Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQZS8WWNJTV84QTYPQ6EHQ

Rain plastered Quinn’s leather coat to her back. She sprinted down Dean Street, boots splashing through puddles. Neon from the Raven’s Nest flickered green over slick cobbles. Tonight, the bar’s usual hum of laughter had cut off. Instead, a single figure darted from its shadow. He held a bone-white token between thumb and forefinger. The rain carved rivulets down his gloves. She recognized the glint in his eyes—fear, or defiance, hard to tell under that brimmed cap. She snatched for her radio. No time. He elbowed a side alley and vanished. Quinn skidded through the narrow passage, water sluicing off garbage bags. She caught a flash of scarred forearm—Tomás’s handiwork sometimes left marks like that of a knife. But this wasn’t Herrera. The man ahead moved too light, too practiced. She counted his breaths, matched his steps. Military precision commanded her limbs. A chain-link fence loomed. He vaulted it, landing in a courtyard of derelict warehouses. Cracked windows gaped like dark eyes. She remounted and cleared the barrier with a single bound, leather watch catching on wire but holding firm. He’d popped through an iron door at the far wall. Quinn charged it, shoulder first. The door groaned open. A staircase spiraled down in gloom. Slick concrete steps led into emptiness, echoing the drip of water. She stumbled but stayed upright. Cold bit through her coat. Somewhere beneath London, forgotten tracks and disused platforms waited. Footsteps clattered on metal grates. Quinn pressed her palm to the wall, pressing forward on instinct. Rain faded behind her, replaced by a distant thrum of machinery. A low drone. She followed echoes until she reached a grated gate sealed by rusted chains. The suspect knelt, sliding the bone token through a slot. The chains rattled. A panel twisted free. He slipped inside. Quinn’s chest tightened. This wasn’t the Metropolitan grid. She’d chased criminals down every station here. This place hid deeper secrets. She tore at the chains once he entered. The slot spat the token back. She caught it, cold and heavy, engraved with a symbol that looked like a raven in flight. The Council of Eight used that. The clique had murmured about it in clandestine whispers. She shoved at the gate. It yielded with a shriek. Beyond, dim bulbs lit an underground corridor, walls sprayed with cryptic runes. Damp air reeked of mold and something chemical. Every breath tasted wrong. She could radio for backup, but the moment she broadcast this location, whoever ran the market would vanish. So would her suspect, and the chance to learn what happened to Morris. She blocked that thought. Action first. She dropped into the corridor, token clutched in her fist. The door slammed behind her. Only his footsteps guided her deeper. He moved fast, channeling through turnstiles and past stalls where crates of bottled lights glowed like captured fireflies. Figures hunched over tables peddled vials, knives etched with runes, talismans threaded on rusted chains. One vendor lifted his head. Features half-hidden under a hood. He saw Quinn and froze. A bead of golden light pulsed at his throat, then winked out. Quinn didn’t pause to question it. She turned a corner. The suspect stepped into a vault-like chamber, its walls lined with shelves stacked from floor to ceiling. A man in a long coat stood behind a counter of dark wood. Wisps of pale smoke curled around him. Candlelight danced across his angular face. He smiled. “Detective Quinn,” he said, voice low and cultured. “I thought you’d never come.” “Name,” she said. He lifted a finger to his lips. “Not here.” She tossed the bone token on the counter. It clattered against silver goblets and leather-bound tomes. “You’re trafficking in supernatural contraband. Who’s supplying it?” A flicker of admiration passed over his eyes. “Bold. And dangerous. You know what this place is?” “I know it’s illegal.” His laughter echoed off stone walls. “The Veil Market.” She studied him, jacket droplets sizzling where they landed on candle flames. “I’ve heard rumours.” He slid a drawer open. From inside, he drew a slim dagger, its blade black as ink. Quinn’s hand hovered near her holster. The blade caught the light, red runes pulsing along its edge. Blood magic. A dead giveaway. “I don’t want trouble,” she said, voice steady. “Just answers.” He placed the dagger back. “Trouble came looking for you.” His gaze flicked to the shelf behind her. Quinn’s spine stiffened. A man crouched there, medallion glinting at his throat. Saint Christopher’s cross. Tomás. He pressed finger to scar on his forearm—a heartbeat’s signal. Quinn felt relief but swallowed it. She needed more than rescue. The vendor spread hands. Candle smoke coalesced into shapes—rats flitting across the floor, a tower of fire, a skeletal hand. Quinn recognized the illusion from her partner’s old case files. Summoning. Witchcraft. The supernatural had killed Morris. Her jaw clenched. “I want him,” she said. The vendor tilted his head. “You mean Morris?” He flicked ashes into an iron dish. “You’ll find no mercy here.” Quinn pressed forward. Each step echoed like a gunshot. “I’ll take my chances.” Silver-haired women stepped from the shadows, knives flashing at their belts. Men in tailored coats barred the exits. The suspect—he wore a mask carved from bone—took a step back, raising palms as if to plead. Quinn aimed the token at him. He slapped her wrist away. The token hit the floor. It cracked, fracturing the raven symbol. Light snuffed out. A rumble shook the shelves. Books toppled, spilling secrets onto wet floorboards. The crowd pressed in, an oppressive tide of murmurs and flicking blades. She spun, unholstered her pistol. Barrel tracked the vendor’s chest. “Back off.” He raised one hand, knuckles as white as winter. “You’re in over your head, detective.” Quinn’s shoulders coiled around her. The vendor stepped closer. Rainwater dripped from his coat onto polished marble. “We protect our own.” His voice softened. “Behind me—exit.” Her gaze snapped to where the masked suspect crouched. He darted toward a narrow passage choked with hanging chains. She weighed her options: go after him through that, or corner the vendor for answers. Footsteps thundered from deeper tunnels. The market’s heartbeat grew louder. Quin’s breath came in shallow gasps. Her senses burned. Memories of Morris, smiling before he died, haunted her. She fired one shot into the ceiling. Stone dust rained down. The crowd recoiled. “Step aside.” For a heartbeat, none moved. The vendor’s hand twitched. Then he backed up, lifting a candle. Shadows danced across his face as he spoke, lips curling. “Then prove you belong.” Quinn pivoted on her heel, sprinted after the suspect. The masked figure skidded into the chain curtain, yanking it aside. Quinn charged through, chains whipping her cheeks. She emerged in a vast, cavernous hall. Arched ceilings dripped. Rusted rails stretched into darkness. The distant hiss of brakes hissed like a wounded animal. Tomás stood by a platform. He shouted, voice echoing. “Harlow!” Action pulsed through her veins. He pointed at the token fragments in her palm. “That’s the way out—or to more trouble.” She dashed forward, ignoring every instinct telling her to retreat. The suspect stepped onto the tracks. Quinn dove, catching his arm and twisting it behind his back. He yelped. The mask crumbled, revealing hollow eyes and a mouth stretched in a silent scream. Before she could cuff him, a mournful whistle echoed. The platform lights flickered off. Metal groaned. Something approached—a train, ancient and shrouded in mist. Quinn forced the suspect to his knees. “Who sent you?” He stared up at her, eyes wild. “You can’t stop it.” He spat blood. Quinn’s grip tightened. The whistle roared again. The wheels slashed noise through the tunnel. Tomás lunged, grabbing her ankle. She stumbled, caught by the cold concrete. The suspect bolted. He slid under the nearest train car. Sparks flew as wheels ground past him. Quinn scrambled headfirst. Steel glinted inches from her face. She brushed hair from her eyes in time to see the man vault free, sprinting back toward the market. Tomás hauled her up. She panted, heart hammering. He pressed a hand to her cheek. Warm despite the cold air. “Are you hurt?” She shook out her jacket. “He dodged me.” He pointed at the shattered bone token glinting on the tracks. “That’s all you needed to see.” She stared at the cracked raven, then at the dark tunnel sloping down. The platform’s exit stood behind heavy gates. Men in dark coats were already regrouping at the far end of the hall, their silhouettes bleeding into shadow. Quinn checked her watch. The hands had stopped long ago. Rainwater dripped from her hair. The distant hiss of the next train approached. She turned to the tunnel. “We go after him.” Tomás’s brow furrowed. “He led you into the Veil Market.” She nodded, jaw tight. “So did Morris.” He pressed a hand to the token fragments. “If you go in there alone—” Her sharp jaw squared. “I’m not alone.” She slipped the pieces into her pocket and faced the entrance to the underground bazaar, knowing every step would take her deeper into the darkness that had swallowed her partner—and might now swallow her whole.