AI The neon sign above *The Raven’s Nest* flickered , its green glow bleeding into the rain-slicked pavement. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through a puddle as she shoved open the bar’s heavy door, the scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke hitting her like a physical blow. Inside, the usual hum of conversation had died, replaced by the sharp clatter of a chair toppling over. A man—mid-twenties, olive-skinned, dark curls plastered to his forehead—bolted for the back exit, his Saint Christopher medallion bouncing against his chest.
Quinn didn’t hesitate. She vaulted over a table, her worn leather watch strap digging into her wrist as she reached for her radio. "Suspect fleeing on foot, heading east from The Raven’s Nest . Requesting backup—" The radio crackled, then died, the battery light blinking red. *Brilliant.* She tossed it aside and sprinted after him.
Tomás Herrera didn’t look back. He knew these streets better than she did, knew the shortcuts, the alleys, the places where the pavement gave way to something darker. He ducked left into a narrow passage, the brick walls pressing in on either side, the rain above muffled by the overhang of fire escapes. Quinn’s breath came sharp, her lungs burning. She’d lost her partner in a chase like this. Lost him to something she still couldn’t explain. She wasn’t losing another.
The alley spat them out onto Camden High Street, the usual crowd thinned by the downpour. Tomás weaved through the stragglers, his scarred forearm flashing as he shoved past a group of teenagers. Quinn’s jaw tightened. She was gaining on him. The streetlights cast long shadows, turning the pavement into a chessboard of light and dark. Ahead, the entrance to the Camden Town Tube station yawned like a mouth, its stairs descending into the underground.
Tomás didn’t slow. He took the steps two at a time, his boots slapping against the wet concrete. Quinn followed, her hand brushing the grip of her baton. The station was nearly deserted, the few commuters huddled under umbrellas or pressed against the tiled walls. A train rumbled into the station, its brakes screeching. Tomás glanced over his shoulder, his warm brown eyes locking onto hers for a split second before he darted toward the closing doors.
Quinn lunged. Her fingers grazed the back of his jacket, but the doors hissed shut, sealing him inside. The train lurched forward, its lights receding into the tunnel. She cursed, slamming her palm against the nearest pillar. The station’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow over the empty platform. She pulled out her phone, thumbing through her contacts. Backup would take too long. She needed another way in.
A flicker of movement caught her eye. A man in a long coat stood near the far end of the platform, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. He held something in his hand—a small, pale object that looked like bone . Quinn’s instincts prickled. She approached slowly, her boots echoing against the tiles.
"Evening," she said, her voice steady . "You see where he went?"
The man didn’t turn. He lifted the bone token, examining it in the dim light. "He’s not your concern anymore, Detective."
Quinn’s pulse spiked. "And you are?"
A low chuckle. "Just a guide." He gestured toward the far wall, where a service door stood slightly ajar. The paint around the handle was chipped , the metal beneath rusted. "But you’ll want to hurry. The Market doesn’t wait for anyone."
Quinn hesitated. She knew the stories—whispers of an underground black market that moved with the phases of the moon, where the things sold weren’t just illegal, but *impossible *. She’d dismissed them as urban legends. Until now. The door creaked as the man pushed it open wider, revealing a set of narrow stairs descending into darkness.
Her radio was dead. Backup was minutes away, if they even believed her. Tomás was getting farther by the second. Quinn adjusted her grip on her baton and stepped forward. The door groaned shut behind her, sealing her in the dark. The air smelled of damp earth and something older, something metallic. Her breath came fast, her heart hammering against her ribs. The stairs seemed to go on forever, the walls pressing in until she could barely see the steps beneath her feet.
Then, light. A flickering glow at the bottom, casting long shadows across the tunnel walls. Quinn slowed, her boots silent on the packed dirt. The tunnel opened into a vast chamber, its ceiling lost in the gloom . Stalls lined the space, their wares displayed under the dim light of lanterns and candles. The scent of incense and something sharper—alcohol, maybe, or chemicals—hung thick in the air . People moved between the stalls, their faces obscured by hoods or masks, their voices a low murmur.
Quinn’s fingers twitched toward her baton. She wasn’t in Camden anymore. This was the Veil Market. And Tomás was here somewhere.
A hand clamped down on her shoulder.
She spun, her baton raised, but the figure was already retreating into the crowd, their coat blending into the shadows. Quinn caught a glimpse of a grin, teeth too white in the dim light, before they vanished. Her skin crawled. She forced herself to breathe, to focus. She wasn’t here to arrest the Market. She was here for Tomás.
She moved deeper into the chamber, her eyes scanning the stalls. There—a flash of dark curls near a table laden with glass vials, their contents swirling with unnatural colors. Tomás was talking to a vendor, his hands gesturing urgently. Quinn started toward him, but a figure stepped into her path. A woman, her face painted with intricate designs, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight.
"You don’t belong here, Detective," the woman said, her voice a low purr . "This place doesn’t answer to your laws."
Quinn didn’t slow. "I’m not here for the Market. I’m here for him." She nodded toward Tomás.
The woman’s lips curled. "He’s not yours to take."
Quinn’s patience snapped. She sidestepped the woman, her boots kicking up dust as she closed the distance to Tomás. He turned just as she reached him, his eyes widening. "Quinn—"
She grabbed his arm, her grip iron. "You’re coming with me. Now."
Tomás yanked free. "You don’t understand. I can’t—"
A shadow fell over them. The vendor behind the table stood, his height towering over them both. His face was obscured by a deep hood, but his voice was a growl. "Problem, Herrera?"
Tomás swallowed. "No problem. Just a misunderstanding."
Quinn didn’t take her eyes off him. "This isn’t a negotiation."
The vendor chuckled, a sound like gravel shifting. "Everything’s a negotiation here, Detective." He reached beneath the table, and Quinn’s hand flew to her baton. But all he produced was a small, intricately carved box. He set it on the table between them. "Perhaps you’d like to make a trade."
Quinn’s gaze flicked to the box, then back to Tomás. His face was pale, his jaw clenched . She could feel the eyes of the Market on them, the weight of the place pressing in. She didn’t know the rules here. Didn’t know what would happen if she tried to drag Tomás out by force.
But she knew she couldn’t leave without him.
She reached for the box. "What’s the trade?"
The vendor’s grin widened. "Your name. For his freedom."
Quinn’s fingers stilled. "My name?"
Tomás grabbed her wrist. "Don’t. It’s not worth it."
The vendor leaned forward, his voice a whisper . "Names have power here, Detective. And power is the only currency that matters."
Quinn’s mind raced . She could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken threat hanging over them. She didn’t know what giving her name would mean. But she knew she wasn’t leaving without Tomás.
She met the vendor’s gaze. "Deal."
The vendor’s grin turned feral. He snapped his fingers, and the box on the table clicked open. Inside, a slip of paper lay curled, her name already scrawled across it in ink that looked like blood . Tomás lunged for the box, but the vendor was faster. He snatched it up, snapping it shut before Tomás could reach it.
"Too late," the vendor said. "The deal is done."
Quinn’s stomach twisted. She didn’t know what she’d just agreed to. But Tomás was already pulling her away, his grip tight on her arm. "We need to go. Now."
She let him drag her through the crowd, her mind reeling. The Market seemed to shift around them, the stalls blurring together, the voices a cacophony of whispers. Tomás led her toward a narrow passage at the far end of the chamber, its entrance obscured by a tattered curtain. He shoved it aside, revealing another set of stairs, these leading upward.
Quinn didn’t ask where they led. She just followed, her boots pounding against the steps. The air grew colder, the scent of earth giving way to something cleaner. Rain. They were heading back to the surface.
They burst out into the night, the rain soaking them instantly. Quinn gasped, her lungs burning. They were in a different part of Camden, the streets quieter here, the buildings looming like silent sentinels . Tomás didn’t stop. He pulled her into another alley, this one narrower than the last, the walls slick with rain.
Quinn yanked her arm free. "What the hell was that back there?"
Tomás turned, his chest heaving. "You shouldn’t have followed me."
"Cut the crap, Herrera. What were you doing in the Market?"
He hesitated, his eyes darting to the alley’s entrance. "I was getting something. For a friend."
Quinn stepped closer, her voice low. "What kind of something?"
Tomás didn’t answer. His gaze flicked past her, his body tensing. Quinn turned.
A figure stood at the alley’s entrance, silhouetted against the rain. Detective Quinn’s breath caught. She knew that stance , that bearing. It was like looking in a mirror.
The figure stepped forward, the rain parting around her like a curtain. It was her. Another Harlow Quinn. But where her own clothes were soaked and disheveled, this version was pristine , her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a tight bun, her sharp jaw set in a cold smile.
"Hello, Detective," the other Quinn said. "I’ve been waiting for you."