Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR2RFGEVQNPTPSNSRK7WBN

The rain came down in sharp, diagonal sheets, stinging Quinn’s face as she sprinted after the retreating figure. Streetlights bled halos into the downpour, turning the slick cobbles of Soho into a smeared watercolor of amber and black. She’d spotted him leaving The Raven’s Nest—Herrera, the off-the-books medic. He’d made her the moment he stepped out, their eyes locking across the wet street before he’d turned and bolted. Damn instincts. Her breath rasped in her throat, her worn leather watch band digging into her wrist with each pump of her arms. He was fast, weaving through the late-night traffic, a dark shape flickering between parked cars and the glow of neon signs. She was faster. Eighteen years of foot chases, of running toward screams instead of away. It paid off now. She closed the gap as they careened past sex shops and shuttered cafes, her shoes splashing through overflowing gutters. He ducked into a side alley, a cut-through she knew well, a narrow canyon of brickwork and fire escapes. Her foot landed in a deep puddle, cold water flooding her shoe, but she pushed harder. The alley opened onto the wider expanse of Camden High Street, quieter now under the hissing deluge. He was a moving shadow under the railway arches. He disappeared into one. She slowed, hand on the grip of her baton, her approach deliberate. The arch led into a pedestrian tunnel, its walls graffitied with wild, chaotic tags. The sound of the rain muted to a distant roar behind her. The air smelled of damp concrete and spilled lager. She could hear the slap of his footsteps ahead, fading. He wasn’t running blindly. He had a destination. The tunnel opened onto a flight of rusted iron stairs descending into darkness. She stopped at the top, her training screaming caution. This wasn’t pursuit. This was a path. A memory of Morris flickered, unbidden—the way he’d looked at that warehouse door three years ago, the same hesitation in his eyes, just before he’d gone in first. She shook her head, sending water droplets flying from her salt-and-pepper crop. Morris’s ghost didn’t get a vote. Below, she saw a faint, flickering light. He must have hit a switch. She descended carefully, each step groaning under her weight, the sound echoing in the confined space. The stairs bottomed out into a wider brick passageway, part of the old Tube system, long abandoned. Bare bulbs hung from frayed cords at irregular intervals, casting pools of uncertain light. The air was colder here, thick with the smell of earth and something else—ozone and old incense. The passage opened into a cavernous space. An abandoned platform. And it wasn’t empty. Her breath caught. Stalls stretched along the platform’s length, lit by lanterns and strings of fairy lights powered by unseen generators. Tarps hung from pipes overhead, making a patchwork ceiling. Figures moved in the low light, hoods and hats pulled low. Some stalls displayed what looked like antique weapons, others glittering vials of dark liquid. One sold nothing but bones of various sizes, carved and polished. This was the Veil Market. She’d heard the whispers, scraps of intel passed around the Met’s weirdest corners, always dismissed as folklore. The underground market that moved, that operated beyond the laws of man and, she now suspected, of nature. Herrera was thirty feet ahead, weaving through a thin crowd of shoppers. He didn’t look back. He knew she was there. He was leading her. Her instincts pulled her in two directions. Procedure said establish a safe perimeter, call for backup, observe. This was a major unknown, a battlefield she hadn’t scouted. Morris had taught her that. But procedure had also gotten Morris killed—because procedure didn’t account for things that went bump in the night. She needed to know what Herrera was doing here, what connection existed between him, the Clique, and this place. She had to follow. She stepped onto the platform, the noise from the stalls washing over her—muttered conversations in languages she couldn’t place, the clink of glass, the dry rustle of strange fabrics. A vendor with milky, cataracted eyes turned his head toward her, tracking her movement without seeming to see her. She kept her posture military-straight, her face a neutral mask, but her heart hammered against her ribs. She followed Herrera’s path past a stall selling what looked like bottled mist. A tall, gaunt figure with skin the color of tarnished pewter was negotiating in harsh, guttural tones. Quinn averted her gaze. Another stall held books bound in what appeared to be human skin. She focused on the back of Tomás Herrera’s head, on the dark curls plastered to his skull by the rain, on the saint’s medallion that glinted at his throat. He stopped abruptly at a stall tucked under a recessed archway, partially hidden by a tapestry depicting a three-faced moon. The vendor was a short, round woman with unnaturally sharp teeth. She smiled as Herrera approached. Quinn drifted closer, pretending to examine a neighboring stall’s wares—crystals that pulsed with a faint inner light. She listened, straining to hear over the market’s hum. “You’re late,” the woman hissed, her voice like crinkling parchment. “I was followed.” Herrera’s tone was low, tense. “By the law?” “Worse. By her.” A beat of silence. Quinn’s blood ran cold. The woman chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “Brave of her to walk our floors. Or foolish. Does she have the token?” “I don’t know,” Herrera said. “I didn’t ask.” “You led her here. Purpose?” “You know why. She’s getting close to them. She needs to see.” “Seeing can be dangerous. For the seer.” “It’s her choice now,” Herrera said, and she could hear a strange mix of pity and resolve in his voice. “She followed me down the stairs.” Quinn processed the words. *She needs to see. It’s her choice now.* This wasn’t an escape; it was an invitation. A trap, or a test. Herrera hadn’t just run, he’d guided her here, past streets he could have easily lost her on. He wanted her inside the Veil Market. The conversation dropped to whispers she couldn’t catch. She saw currency change hands—not pound notes, but irregular, bone-colored chips. Herrera pocketed a small, cloth-wrapped parcel and turned. His warm brown eyes met hers across the crowded platform. No surprise, no alarm. He’d known she was there all along. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod toward the far end of the market, then melted back into the flow of shoppers, disappearing behind a hanging curtain of beads. She stood frozen. The path ahead led deeper into the market, past stalls selling who-knew-what, into a darkness punctuated by unnatural lights. The way back was up the rusted stairs, into the rain, back to a world that made sense. Back to a case where things were tidy, where evidence went into plastic bags and killers had fingerprints. But this was the case now. Morris had chased shadows, and the shadows had swallowed him whole. She could step back into the rain, return to her desk, write a report about losing a suspect in Camden. Or she could follow, see what Herrera wanted her to see, understand the game she was actually playing. A vendor nearby stirred a pot of something that smelled of decay and clove. The gaunt, pewter-skinned creature watched her with undisguised interest. She was an outsider here, uninvited, unprotected. Her hand brushed the worn leather of her watch. Morris’s laughter echoed in her memory, a bright sound gone forever. She’d spent three years digging through the debris of his death, finding nothing but official reports and procedural blanks. Here was a door. A dark, strange, terrifying door. Quinn took a deep breath, the air thick with alien scents. She straightened her jacket, fixed her eyes on the spot where Herrera had vanished, and stepped forward. She walked with military precision into the heart of the hidden market, leaving the known world and its safe choices behind.