Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQRS65VCWCKYBQHQHPSD9A

Under the flicker of a green neon sign, Detective Harlow Quinn pressed her back against rusty steel and counted rain’s rhythm on tin. Droplets trickled from her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair, darkening her trench coat until it clung to her sharp jawline. She angled her worn leather watch so its face caught the neon glow. Footsteps echoed behind the bar’s heavy double doors. A hidden panel in the bookshelves slid open with a whisper. A man slipped through, shoulders hunched beneath a soaked canvas satchel. She shifted weight, boots squelching in puddles. Flashlight pinched between her teeth. She leapt, shoulder driving into the man’s back. “Police.” He lurched away, coat flaring. The chase began. He bolted into the street, body arcing between idling cabs. Horns cracked. Taillights smeared like red bruises across her vision. She closed the gap. Rain battered her coat. She gulped cold air that tasted like oysters. She swung her arm, lamp slicing through night, splayed on soaked pavement. He lunged between two idling cabs, coat flaring under floodlights. “Beat it, copper!” “Not tonight.” He veered down a narrow alley. The alley yawned like a wound. Trash lay piled against graffiti-tagged walls. An oily sheen coated the cobblestones. He charged past rain-sodden bins. She twisted through them, thumb bridging her pistol’s grip. He cleared a low fence in one motion. She vaulted after, fingers scraping at rust. She raised her voice. “Turn around!” He swore, yanked the handle of a service door. The door gave. He went inside. She stabbed the lock. Metal groaned. Spikes of light slit the crack at the door’s edge. She slipped in behind him. Steam curled off the tiled floor as she dropped to all fours in the gloom. A stairwell plunged downward. Each step dripped with water. Pipes overhead rattled in time with her pulse. She flicked on her torch. The beam carved an arc of yellow light, capturing carved runes etched into stone. Labels, symbols she didn’t recognise. She descended. Footsteps ahead pounded in answer. Muddy prints pooled in shallow rivulets. At the bottom, a carved skull yawned in metal. He crouched beside it, fingers tracing a small notch. He produced a white bone token, then pressed it into an eye socket. A muted click. The skull’s jaw swung aside. A door yawed open. She rose to her feet, boots splashing in puddles. Beyond the skull door lay a cavern hung with lanterns. Wooden stalls arranged in tight rows led her gaze toward a ragged crowd. She tightened her grip on her service pistol. The suspect moved through the first aisle, satchel swinging at his side. His coat brushed frayed banners that drooped from iron hooks overhead. A voice rasped. “No entry for the faint of heart.” Quinn jutted her chin. “Step aside.” The speaker, draped in leather stitched with bone fragments, didn’t move. The man she pursued crouched behind a stall. Lantern light danced across jars of purple powders, vials of iridescent oozes. A merchant chopped a dried root with a bone knife, then slipped it into a leather pouch. Shoppers bartered in whispers. Some wore masks with skeletal antlers, others traded scrolls sealed in wax. Her boots pressed into straw and sawdust. The suspect ducked behind a table cluttered with obsidian mirrors. She slanted around a pillar marked with coiled serpents. Shelves of books lay open to pages scrawled in a dead language. Candle stumps drained into pools of wax. She inhaled, tasted smoke drifting from a brazier. A distant drum tapped at her ribs. She raised her torch. A voice in her head—DS Morris’s—flickered. She forced herself to advance. A pair of traders with elongated fingers hawked metal teeth and carved horns. They bartered with a stall owner draped in chains. She drew a slow breath, boot heels pressing into straw. The market reeked of magic’s residue, each inhale like stale ale. She passed a vendor selling wands of rattleshine, each emitting a faint hum. Someone dropped a coin on a plank, its clink echoing against carved columns. She moved with military precision, scanning for the suspect’s dark silhouette. She spotted him brushing past a lattice of iron. He glanced over his shoulder, lips moving. “I’ve what you asked.” Her pulse seized. She darted forward. “I hold up more than that.” He slipped into a corridor dimmed by hanging tapestries. She reached the corridor’s mouth, lamp catching motes of dust. The tapestries trembled. So did her jaw. A trio of guards blocked the path, polished breastplates etched with sigils she didn’t recognise. Each clutched a spear tipped in twisted bronze. They stared past her, faces impassive. She raised her pistol. A deep chime echoed from the cavern entrance. The guards parted without a word, allowing both fugitive and detective to pass. Beyond, a rickety bridge spanned a chasm darker than midnight. Planks groaned under every step. She followed him across, boots skimming wet wood. He raced onto the far ledge, hands brushing a stack of crates. She closed in. A lantern swung above, throwing strobe shadows on damp walls. He paused, satchel at his feet, chest heaving. He turned, eyes wild. He shouted, jaw working, but rain’s roar filled her ears. She crept forward, grip taut. She reached the chasm’s edge, phosphorescent moss glowing in cracks between stones. A thin mist curled around her ankles. Across the fissure, the market’s heart pulsed with life. Blade-tipped spears gleamed. Lanterns bobbed. She swallowed. Her watch face glimmered beneath her sleeve. She squared her shoulders. She set her pistol against her hip. She stepped forward into the Veil Market.