Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR0B2ZJSYFRW1YVA8TD0D9

Rain lashed down on the deserted streets of Soho, casting a rhythmic gloom over the neon-drenched signs. Detective Harlow Quinn's eyes, narrowed against the downpour, fixed intently on the figure darting ahead. Her quarry, a hooded individual, had led her on a merry chase from the doorstep of The Raven's Nest, where a whispered tip had promised a clique gathering. Eighteen years of service didn't prepare you for nights like these, but Quinn's military-honed bearing kept her pace steady as she pursued her suspect into the heart of the city. "Stop! Police!" Quinn shouted above the rain's cacophony, the words echoing off the wet pavement. Her suspect didn't flinch, vanishing around a corner into the maze of Camden's back alleys. Quinn followed, her worn leather watch sliding down her wrist as she pushed through the turn. A solitary streetlamp cast eerie shadows on the walls, making it seem as if the very night was closing in around her. Ahead, the figure plunged down a set of steps, almost invisible in the darkness. Quinn's sharp jaw clenched in hesitation—the entrance to the Veil Market, if her informant was to be trusted. A place where the city's supernatural underbelly congregated, hidden from prying eyes behind the requirement of a bone token for entry. Her hand instinctively went to her belt, where her police ID hung, a paltry defense against whatever lay beneath. With a deep breath, Quinn descended into the unknown, leaving the rain-soaked streets behind. At the bottom of the stairs, a dimly lit archway marked the entrance to the abandoned Tube station, now the Veil Market's temporary home. A figure, shrouded in shadows, blocked her path. "Token?" The voice was as rough as the stone walls surrounding them. Quinn's eyes locked onto the figure, her mind racing. To proceed would mean compromising her investigation, potentially alerting her suspect's allies within the clique. Yet, to turn back now might lose her the only lead in a case that had been chillingly quiet, much like the night three years ago that took DS Morris. "I'm looking for a hooded individual," Quinn stated, her tone firm, bypassing the token query. "Seen them?" The guardian of the entrance didn't budge, the silence stretching until Quinn wondered if she'd misjudged the situation entirely. Then, in a movement almost imperceptible, the figure stepped aside, revealing a sliver of the market within. "Your presence is... noted, Detective. You might find what you're looking for deeper in. But be advised, once you enter, you're subject to the Market's... etiquettes." Quinn's gaze pierced the dim light, her senses on high alert as she moved past the guardian into theVeil Market. The air was heavy with the scent of old books, smoke, and something indescribably metallic. Stalls selling everything from glowing elixirs to ancient tomes lined the platforms, the vendors and clientele a mix of the mundane and the grotesquely inhuman. "Keep up, Detective," a voice whispered close to her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. The hooded figure from the streets now stood a few feet ahead, partially concealed by a stack of crates. "If you can." Quinn didn't respond, her focus solely on navigating the crowded market without drawing undue attention. They wove through the throng, passing by a stall offering 'Memory Elixirs' and another with 'Curios from Beyond the Veil'. The detective's grip on her jacket pocket, where her police notebook was stashed, tightened; this was a whole new level of criminal activity. As they approached a particularly shady-looking stall tucked away in a corner, the hooded figure finally stopped, engaging in a hushed conversation with the vendor. Quinn recognized the emblem on the stall's banner—a snake consuming its tail—as associated with the clique her investigation had been circling around for months. The vendor, a gaunt figure with eyes that shimmered like the surface of dark water, handed the hooded individual a small pouch. In exchange, Quinn caught the glimpse of a bone token changing hands, the transaction swift and silent. "Now's your chance, Detective," the hooded figure muttered, turning to face Quinn with an unnerving smile. "Care to make a purchase?" Quinn's response was cut short by the sudden appearance of Tomás Herrera, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting under the faint light as he smoothly interposed himself between Quinn and the stall. "Evening, Detective. I see you've found the... local nightlife. Perhaps I can escort you back to more familiar streets?" The offer hung in the air, laden with an unspoken warning: this was not her territory. Quinn's eyes met Herrera's, a spark of understanding passing between them. She knew him, or at least, his reputation as a clandestine medical provider within the supernatural community. The question was, whose side was he on tonight? "I think I'll manage, Mr. Herrera," Quinn replied, her gaze never leaving the hooded figure, now watching her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. "My business here is far from over." The Hooded Figure ______ **Scene Continuation Point**