AI “Stop!” Detective Quinn’s order ricocheted off alley walls as the suspect bolted through puddles, plastic bags clinging to his legs. Her shoes pounded after him, even, measured , deliberate—military patience layered beneath the urgency. Her breath steamed in the cold air, but her jaw stayed set, sharp as always.
He slipped. Left, not right. Past the rotting door with the red sticker. Quinn closed distance, knees flexing. Not his first chase, but he was flagging ; his silhouette flickered in stuttering shopfront lights. He glanced back, panic blooming. Brown eyes, older than his record suggested. Her eyes found the blade glinting at his waistband. Something more than desperation urging this one.
“You’re out of pavement!” She skidded short as he slammed himself against a steel gate, rattling for purchase.
He ducked, wriggled through a hole she’d have bet fifty quid the rats used. Quinn’s coat caught on a nail—she swore, yanked herself free. Blood pricked her palm. No time to care. Drops beaded, hot, slick.
Her head ducked through. A service corridor, dank, reeking of dead mice and cleaning fluid. Bare bulbs hummed overhead. Her temple grazed aged brick. The man’s trainers squelched up ahead, then—another door. Sheet steel, no handle, only scratches in the paint.
He knelt. She caught the movement. Fingers trembling, digging in his jacket, searching.
He produced something. A coin? Bone-white, punched through the middle.
He pressed it to a seam. Click. The door jerked open an inch. Sound—distant, unnatural—fluttered beneath. Something like music, only wrong. The man slipped inside.
Quinn jammed her shoulder into the opening, boots braced. The door yawned wider, groaning. Her phone quivered in her pocket, texts from Dispatch ignored. She slotted her badge away. No backup tonight. She stepped through.
Steps dropped away into darkness. Rivulets of water dripped somewhere above. Odd warmth curled up from below—smoke, spices, a hint of chemical tang. Ahead, the man vanished down rusted stairs.
Her boots squelched. The overhead light flickered and died, plunging the landing into gloom . She thumbed her torch on, narrow cone revealing filthy handrails slick with grime. The steps echoed dully, each descent a snap decision, another string cut behind her.
She heard voices below: bartering, argument, laughter. Unfamiliar accents tangled with Cockney and clipped Estuary English. The stairs opened into a warren of tunnels. Here, huddled figures sold glittering black bottles and strange trinkets from crumbling suitcases. Gold filigree insects crawled across mirrored glass. Someone hawked steaming vials, their cart leaking violet smoke. Quinn’s torch drew too many eyes, so she switched it off.
A boy with mismatched eyes perched on a crate eyed her, chewing on a stick of something sharp and green.
“Bone token?” he muttered, jerking his chin .
“Following a suspect. Officer of the law.” She showed her badge .
He laughed, high and soft. “Badges aren’t currency here, love. Get lost or get creative.”
The man she chased threaded through the crowd, elbowing past a stall draped in black silk . The stallholder spat after him, but the man tossed a silver coin over his shoulder and vanished down a gap between two crates.
Quinn shouldered forward. Vendors hissed at her intrusion. One gripped her coat sleeve, nails painted with tiny skulls.
“You lost?”
“Looking for a man, about five-ten, olive jacket, cut on his cheek. He just came through.”
The woman squinted. “Didn’t see him,” she lied.
Quinn’s hand hovered at her holster, but it was useless here. Too many bodies, too much chaos.
A man tugged her arm. Tall, olive skin. Scar on his forearm—a sharp, surgical split, old but deep. The Saint Christopher medallion winked in the torchlight as he turned.
“Don’t start trouble,” Tomás muttered. His Spanish lilt softened each warning. “You stand out. Let me handle this.”
She narrowed her gaze but let him steer her by the elbow, down a corridor damp with condensation. The crowd’s noise softened as they ducked behind a torn curtain, past a mural painted in phosphorescent ink.
“Fancy meeting you here, Herrera,” Quinn’s words came edged with curiosity, not warmth . “Moonlighting?”
“Always,” he replied, lowering his voice. “You chasing someone? Or just sightseeing, Detective?”
She reached for her badge. “A man wanted for stabbing. Just ducked underground.”
Tomás picked at the scar on his arm. “Bad night to chase suspects below. The Market’s volatile.”
Quinn peered back at the teeming masses. “He’s desperate. Might be running for more than me. Could be looking to offload stolen goods.”
Tomás shrugged, smile tired. “Could be looking for protection instead.”
As he led her through the tangled path, market stalls mutated—glass-eyed dolls with paper crowns, talismans wilted from overuse, stacks of dried roots labelled in half a dozen alphabets. Quinn memorised turns, every broken tile, every flickering lamp. If something went sideways, she needed a way out.
A child hustled up with a paper cone of candied nuts. “Miss, you want luck? Ta for a copper, I’ll burn a sigil—guaranteed safe journey!”
She brushed him aside, watching for green-threaded sleeves. “How far does this place go?”
Tomás glanced sidelong. “Farther than London.”
The corridor forked. Left, the bars thickened with iron; right, a door marked with a chalk spiral.
She paused. “He went right.”
Tomás outstretched an arm, barring her path. “Veil Market’s rules. No weapons, no police. They catch your badge, you’ll be bargaining with more than coins.”
Quinn smiled without warmth . “Still a crime scene, rules or not.”
“This isn’t your city tonight.” Tomás’s voice dropped, the air thickening with warning .
A stallholder called out: “Blessed night, Detective. Lose your courage?” Laughter skittered along the walls.
Quinn squared her shoulders, eyes ahead. She followed the chalked spiral, ignoring the burn from her cut hand. Suddenly the suspect—green jacket, eyes wide with dread—burst from a side door, clutching a velvet pouch.
He collided with Tomás. Something hard hit the ground with a crack—glass? Bone? Faces turned, hungry.
Quinn grabbed his elbow. He twisted, tossing the pouch to a waiting hawker, who disappeared instantly. The man snarled, flashing the knife.
Tomás stepped between them, Saint Christopher glinting . “Don’t.”
The man slashed, blade catching Tomás’ sleeve . Quinn moved fast, twisting his wrist. The blade skittered away, blood blossoming along his knuckles.
Quinn spun him, locking his arms, pinioning him against a stone pillar. The crowd roared, half in approval, half in warning.
Above, a siren wailed—impossible, muffled, bleeding down from the world above.
Tomás picked up the fallen knife, tested its heft. “Why bring this below?”
“Bad trade gone worse,” the suspect gasped, mouth bloody. “Just want out. Please.”
Market guards spilled in—heavyset men with fox masks, badges carved from charred bone.
One pointed at Quinn. “This is Veil jurisdiction. We handle him now.”
Quinn’s grip didn’t falter, eyes flashing. “He’s coming with me. Attempted murder.”
Fox Mask shook his head, voice echoing . “Not here he isn’t. No outsider leaves with a Market fugitive.”
Tomás took a careful step back, gaze flicking between the detective, the suspect, the tightening circle of masked men.
Quinn’s radio crackled at her hip, Dispatch’s words eaten by static. She stood there, heart thrumming—one step from a fight she might not win, cut off, surrounded by rules she didn’t make and threats she didn’t understand.
Fox Mask drew a curved blade, catching the flickering torchlight.
One step closer.
The market’s eyes pressed in.
The first blow came fast.