Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRF23H69HAWYE2SRTCTRHB

Rain pounded the pavement in stereo with Quinn’s boots. She slung her leather-strap satchel higher across her back, water dripping from its brass buckle. The suspect—tall, lanky, hooded—skidded around a corner, scattering refuse bins. Quinn hauled in breath, instincts coiled like springs, muscles primed from eighteen years of pounding these streets. “Stop!” she barked. Voice ricocheted off brick and neon. Her leather watch pressed cool against her wrist. No answer but the slap of water against metal shutters. She turned the corner and found the alley swallowed by shadow. Trash wriggled as rats fled. The hooded figure ducked through a gap between corrugated fences. Quinn leaped over a fallen sign. Water cascaded off her shoulders. Pepper-scented diesel and rot stung her nostrils. She caught the glint of torn fabric, the suspect’s boot slipping on wet concrete. He lunged forward. Quinn reached the fence, yanked down a loose panel and vaulted through. Mud clung to her heels. She pressed on, heartbeat thudding like a sledgehammer. A narrow stairwell yawned ahead, half-hidden beneath a flickering lamp. Concrete steps led down into blackness. The suspect had vanished into that void. Quinn ran to the railing and peered into gloom so thick her flashlight beam disintegrated at the first tread. Rainwater dripped from rusted pipes overhead. A single rat darted across the bottom step. The suspect’s breath echoed, distant, urgent. Quinn thumbed the flashlight switch. A narrow cone of yellow light cut through dust motes. The stairwell smelled of mildew, sweat, something old and stubborn. “Herrera!” Quinn hissed, though she couldn’t know if the suspect answered. Tomás Herrera had no reason to haunt this abandoned Tube shaft, but clues pointed to off-the-books deals. If her gut was right, Herrera slipped into the night market rumored to traffic in more than contraband. She clenched her jaw. Three years ago, DS Morris had vanished in a place like this. No warning, no trace. Supernatural’s a word she didn’t believe, not until subtle impossible things tugged at her mind. Morris’s last call: “Quinn, it’s—” Silence. Quinn squared her shoulders. The suspects of the clique had dealt in whispers of The Veil Market. Tonight the market had opened beneath Camden. She’d always assumed it stayed hidden, shifting station by station. Now someone had left a bone token on her desk. A dare. An invitation. She advanced down the stairs. Every step squelched. Rails stained dark with rust scraped at her gloves. At the bottom, a heavy metal door barred the tunnel. A small slit of light shone through a gap. Quinn lifted her boot and kicked. The door groaned, swung inward. Beyond, tiles glowed with pooled water. Old advertisements peeled. A train sign read “Camden Town” but every letter shimmered. The corridor stretched away, lined with boarded-up shopfronts. Somewhere ahead, laughter drifted—low, sharp, amused. Quinn flicked off her flashlight. Rainwater pings echoed on overhead pipes. She reached inside her coat and drew her revolver. Brown eyes narrowed. She could feel her heart rate spiking, but military precision took over. No second-guess. A figure emerged at the corridor’s far end, backlit by green neon dripping through a fractured lattice of boards. Quinn crept forward, gun raised. The suspect paused, ears pricked, then bolted to the left. Quinn sprinted after. Her boots slapped the tiles. She rounded a corner and entered a vaulted chamber lit by emerald bulbs strapped to girders. Rainwater dripped from the ceiling, plopping steady rhythms. The chamber teemed with stalls. Shadowy traders offered jars full of glowing liquids, pouches embroidered with strange symbols, knives with braided bone handles. Faces lurched from behind veils. Quills scratched on parchment sealed in wax. The air tasted of metal and sweat. The hooded suspect darted between stalls, brushing past a vendor whose lined face gleamed with expectancy. A man in patchwork robes exchanged a silver filigree box for wads of banknotes, counting with long, thin fingers. Quinn fired a warning shot; the metal clang reverberated, tables rattled. A hush fell. Traders fixed her with dark eyes. One lifted a hand, clicking bone beads on a string. “Business closed,” he said, voice onyx soft. Quinn skirted around a crate of battered luggage. Her pulse throbbed. The suspect stood at the far exit, clutching something small and white in gloved fingers—maybe a bone token of his own. He shoved it into his pocket and bolted deeper. “Stop,” Quinn growled. She darted after him, weaving past lanterns that cast faces in half-light. Stalls gave way to a circular pit trimmed with shattered mirrors. Through broken glass, she glimpsed more passageways branching into pitch. The chamber pulsed with murmurs, a low thrum like distant drums. Quinn remembered Morris’s last words, a frantic whisper: “Down here, Harlow…” She swallowed. This place killed him. She’d sworn to unravel how. But her partner had died; her city needed answers. The suspect crouched behind a vendor’s cart piled with metal glyphs. Quinn raised the gun. The suspect flinched. He ripped off his hood. Chalk-white hair plastered to a gaunt skull. Warm brown eyes met her. “You,” Quinn exhaled. He slid a hand from his pocket, revealing a carved bone token. She recognised the shape: a stylised raven’s wing. Market entry. He held it like a key. He rammed it against a brass plate inset in the floor. The tile trembled, sank. A section of the chamber floor dropped, revealing a ladder down into darkness. Cold air hissed up. From below rose a soft clang of metal against stone, a heartbeat in the void. Quinn took one step back. Water swept around her boots. Her leather watch glinted under the neon. She weighed her options. The suspect scrambled onto the ladder, turning. “If you follow,” he rasped, “no one’s coming for you.” He plunged downward. Quinn hesitated at the pit’s edge. The emerald light flickered across broken mirrors. A dozen faces watched: traders, customers, silhouettes writhing at the chamber’s rim. The air reeked of secrets best left buried. She clenched her teeth. The thunder of rain overhead echoed through the chamber, mingling with distant screech of trains on abandoned tracks. Her pulse thumped. Goosefleshed arms itched beneath her coat. “No back door,” she muttered. She’d need to find another exit or wait until this Market shifted on the next moon. But the suspect had vital intel—woven into that bone token. He’d slipped through her grasp once. Tonight couldn’t be the second. Footsteps above rattled a loose grille. Quinn looked up as someone dropped from a shadowed alcove—Tomás Herrera stepping into the chamber, wet curls plastered to his forehead, Saint Christopher medallion catching the light. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low. Quinn pivoted. “He’s my suspect.” Tomás wiped rain from his face. He hesitated, glancing at the pit. “You don’t follow him down. Not alone.” She winced at his use of alone. She’d trusted few since Morris died. “I don’t have a choice.” He opened his mouth. Closed it. “The Veil Market isn’t a deal you make with gunfire,” he said, nodding at her weapon. “Authorities never do well here.” Her grip tightened. “And you do?” Tomás flicked one glance at the emerald bulbs, then back to her. “There are rules. You break them, you lose more than your badge.” She glanced at the pit. Shadows yawned, promising more than mortal danger. But she’d lost Morris to this underworld. She owed him answers. The suspect dangled the promise. She inhaled the dank air, felt the hum of power. She weighed her duty against the unknown. Rainheart of steel, she had to choose. Quinn stepped to the pit’s edge. The tile slid the rest of the way. The ladder swayed. Light receded into the black. Tomás took a step forward. His scar gleamed. “If you go—” She cut him off. “Stay here. If I need you…” His jaw clenched. He nodded once. “Be careful.” Quinn dropped her revolver into a thigh holster, unhooked her satchel, and slung it forward. Her leather watch tapped against metal. She lowered herself onto the first rung. Cold bit her hands. “Wait for word,” Tomás called. She didn’t answer. The ladder rattled with her weight as she descended. Mirrors fractured the emerald glow into shards, each reflecting a different angle of the Market above. She focused on the ladder, each rung closer to a place where light died entirely. At the bottom, her boots hit slick stone. She turned. A narrow passage stretched ahead, lit by phosphorescent veins tracing the walls. The hum beneath her feet grew louder, like something vast and breathing. She straightened. Water dripped onto her head, rolled down her jacket. She wiped it from her brow, fingers trembling. A distant voice called, guttural and urgent. Footsteps echoed. She raised her gun but kept moving. The passage forked. One tunnel sloped down; the other rose toward muffled chatter. Quinn glanced back at the ladder. The emerald chamber above looked miles away. She squared her shoulders. Her reflection shimmered in the veins of the walls—brown eyes, salt-and-pepper hair plastered, a detective poised on the edge of the unknown. She stepped forward, the passage swallowing her into darkness.