Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFEYYFD60Q3A377GFAYZ7B

The rain came down in sheets, turning the cobblestones of Soho into a treacherous mirror of neon and shadow. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted after the figure in the dark hoodie, her boots splashing through oily puddles that reflected the green glow of The Raven's Nest sign overhead. The suspect—Tomás Herrera, according to her intel—darted around a corner with the agility of someone who knew these streets better than she did. "Met Police! Stop!" Quinn barked, her voice cutting through the drumming rain. Herrera didn’t even glance back. She pushed harder, her breath sharp in her lungs, the weight of her service weapon bouncing against her ribs. Her wristwatch, its leather band worn smooth from years of wear, caught the light as she vaulted over a stack of overturned crates. The alley narrowed, walls pressing in, the scent of wet brick and garbage thick in the air. Herrera disappeared through a rusted service door. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She slammed through after him, into a dim stairwell that reeked of mildew and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or the metallic tang of old magic. The steps spiraled downward, the sound of Herrera’s footsteps echoing ahead. At the bottom, a flickering bulb cast jagged shadows across a tunnel. The walls were lined with peeling posters, their edges curling like dead leaves. Quinn’s pulse hammered in her throat. This wasn’t just some back exit. This was something else. She slowed, hand hovering near her holster. The air here was different—thick, charged. A whisper of movement ahead. Herrera’s silhouette paused at a junction, half-turned, as if waiting. "Last chance, Herrera," she called, her voice steady despite the prickle of unease along her spine. "You don’t want to make this worse." He laughed, low and humorless. "You don’t know where you are, do you, Detective?" Before she could answer, he turned and vanished around the corner. Quinn exhaled sharply and followed. The tunnel opened into a cavernous space—an abandoned Tube station, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. But it wasn’t empty. Stalls lined the platform, their awnings strung with fairy lights and hanging charms. Figures moved between them, faces obscured by hoods and scarves, their voices a murmur of languages Quinn didn’t recognize. The air smelled of incense and something darker—burning herbs, maybe, or the coppery hint of blood. The Veil Market. She’d heard whispers of it, of course. A place where the city’s underbelly traded in things that didn’t belong in daylight. But seeing it was something else. Herrera was already halfway across the platform, slipping between two stalls selling what looked like glass vials of liquid moonlight. Quinn hesitated. Going in deeper was a risk. No backup. No jurisdiction. But letting him go meant losing the only lead she had on Morris’ disappearance. She stepped forward. A hand caught her arm. Quinn spun, reaching for her weapon, but the figure—tall, draped in a moth-eaten cloak—shook their head. "You don’t belong here, little hunter," they rasped. She yanked free. "I’m not here for trouble. Just him." The figure chuckled, a sound like dry leaves. "Trouble finds its own." Quinn ignored them and pushed into the crowd. The market swallowed her, the noise rising—vendors hawking their wares, the clink of strange coins, the low hum of something that wasn’t quite music. Herrera was ahead, ducking into a curtained alcove. She followed. Inside, the space was cramped, lit by a single oil lamp. Herrera stood beside a table where a woman with ink-black eyes sorted through a pile of bones. He turned as Quinn entered, his expression unreadable. "You shouldn’t have come down here," he said. "Then you shouldn’t have run," she shot back. Her fingers flexed near her hip. "What is this place?" Herrera exchanged a glance with the woman. "Somewhere you don’t want to be." The lamp flickered. Shadows stretched too long. Quinn’s instincts screamed at her to draw her weapon, but she forced herself still. "You’re involved in something, Herrera. I need answers." He sighed, rubbing the scar on his forearm. "Answers get people killed, Detective. Ask your partner." The words hit like a punch. Morris. Her throat tightened. "What do you know about that?" Herrera’s gaze flicked past her, to the curtain. "Too much. And not enough." A noise outside—footsteps, too many, moving fast. Quinn’s spine went rigid. "You led them here," the woman hissed. Herrera’s jaw clenched. "Didn’t have a choice." Quinn turned, just as the curtain was yanked aside. Three figures stood there, their faces hidden behind masks of stitched leather. The air turned ice-cold. "Shit," Herrera muttered. The tallest of the three tilted their head. "Detective Quinn," they said, voice like gravel. "We’ve been waiting for you." Quinn’s hand closed around her weapon. She had a choice now—fight, or run. Neither option felt safe.