Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFVP7KR5ZHKS51GYXH20TK

The rain hammered against the pavement like a thousand tiny fists, each drop exploding against concrete with a sound that echoed through the narrow London street. Harlow Quinn's leather shoes splashed through puddles that reflected the neon glow of shop windows and streetlamps, her breath coming in sharp, measured bursts as she kept pace with the figure darting ahead. "Metropolitan Police! Stop!" Her voice cut through the night, authoritative and sharp, but the suspect didn't even glance back. Instead, he ducked into a narrow alley between two buildings, disappearing into the darkness like smoke through fingers. Quinn didn't hesitate. She followed, her hand already reaching for the radio at her shoulder. "Control, this is Detective Quinn. I'm in pursuit of a suspect heading east on—" The transmission cut out as she rounded the corner, the buildings too close together for the signal to penetrate. Damn. She'd have to handle this herself. The alley was a narrow throat of darkness, the walls pressing in on either side. Quinn's eyes adjusted quickly, scanning for movement. There—a flash of dark clothing disappearing through a doorway at the far end. She pushed herself harder, her lungs burning with the effort. The door swung shut behind the suspect, but Quinn caught it with her shoulder, the metal protesting with a screech. Inside, she found herself in a labyrinth of corridors, the air thick with the smell of damp concrete and something else—something old and musty that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She moved quickly, her footsteps echoing off the walls as she navigated the maze. The suspect was fast, but Quinn had been running down criminals for eighteen years. She knew these streets, knew how to cut corners, how to anticipate movement. The corridor opened into a wider space, and Quinn skidded to a halt. Before her stretched what looked like an abandoned Tube station, the curved walls and tiled floors speaking to its former life as part of London's underground network. But this wasn't any ordinary station—the air hummed with a different kind of energy, and the shadows seemed to move with a life of their own. Her suspect was nowhere to be seen. Quinn drew her service weapon, the weight familiar and comforting in her hand. She moved forward, her footsteps silent on the tiled floor. The station was vast, stretching out into darkness in both directions. Old advertisements for products long discontinued clung to the walls, their colors faded and peeling. "Police! Show yourself!" Her voice echoed through the space, but there was no response. Then she heard it—the faint sound of footsteps, moving away from her. Quinn set off in pursuit, her weapon held ready. The footsteps led her deeper into the station, past abandoned turnstiles and shuttered kiosks. She was aware of eyes watching her from the shadows, of movement just at the edge of her vision, but she didn't let herself be distracted. The footsteps stopped. Quinn froze, listening. Silence. Then, from somewhere ahead, a door creaked open. She approached cautiously, pressing herself against the wall beside the doorframe. The space beyond was dark, but she could smell it now—the distinctive scent of the Veil Market. The hidden supernatural black market that moved locations every full moon, accessible only to those with a bone token. Her suspect had just led her to one of the most closely guarded secrets in London's supernatural community. Quinn holstered her weapon and pulled out her phone, activating the flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, revealing a small room filled with crates and boxes. And there, pressed against the far wall, was her suspect. He was younger than she'd expected, maybe mid-twenties, with dark hair and eyes that widened in fear as the light hit him. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "Metropolitan Police," Quinn said, her voice steady. "You're under arrest. Hands where I can see them." The young man raised his hands slowly, but his eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape route. Quinn moved forward, keeping her distance. "What's your name?" she asked. "Doesn't matter," he replied, his voice shaking slightly. "You shouldn't be here. This isn't your world." "Maybe not," Quinn agreed. "But I'm here now, and I need some answers. What were you running from?" The young man laughed, a bitter, humorless sound. "You think I was running from you? I was running from them." He jerked his head toward the door. "Who's 'them'?" "The people who run this place. The people who'll kill me if they find out what I did." Quinn's interest sharpened. "What did you do?" The young man glanced at the door again, his fear palpable. "I stole something. Something important. And now they're looking for me." "What did you steal?" He shook his head. "I can't tell you that. But if they catch me, they'll kill me. And they won't stop there. They'll come after everyone I care about." Quinn studied him, taking in the fear in his eyes, the tension in his posture. She'd seen this before—the look of someone who'd gotten in over their head, who was desperately trying to find a way out. "I can protect you," she said. "But you have to give me something in return. Information. Names. Anything that can help me shut this place down." The young man hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Okay. Okay, I'll tell you what I know. But we have to get out of here first. They could be here any minute." Quinn reached for her handcuffs, but before she could move, the door behind her burst open. She spun around, her weapon coming up— —and found herself face to face with a man who looked like he'd stepped out of a nightmare. His eyes were black, his skin pale and stretched tight over his bones. He smiled, revealing teeth that were far too sharp. "Well, well," he said, his voice like oil over gravel. "What have we here?" Quinn didn't hesitate. She fired, the shot echoing through the small room. The man staggered back, but he didn't fall. Instead, he laughed, the sound sending chills down Quinn's spine. "You shouldn't have come here, detective," he said, advancing on her. "This is our world. Our rules." Quinn fired again, but the man moved with inhuman speed, dodging the bullet. She knew then that she was in trouble. This wasn't just some black market—this was something else entirely. The young man behind her screamed, and Quinn turned to see him being dragged away by shadowy figures that seemed to materialize from the darkness. She fired at them, but her bullets passed through as if they were made of smoke. The man with the sharp teeth was on her then, his hand closing around her throat with strength that belied his appearance. Quinn struggled, but it was like fighting against iron. Her vision began to darken at the edges. "Remember this, detective," the man hissed, his breath hot against her face. "This is what happens when you stick your nose where it doesn't belong." Then he released her, and Quinn fell to the floor, gasping for air. When she looked up, the room was empty. The young man, the shadowy figures, the man with the sharp teeth—all of them were gone. Quinn pushed herself to her feet, her hand going to her throat. She could still feel the imprint of those fingers, could still taste the fear in the air. She knew then that she'd stumbled onto something far bigger than she'd realized, something that went beyond the boundaries of her world. And she knew, with a certainty that settled in her bones, that she wouldn't rest until she'd uncovered the truth. No matter where it led her.