Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQTPMQ5DKYXABG0Y3ZENW2

The heavy rain blurred the neon glow of the streetlights, casting a ghostly pallor over the city. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted through the back alleys of Soho, her eyes fixed on her target. The suspect's dark coat flapped in the wind as he wove through the shadows, his movements nimble despite the downpour. Quinn's heart pounded in her ears, a rhythmic reminder of the urgency of the pursuit. Rain soaked her coat, but she paid it no mind, her military-sharp jaw set in determination. She had to catch this man; he was her only lead in a case that had gone cold two years ago. It had left her clinging to the edge of a career she once excelled at, chasing shadows ever since Morris died. The suspect darted across an intersection, narrowly avoiding the headlights of a speeding taxi. Quinn's worn leather boots splashed through puddles as she pursued, her eyes narrowing against the rain. She had dealt with beings far more terrifying than this street rat, but something about him set her instincts on edge. He was just a common crook, after all, another character peddling smuggled goods on the side. But it was something he had said that day, 'Big score...can't pass it up' to a couple of broke losers near Camden. This one made Morris stir from inside her. Something didn't add up. They'd started chasing him across the Square Mile until now through these alleys. Quinn weaved through the maze of trash bins and abandoned shopping carts, her mind racing with possible outcomes. She knew he was going to the Nest; the city's supernatural underworld wasn't infinite. She is older than this kid and that gave her an edge, even with a three-year head start. After all, his pal Morris himself once taught her that the spirit world doesn't always move in straight lines. Another neon sign flashed by—'The Raven's Nest'—its distinctive green glow announced her next steps. The suspect was going to Silas' place. While heading into the Nest meant playing ball in a devil's circle, she had fewer reservations now than ever before. Her gut told her it wasn't the end of the case and she didn't intend to bow out of the job she'd started, even if it was to solve Morris's death. But as she approached the bar entrance, her mind raced. What if he wasn't alone? She had no backup now and no time to call reinforcements. The thought of facing a room full of guards, or worse, rival criminals, made her hesitate. Something about this chase seemed too easy. If this guy was dealing with Silas, why lead her straight to him? Unless, of course, he had backup, and this was all a trap... Quinn quickened her pace, her hand tightening around her firearm. There was no time to waste on what-ifs and speculation. The unmarked door swung open, and a warm glow spilled out onto the drenched street. She could make out the outline of the suspect ducking inside. She took a breath, steeling herself for what may await within. Then, with a final glance at the damp, deserted street behind her, Detective Quinn stepped into the lion's den. The bar was dim, the air thick with smoke and the murmur of hushed conversations. Classic rock filled the room, the bass thumping through old wooden speakers. Quinn paused, taking in the scene. The place was packed with an eclectic mix of patrons—rough-looking men and women, their eyes sharp and alert, as if ready for a fight at any moment. At the bar, a young man with curly dark hair and a torn leather jacket glanced at Quinn. It was Tommy, an ex-paramedic who'd gone rogue after his NHS license was revoked. A tiny brass medallion hanging from his neck winked, reflecting the green neon of the bar sign. "You're looking for someone?" Tommy asked, his voice raising above the music. Despite his scruffy appearance, his eyes showed a quiet determination. Quinn nodded, her eyes scanning the crowd. "You seen a man come in here? Dark hair, athletic build, maybe your age?" Tommy frowned. "Nah, no one like that's been here tonight. This ain't no five-star hotel either. Why you looking for him?" "Same reason your Saint Christopher's dangling round your neck; we all want something," Quinn replied, her eyes still searching for her target. "And something tells me he's here—just in a less obvious spot." Understanding flickered in Tommy's eyes. "Ah, one of Silas' private rooms. You won't get in without an invitation, Detective. Unless you're here for the market." Quinn turned to face him, her sharp eyes boring into his. "Market?" He nodded towards an old bookshelf at the far end of the room. "Market's held behind there when it's in town. It only happens when the moon's round. But mind you, it ain't no farmers' market. You need a bone to get in." A bone—a token to enter an underground market in an old Tube station beneath Camden. It made sense, and it fit with the information she had on her case. The suspect had been boasting about a big score—was this it? Quinn turned back to the bookshelf, her curiosity piqued. "How often does this market happen?" "Every full moon, in a different spot. This time it's here, next time who knows? That's the Veil Market for you." A full moon. It was on its first quarter phase when she approached the suspect that evening. He didn't plan to cash in yet. Something else was going on. "And who controls this market?" Tommy's eyes darted around the room. "You really don't want to go down that rabbit hole, Detective. Silas is bad news. And if you're sticking your nose in his business, I'd keep it above the ground if I were you." Quinn's grip tightened around her firearm. Silas—rumoured to be a demonic figure who controlled much of the supernatural underworld in London. If Quinn's gut was right, this whole thing could lead straight back to him. She turned her gaze back to the bookshelf, her mind made up. "I'll take the risk."