Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRH1MMPTNQ2GQ07BTNHEAK

The rain came down in sheets, obscuring vision, muffling footsteps against the slippery pavement. Detective Harlow Quinn pulled her collar tighter around her neck, a futile gesture against the sodden cold creeping through her coat. Her mind was a metronome, ticking with the rhythmic smack of water against metal and concrete as she twisted through narrow streets. "Quinn, you're here late," hummed a voice from a shadowed doorstep. The stale stench of old cigarettes lingered in the air. Harlow spared a glance. The figure loomed briefly, face obscured beneath a wide-brimmed hat, before blending back into the rain. Her attention was elsewhere, scanning each dimly-lit alleyway, her breath forming a ghostly vapor. The suspect was somewhere ahead, she knew it instinctively. The glimpse of a distinctive silhouette just before the rain swallowed him had set it off—pure instinct driving her now. Her years in the force, the loss of DS Morris—the memory of that night played like a silent film in her thoughts—added an edge to her pursuit. Someone slipped in next to her, matching her speed with ease. "You're pushing it tonight, Harlow." She looked sideways, recognizing the olive skin and short curls. Tomás Herrera. His presence was both a surprise and a challenge, though he wore it with his usual nonchalance, boots splashing through shallow puddles alongside hers. "Thought you'd find a corner to dry out in." Her voice carried over the rain, tinged with cool focus. "Corner's boring without company," Tomás countered, adjusting the medallion he wore, catching the gleam of a streetlamp. They darted past closed shops, their lights extinguished, plywood boards hiding forgotten window displays. Neon signs flickered like dying fireflies, the collective hum of the city blending into the storm. Ahead, the suspect turned sharply, vanishing down a flight of steps. Harlow paused for the briefest moment at the entrance to The Veil Market. She had only heard whispers of it, of the dangers and the strange wares hidden beneath the city. It wasn’t on any sanctioned map, yet here it loomed—a tantalizing specter of mystery and unseen threats. “You can’t be seriously thinking about going in there,” Tomás probed at her shoulder, droplets rolling off his gaze like liquid amber. She scanned the entrance, her internal debate a roil of thoughts. “Veil Market. The most obvious hideout for the city's most obvious trouble.” He clicked his tongue, unconvinced. “Going in blind?” “Got any better ideas?” Her eyes never left the darkness, searching its depth. “Safety in numbers, I suppose,” Tomás sighed with a resigned grin. “Though doubtful here.” The worn stone steps beckoned, the slick and treacherous descent into unknown depths clawing at her courage. The city’s noises faded as they descended—a muted backdrop to the electric air of the entrance. A skeletal figure, draped in a worn shawl, crept from the shadows at the bottom of the staircase. "Token, or nothing," came the brittle whisper. Harlow’s confidence wavered for a moment. She didn’t have a bone token. Tomás stepped forward, producing one with a deftness that belied its macabre nature. Sliding it into the figure’s skeletal grip, he nodded Harlow onwards, dismissing her unspoken question. She followed, no time for explanations. They emerged in a warren of stalls and wares that staggered the senses. Lilting cries from another world echoed, merchandise glowing faintly, as though the air itself brimmed with latent magic. The Keeper of the Market, an ethereal presence that seemed to watch, appraised, but never engaged in the chaos surrounding. Harlow scanned the bustling crowd, suspect evaporated into the haze of strange lights and chatter. Her fingers brushed the leather watch on her wrist, a grounding gesture. The market vibrated with energy, the mass of faces both familiar and bizarre. “Feels like I’m dreamin’,” Tomás murmured at her side, hands tucked into pockets. His eyes roamed with detached interest, gauging the undercurrent of tension that gripped the market's patrons. “Must be something big to draw ‘em here, all at once.” “It’s more than big. It’s new.” Harlow could feel it—a deadly weight pressing down, an unspoken danger unfurling around them. Uncertainty and curiosity vied for control, wrapping the crowd in hushed unease. In a rare moment of clarity, she spotted the suspect weaving through the maze of stalls—his eyes darting, hands brushing away the curious and suspicious. Without hesitating, Harlow plunged further into the market, senses keening to track the erratic path he cut. "Always the thrill seeker, aren'tcha?" Tomás teased, lagging behind slightly as enthusiasm overshadowed caution. “Not thrill. Necessity,” Harlow cast back, feet moving with practiced ease. Each step was deliberate, each halt calculated. Her gaze was unyielding, fixing on a mutual destination—the exit on the opposite side. As the suspect slipped past the final stall, seconds from the exit, he chanced a look back—a fatal pause. The brief lock of their gazes held a thousand realizations. In that instant, Harlow recognized something else: this chase wasn't born of coincidence. He wanted her to follow, or rather—follow too far. Instinct screamed, echoing urgency deep within. “Keep watch here,” she commanded Tomás, sending him a nod to track his instincts while she pressed forward. Through the market's far edge, footsteps mingled with foreign sounds. Harlow crossed the threshold into moving shadows—no longer the hollow confinement of the city or its eclectic underbelly. The suspect, one with the rain and wind, vanished. “What now, Detective?” Tomás’ voice carried only inches behind her, a steady anchor she hadn’t realized she needed. She measured the void of absence left behind, the familiar feeling that settled, the memory of DS Morris stirring amidst it. “We wait, Tomás." The city behind them, the familiar mysteries sharper now, bared its teeth. The Raven's Nest beckoned, a refuge from the storm, where answers lay tangled in shadows unheard.