deeper into the market, following the trail of whispers that curled around her like smoke.