Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR4ABSTXQQS3Z6RYQAR0EX

Rain hammered neon into puddles along Dean Street. Detective Harlow Quinn dodged a cyclist, boots splashing water up her trouser legs, haze swirling around her as she spotted the flick of a black coat off into the night. Streetlights fought a losing battle against heavy clouds. Quinn caught her breath at the curb, sharp jaw clenched, salt-and-pepper fringe slicked to her forehead. The suspect looked over his shoulder—thin, limping, eyes wide. He darted past a cab and disappeared down Greek Street. She pressed the worn leather watch tight to her wrist, the old habit a silent comfort. There wasn’t time for backup. There was the shape slipping further away, coat catching on the sharp corners of Soho, vanishing into the shadow between two shuttered shops—a sliver of alley. Quinn glanced up. No sign of anyone watching, except the CCTV glinting down, recording her, not him. So much for a fair game. A dog barked somewhere. Quinn ducked through the alley, shoulder brushing brick, hand ready on the grip of her torch. The passage narrowed, foul with bin smells. Water ran off the corrugated metal above and spattered cold onto her neck. Ahead, a metal gate rattled—her quarry forced it and vanished below the bricks. Quinn gritted her teeth. Options flickered through her mind—protocol, radios, jurisdiction. She crouched and looked down. Steps sank into darkness, slick with algae. She flicked her torch on—bare bulb of light, picked out boots scuffing down ahead, the echo of hurried breath. She followed. Cool air pressed in, clinging damp. Pipework overhead dripped. The steps wound lower, then spat her into a tiled corridor, flaking azure and cream. Her quarry’s pace echoed in the silence. A rush of adrenaline cut straight through the exhaustion. He shot a glance over his shoulder, then threw himself left through a battered metal door. Quinn followed, not slowing—a cop’s instincts and stubbornness both digging in. She stumbled out into something uncanny. The tunnel stretched wide—impossibly so. Lamplight flickered on lines of market stalls, each hung with faded fabrics, battered candelabras, jars of odd powders. Voices murmured in strange accents, some not quite human. The air buzzed, chemical-sweet and metallic. She pressed herself behind a pillar, breathing hard. The suspect glanced back, dodged a thick-set woman with a goat’s head, then vanished deeper among the stalls. Quinn’s training argued for retreat—unfamiliar territory, no backup. But adrenaline drowned the voice; the case demanded answers. She fished in her pocket, found her badge, its edge cool and grounding. Then she went forward, jaw set, eyes sharp, scanning crowd and shadows both. The Market pressed close, twitching, hungry. An old man with fox-bright eyes eyed her wrist. “Looking to sell, officer? Fine trinket for a fine price.” She ignored him, kept low, trailing her quarry. Past a stall of dried bones and pink-glowing orbs, past a troupe of street kids bartering with a woman whose hands shimmered blue. The crowd sucked at her—eyes watching, whispers curling. Footprints slicked with blood and spilled port led off to the left. She cut that way, counting heartbeats. Down a row where brass lanterns hissed moths, she caught sight of the coat—her man bartering with a tall, wiry trader, who slid something into his palm. A bone token, rough and ancient. Quinn ducked behind a half-open crate, adjusting her stance, every nerve firing. Words drifted. "I need out—now." The trader’s teeth showed, sharp, uneven. “No token, no gate.” Her quarry produced the token. The trader led him to a side passage, lined with velvet curtains. Quinn circled, keeping to shadows. Her mind skimmed casefiles: supernatural black market, whispers of the Veil, missing persons. Morris’s face flashed up—gone three years, still unburied in her bones. She set her jaw. Not tonight. As the two vanished behind a curtain, a hand shot out and caught Quinn’s sleeve. Warm brown eyes, wary. “You shouldn’t be here.” Tomás Herrera, the voice she recognised from tip lines and stitched bodies. She shook him loose. "Bastard’s mine—move." Herrera looked her up and down, voice low. “The Market eats cops, Harlow. Let this one go.” She pressed forward. Herrera blocked her again, hard, scar on his forearm catching the lamplight. “Lose him tonight, you lose him forever,” he warned. “You follow, you don’t come back clean.” Rain ran down her neck, inside her shirt. She kept her voice steady. “Won’t turn my back. He murdered two men last night—left their eyes burned out. Yours, their blood, same alley.” Tomás’ jaw tightened. "People in here play deep games. You understand?" She shot him a look, brown eyes steel. "Games end. Justice doesn't." She shouldered past. Her quarry slipped beyond the curtain. Quinn darted after, heart hissing, torch light held low. The curtain’s touch chilled her. On the other side, the passage bent, brick walls bleeding moss, lanterns casting greenish shadows. A group huddled at the far end, faces half-wolf, half-woman; behind them, an old Tube platform, tracks bleeding into black. The suspect—her suspect—headed toward an arched gate, bone-slat barrier rising magically as tokens changed hands. A hum vibrated the air, a keening pressure behind Quinn’s eyes. She went forward, blending with the crowd, shoulders squared, boots silent. A stallholder thrust a ribbon of dried flowers at her—she waved it away, kept her eyes sharp. Her quarry paused at the gate, head low. The trader regarded him, face flickering between human and something else, eyes all pupil. "My business is outside," Quinn called, voice crisp as frost. The trader’s mouth curled. The crowd shuddered away, sensing trouble. Her quarry twisted, eyes wild and desperate. “Stay back,” he spat, hand dipping into his coat. Quinn’s own hand drifted to her belt, fingers brushing cold metal. No way she’d shoot—too many civilians, too much fallout—but she squared up, stance wide. "You run again, you vanish for good," she called, keeping steady. "Or you face it here, with the law." The hum at the gate built to a shriek. Her suspect wavered, torn between worlds. The crowd swirled, a beast of whispers and judgements. Tomás pushed through behind her, voice urgent. “Step back, Harlow. This place—” She cut him off. “Tell him.” Tomás fixed the man with a stare. “You cross the Veil now, you’re not coming back. Not as you.” The suspect stared between them. Street rain glistened in his hair, jaw trembling. Quinn held his gaze—one cop, nothing left of fear, all battered resolve. The Market seemed to hang, suspended, the shriek fading, only heartbeats and rain echoing through the buried city.