Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFGKD069CSH459ZP03H5K1

Quinn's lungs burned as she pounded through the rain-slicked streets of Camden, her leather watch catching the amber glow of streetlights with each stride. The suspect—a lean figure in a dark hoodie—vaulted over a barrier and disappeared down an alley. She followed, her boots splashing through puddles that reflected the neon blur of late-night London. "Metropolitan Police! Stop!" Her voice echoed off brick walls, swallowed by the drumming rain. The figure glanced back, face obscured by shadow, then darted left. Quinn cursed and pushed harder, her legs protesting after eighteen years of chasing criminals through these same streets. This one moved differently though—too fluid, too confident in the darkness. She rounded the corner and skidded to a halt. The alley dead-ended at a construction site, orange barriers blocking the way. No sign of her suspect. Quinn's hand moved to her radio, then paused. Water dripped from her salt-and-pepper hair as she scanned the walls, the shadows, anywhere someone could hide. There—a service door, barely visible behind a dumpster. Still swinging on its hinges. Quinn approached carefully, one hand on her baton. The door opened onto a maintenance stairwell that descended into blackness. The air smelled wrong: not just the usual London Underground cocktail of brake dust and stale air, but something else. Incense. Copper. Things that didn't belong. She clicked on her torch and started down. The stairs seemed to go deeper than any Tube station should. Her footsteps echoed strangely, as if the space below was vast. At the bottom, another door—this one marked with symbols that hurt to look at directly. Quinn blinked hard, attributing the visual distortion to fatigue and rain in her eyes. The door was ajar. Beyond it, impossible sound: voices haggling, music that scraped against her eardrums, and underneath it all, a thrumming like a massive heartbeat. Quinn pushed through. The abandoned station opened before her like a fever dream. Vendors lined the platforms where trains should run, their stalls draped in fabrics that shifted color without warning. The curved ceiling flickered with lights that had no visible source. And the people—if they were people—moved through the space examining wares she couldn't quite focus on. Her suspect was twenty meters ahead, weaving between stalls with practiced ease. Quinn's training screamed at her to call for backup, to retreat and return with a full team. But something else, some deeper instinct born from three years of unanswered questions about Morris's death, pulled her forward. She kept her torch low, trying to blend in despite her obvious police bearing. A vendor with too many teeth smiled at her as she passed. Another figure, draped in scarves, turned to track her movement with eyes that reflected light like a cat's. The suspect paused at a stall selling bottles filled with what looked like liquid starlight. Quinn closed the distance, hand moving to her cuffs. "Buying or selling?" The stallkeeper's voice was wind through dead leaves. Her suspect turned. Not the junkie she'd been chasing for the Soho drug connection. This was someone younger, olive-skinned with short curly hair. A scar ran along his left forearm, visible where his sleeve had ridden up. He clutched a medical bag to his chest, a Saint Christopher medallion glinting at his throat. "Neither," he said quietly, eyes fixed on Quinn. "Just passing through." She knew that accent—Spanish, softened by years in London. "You ran from a police officer." "Did I?" His fingers tightened on the bag. "I was just hurrying to catch the last train." "There are no trains here." "Aren't there?" He glanced meaningfully at the tunnel where shadows moved in ways shadows shouldn't. The stallkeeper laughed, a sound like glass breaking. "First time in the Veil Market, Detective? How exciting. Tell me, do you have a token?" Quinn's hand moved instinctively to her radio, but static filled her earpiece. Of course. Whatever this place was, it wouldn't let her call out. She was alone, surrounded by... what? The question Morris never got to answer. "I don't need a token," she said, keeping her voice steady. "I'm in pursuit of a suspect." "Everyone needs a token." The stallkeeper's extra teeth gleamed. "Market rules. No token, no leaving. Not the way you came, anyway." The Spanish man—not her original suspect, she realized now—shifted his weight. "I can help," he said quietly. "But not here. Too many eyes." Quinn studied him. Medical bag. Scar that looked like a defensive wound. The careful way he held himself, ready to run but not threatening. "You're a doctor." "Was." His smile was bitter. "Now I'm just someone who helps people your colleagues would rather pretend don't exist." Another piece clicked into place. The Soho connection she'd been tracking—not drugs in the traditional sense, but something else. Medical supplies moving through channels that didn't officially exist, for patients who weren't supposed to be real. "The person I was chasing," she said. "Where did they go?" He tilted his head toward the tunnel. "Caught the express, you might say. But you don't want to follow. Not without understanding what you're walking into." The market pressed in around them. Quinn felt eyes on her back, whispers in languages that predated English. Her sharp jaw clenched as she weighed her options. Three years of questions. Morris's empty desk. Reports that didn't add up. "My partner died in a place like this," she said quietly. The man's expression softened. "Then you already know more than most. Come on. There's someone who might have answers—but we need to leave. Now." He turned toward a different exit, not the way Quinn had entered. She hesitated. Following meant abandoning protocol, stepping into the same shadows that had swallowed Morris. But standing still meant learning nothing, and she'd done enough of that. "What's your name?" she asked, falling into step beside him. "Tomás." He guided her past stalls selling things she didn't want to examine too closely. "And before you ask—yes, I know about the investigation. Yes, I've been avoiding you. But not for the reasons you think." They reached another stairwell, this one leading up. Tomás produced something from his pocket—a small carved bone—and pressed it against a symbol on the wall. The air shimmered. "After you, Detective Quinn." He gestured upward. "Unless you'd prefer to explain to market security why you're here without a token." Quinn climbed, questions multiplying with each step. At the top, they emerged into the stock room of what looked like an ordinary Camden shop. Rain still hammered against the windows. The normal world reasserted itself with jarring suddenness. Tomás locked the door behind them with the bone token. "The market moves next full moon. This entrance won't work after that." He met her eyes. "Your partner—Morris. He was tracking something specific when he died, wasn't he?" Quinn's hand went to her radio, confirming it worked again. She could call this in, have Tomás arrested, return to the investigation she understood. But Morris had played by the rules, and Morris was dead. "Silas Ashford," she said finally. "He was tracking Silas Ashford." Tomás's expression darkened. "Then we definitely need to talk. But not here." He pulled out a card—no name, just an address in Soho. "Tomorrow night. Come alone, or don't come at all." He slipped out into the rain before she could respond. Quinn stood in the empty stock room, water dripping onto cheap linoleum, the bone token weighing heavy in her thoughts. The card in her hand was real. The market below—that was real too. Which meant Morris hadn't been chasing fantasies when he died. She tucked the card into her jacket and stepped out into the storm. Tomorrow night, she'd have to decide whether finding the truth was worth following Morris into the shadows. The rain washed the city clean, but some stains went deeper than water could reach.