Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR6V2DR130E3QAXRSQ9TB8

The rain came down in sheets, turning the London streets into a slick, glistening maze. Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she rounded the corner, her breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. The neon glow of a pub sign—*The Raven’s Nest*—flickered in the distance, its green light bleeding into the wet pavement. She didn’t slow down. Ahead, a figure darted between the shadows, his dark coat flaring behind him like a crow’s wings. Tomás Herrera. The paramedic. The one who’d been at every crime scene before the bodies even went cold. "Stop! Police!" Quinn’s voice cut through the downpour, but Herrera didn’t even glance back. He vaulted over a stack of crates, his boots skidding on the wet cobblestones before he righted himself and disappeared down a narrow alley. Quinn cursed under her breath. She wasn’t losing him. Not tonight. The alley opened into a wider street, the rain muffling the distant hum of traffic. Herrera was already halfway across, his silhouette weaving between parked cars. Quinn’s fingers twitched near her holster, but she didn’t draw. Not yet. A car horn blared as Herrera dodged into the road, barely missing a taxi. Quinn followed, her pulse hammering in her throat. The taxi’s brake lights flared red, illuminating Herrera’s face for a split second—wide eyes, clenched jaw—before he vanished into another side street. She wasn’t close enough. The side street twisted into a narrower passage, the buildings leaning in like conspirators. The rain drummed against the pavement, drowning out everything but the sound of her own breathing. Herrera’s footsteps echoed ahead, faster now. He knew she was gaining. A flicker of movement. Quinn lunged forward just as Herrera ducked into a recessed doorway. She skidded to a stop, pressing herself against the damp brick, her hand resting on the grip of her baton. Silence. The doorway yawned before her, dark and empty. A rusted sign creaked overhead—*Camden Tube Station (Disused)*. The metal gates hung ajar, the gap just wide enough for a person to slip through. Quinn exhaled through her nose. She knew this place. Or rather, she knew the rumors. A black market beneath the city, one that didn’t show up on any official records. The kind of place where people disappeared. She stepped forward, her boot crunching on broken glass. The air smelled of damp concrete and something sharper—copper, maybe, or ozone. Herrera had gone down there. No question. Her fingers tightened around the baton. Eighteen years on the force, and she’d never hesitated before. But this wasn’t just another chase. This was the Veil Market. And if the stories were true, she wasn’t just walking into danger. She was walking into something else entirely. The stairs descended into darkness. Quinn flicked on her torch, the beam cutting through the gloom. The walls were lined with graffiti, layers of it, some fresh, some so old the paint had flaked away. At the bottom, a tunnel stretched forward, the tracks long since ripped up, the space repurposed. Voices murmured in the distance. Laughter. The clink of glass. Quinn stepped onto the platform, her torch sweeping over the scene. Stalls lined the walls, draped in dark fabrics, their wares hidden in the shadows. A woman with silver-streaked hair watched her from behind a table laden with jars of swirling liquid. A man in a long coat turned away as she passed, his fingers brushing a display of what looked like bones. And then she saw him. Herrera stood near the far end of the platform, his back to her, talking to a figure in a hooded cloak. The cloak’s hands moved in quick, precise gestures, pressing something into Herrera’s palm—a small, white object. A bone token. Quinn’s jaw tightened. She took a step forward. The hooded figure turned, just slightly, as if sensing her presence. Herrera’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t look back, but his voice carried, low and urgent. "You shouldn’t be here, Detective." Quinn didn’t answer. She took another step, her torchlight flickering over the stalls. The silver-haired woman’s eyes tracked her. The man in the coat had vanished. Herrera finally turned, his face half-lit by the dim glow of a lantern. His Saint Christopher medallion glinted at his throat. "This isn’t your world." Quinn’s grip on the baton didn’t loosen. "Where’s the girl?" Herrera’s expression didn’t change. "What girl?" "The one from the docks. The one you treated before the body was even cold." A beat of silence. Then Herrera exhaled, his breath fogging in the damp air. "You don’t understand what you’re dealing with." Quinn took another step. The platform seemed to shrink around her. The murmurs of the market had stilled. Even the air felt heavier. "Then explain it to me." Herrera’s fingers curled around the bone token. His scar stood out pale against his skin. "You really want to know?" Quinn didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The hooded figure moved then, stepping between them. The cloak’s fabric shifted, revealing nothing beneath—just darkness, swallowing the light. Herrera’s voice dropped to a whisper. "Run."