Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRMA9Y5GJ1BFAM7B1MWAHX

The rain hammered down on the slick pavement, turning the neon reflections into liquid smears of color. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted after the figure disappearing around the corner, her breath sharp in her chest. The suspect—hooded, fast—had been tailing her for blocks before she’d made him. Now he was running, and that was all the confirmation she needed. She skidded around the corner, her boots splashing through a puddle. The street was narrow, lined with shuttered shops and the occasional flickering streetlamp. The hooded figure darted into an alley, and Quinn followed without hesitation. Her wristwatch, the worn leather strap damp against her skin, read 2:17 AM. Too late for witnesses, too early for the morning shift. Perfect for someone who didn’t want to be seen. The alley dead-ended at a rusted metal door. The suspect was already through it, the door swinging shut behind him. Quinn didn’t slow. She slammed her shoulder into it, bursting into a dimly lit stairwell that reeked of mildew and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or old magic. The steps descended into darkness. She hesitated, just for a second. No backup. No idea what was down there. But the case had been cold for too long, and this was the first real lead in months. She took the stairs two at a time. The air grew thicker, warmer, the deeper she went. The sound of dripping water echoed off the curved brick walls—old Tube tunnels, maybe. Abandoned, but not empty. At the bottom, a flickering lantern cast jagged shadows across a heavy wooden door. A single bone token hung from a nail beside it. Quinn’s fingers hovered over it. She’d heard whispers about the Veil Market, but she’d never seen it. Never had reason to. A muffled voice carried through the door—low, urgent. The suspect was close. She grabbed the token. The door swung open on silent hinges. The market sprawled before her, a labyrinth of stalls and makeshift tents under the vaulted ceiling of the disused station. Lanterns hung from rusted pipes, their light wavering like candle flames. The crowd was a shifting mass of shadows and silhouettes—some human, some not. A vendor with too-long fingers haggled over a jar of something that pulsed faintly blue. A woman with a crow perched on her shoulder counted out coins that glinted like teeth. Quinn’s hand drifted to her sidearm, but she didn’t draw. Not yet. The hooded figure was moving fast, weaving through the crowd. She followed, keeping her strides measured, her posture loose. Military precision, even here. A hand caught her elbow. “You’re not supposed to be here, detective.” She turned. Tomás Herrera stood beside her, his olive skin washed gold in the lantern light. His Saint Christopher medallion glinted at his throat. The scar on his forearm stood pale against his skin. She pulled her arm free. “You know him?” Tomás’s gaze flicked toward the retreating figure. “I know this isn’t your place.” “He’s involved.” “In what?” Quinn’s jaw tightened. “Morris.” Tomás exhaled sharply. “Christ.” He glanced around, then leaned in. “You follow him deeper in, you don’t come back out. Not without help.” “Then help me.” He studied her face, then nodded once. “Stay close.” They moved through the market, the crowd parting subtly around Tomás. The air smelled of incense and iron. Up ahead, the hooded figure ducked behind a curtain into a smaller alcove. Quinn reached for her gun. Tomás caught her wrist. “Not here. You pull that, you start a war.” She met his eyes. “Then what do you suggest?” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small vial filled with dark liquid. “Distraction.” He threw it against the far wall. The glass shattered, and the liquid burst into thick, swirling smoke. The market erupted into shouts and scrambling bodies. Quinn didn’t wait. She lunged for the alcove, shoving the curtain aside. The hooded figure stood in the center of the cramped space, his back to her. Slowly, he turned. The hood fell back. Quinn’s breath caught. It wasn’t a suspect. It was DS Morris.