Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQQSP06PHGTHJV575X2HJB

The rain fell in sheets, turning London’s asphalt into a rippling black mirror under the orange streetlights. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots slapped against the wet pavement, her breath coming in sharp clouds of steam. Ahead, a shadow darted between the pools of light—the suspect, a hulking figure in a dark hoodie. He’d emerged from a side-alley near The Raven’s Nest, handed something to a figure Quinn didn’t recognize, then bolted when he spotted her. Her sharp jaw was set, brown eyes narrowed against the downpour. She ignored the water streaming down the back of her neck under her coat. Eighteen years on the force had taught her a few things about chases: never stop, never hesitate. He had something on his person, paper or an envelope, something he’d been desperate to pass off. He cut left into an alley clogged with overflowing bins. Quinn followed, her worn leather watchband soaked. She vaulted over a fallen bin, her military-trained body moving with a precision that belied her age. He scrambled up a fire escape, metal groaning under his weight. She went after him, her fingers finding purchase on the slick rungs. From the rooftops, the city sprawled like a grid of amber and shadow. The suspect leaped across a narrow gap to the next building. Quinn didn’t think, just moved. She landed hard, a jolt shooting up her knees. He was pulling ahead, dropping down through a skylight. She reached the skylight, a pane of reinforced glass fogged with condensation. It opened into darkness. With a sharp twist, she unlatched it and lowered herself into a cavernous space. The sound of dripping water echoed. Her hand went to her sidearm. She was in an abandoned Underground station. The old tiled walls were slick with grime. A single, dimly lit sign hung crookedly from the ceiling: “Camden Town.” But Camden Town station was bustling above. This was something else, something beneath it. The air smelled of damp earth, ozone, and something metallic. She heard footsteps receding down a side tunnel. She drew her flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom. Graffiti covered the walls, but not ordinary tags. Symbols, intricate and alien, glowed faintly under her light. She recognized none of them. The tunnel narrowed, then opened into a wider platform. It wasn’t deserted. Stalls lined the platform under makeshift awnings, lanterns hanging from hooks casting shifting, colorful shadows. Figures moved between them, hooded, masked, some not entirely human in silhouette. One stall sold jars of glowing moss. Another had tiny, intricate clockwork birds fluttering in a cage. The murmur of hushed conversation, bartering in languages Quinn didn’t know, filled the space. The Veil Market. She’d heard whispers. An underground market that moved, a place where the things that went bump in the night shopped. DS Morris had muttered about tokens and moonlit entries before he died. A bone token, he’d said. She’d found one in his effects, a small carved piece she’d kept, not understanding. The hulking suspect was ahead, weaving through the crowd, throwing glances back at her. He moved with purpose, heading for a curtained-off alcove at the far end. Quinn stood at the edge of the market, a woman in a soaked trench coat standing starkly against the strange tableau. Her rational mind screamed caution. This wasn’t her jurisdiction, wasn’t even her *world*. She had no backup, no protocol for this. Following him in there meant stepping into the unknown, into the very shadow realm Morris had stumbled into. The realm that took him from her. A vendor with too many eyes watched her from a stall selling bottled whispers. A chill that had nothing to do with the rain crept down her spine. He was getting away. Her hand tightened on the grip of her flashlight. Morris had followed a lead. He had followed it right to his end, found in a back alley with his face frozen in terror and no marks on his body. She’d spent three years looking for an explanation, chasing ghosts in police files. And now one was right in front of her, running into a den of them. It was reckless. It was stupid. It was the only lead she had left that wasn’t a dead end. She pushed off the wall and stepped into the flow of the market. The crowd parted for her not out of deference, but like water around a stone—a subtle, wary shift. She kept her eyes on the suspect, her pace quick but measured. The alcove he’d ducked into had a heavy velvet curtain. As she approached, a figure stepped out to block her path. He was tall, lean, with olive skin and sharp features. A scar ran along his left forearm, pale against his skin. A Saint Christopher medallion glinted at his throat. Tomas Herrera. “Detective,” he said, his voice low, accented. Warm brown eyes held no warmth now. “You shouldn’t be here.” “Step aside, Herrera.” Her voice was flat, leaving no room for debate. “This isn’t a place for your kind of law. Go back the way you came.” “My suspect went through that curtain.” “And he’ll be gone by the time you push past me. He’s already through the exit. You following him means you follow him out of the Market, into the Warrens. You won’t come back out.” Quinn’s gaze flicked to the curtain, then back to Herrera. “You know him.” “I know he’s trouble you don’t need. Walk away, Detective. For once, listen to someone.” She studied his face. He’d patched up members of the clique before, off-the-books. He moved in these circles. He knew things. He was a link. “Morris,” she said, the name hanging between them. “He came here, didn’t he?” Herrera’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “I don’t know any Morris.” “You’re a terrible liar.” “And you’re a living woman in a dead place. That envelope your man had? It wasn’t for post. It was a dispensation. A payment for services rendered in the dark. You grab him, you start a war you can’t finish. Let him go.” Her jaw ached from clenching. Every instinct told her to move, to push past him, to finish the chase. Morris’s ghost stood at her shoulder, silent, waiting. She looked past Herrera at the curtain, then at the unnatural bazaar surrounding her, a world hidden in plain sight beneath London’s feet. The suspect was a criminal, yes. But he was also a key. To what, she didn’t know. But Herrera was right—this was a threshold. Cross it, and there was no going back to the clean, well-lit world of case files and procedure. She took a slow breath, the damp, metallic air filling her lungs. “Tell me what was in the envelope,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur meant only for him. Herrera’s eyes widened a fraction. He hadn’t expected that. He’d expected a bull-headed charge. “You don’t want to know.” “I really do.” He held her gaze for a long moment, then shook his head, a faint, grim smile touching his lips. “It’s a receipt. For a soul. Not his. Someone else’s. Now are you happy?” The words landed like a physical blow. Quinn felt the blood drain from her face. Morris’s empty, terrified eyes flashed in her memory. She took one last look at the curtain. The chase was over. The real one was just beginning. She stepped back, giving a single, sharp nod to Herrera. Then she turned, and walked back the way she came, the whispers of the Market following her into the dark tunnel.