Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRNS1BSCVX9HQ9G1C45SFE

Rain slicked the cobblestones under Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots as she tore down Brook Street. Neon from the Raven’s Nest splashed green across her raincoat. She pressed forward, eyes locked on the suspect’s retreating silhouette. Water pooled in the hollows of her worn leather watch, but she ignored the chill. He darted around a stack of wooden crates outside the delivery entrance. Quinn vaulted over one crate, felt the load shift beneath her palm, and stumbled. Cold mud spattered her trousers. She righted herself with military precision, shoulders squared, and resumed the chase without a pause. Streetlights blinked overhead. Cars hissed past in the gutter. No one stopped. No one cared. Quinn’s ribs burned, her lungs contracted with each breath. She welcomed the pain. Three years had taught her to move through it. The suspect rounded a corner and vanished beneath an arch marked “Camden Tunnels.” Quinn skidded to a halt. The brick archway trembled with distant rumble. A half-hidden staircase led down into darkness. “Stop!” she shouted. A voice, muffled and low, laughed from the stairs. Metal clanged against brick as he slipped deeper. Quinn drew her sidearm, thumb brushing the safety, then holstered it. Underground spaces demanded more than bullets. She drew her torch instead, clicking it alive. A narrow beam stabbed into the gloom. Steps led to a vaulted tunnel. Damp walls dripped pale trails where water had carved channels. Fading graffiti told of strangers who’d come before: crooked letters spelling out warnings. Quinn recognized the pattern. The Veil Market—an underground bazaar for witches, vampires, and worse. Her gut tightened. No badge could open these depths. She’d heard tales of bone tokens and shifting stalls. Every vendor demanded its price. She carried no token, only her service revolver and a knuckle scar from her lost partner’s final case. Still, she followed. Lightning flickered far above, but underground darkness swallowed the flash. Wind hissed through vents, carrying voices and the scent of unburnt incense. She descended the last step and emerged into a cavern of shadow. A single lamp, swaying from an iron beam, cast long silhouettes. Stalls lined both sides of a wide platform, shelves stacked with jars of something that pulsed in the lamplight. Glass vials held flickering motes of colour. Leather-bound tomes squatted next to tarnished daggers. A snake coiled around a brass cage. The suspect stood before a stall, back to Quinn. He tapped a bone token on a wooden counter. The vendor—tall, gaunt, eyes like black opals—flipped the token over and slid it back. The suspect strode past, voice low. “Keep the coin. I’ll be back.” He melted into the crowd of figures draped in cloaks and scarves. Quinn ducked behind a stall stacked with salted roots, scanning for movement. Footsteps approached. A woman, hood low over her face, drew near. Three silver rings clinked on her fingers. Want something? Quinn blinked. The torchbeam trembled as she gripped it. “Information,” she said. The woman leaned forward. Her breath smelled of charred marshmallow. “They came through here. Skinny, dark coat. Not from around.” Quinn’s shoulders dropped. “Where?” The woman tapped the counter with a ringed finger. “Stall thirteen. Under the old clock.” Quinn snatched the tip and spun away. She followed the corridor lined with flickering lanterns. Voices surged—bargains in tongues she’d never studied. Glass chimed, footsteps shuffled on grit-strewn boards, something howled in the distance. She reached the old clock: a rusting dial set into the brick wall, hands frozen at 3:17. Beneath it, a timber frame held crates of bone fragments and vials of blood. Stall thirteen. The suspect wasn’t there. She pivoted. Shadows flickered along a side passage. A faint click. The wall shifted, revealing a narrow doorway. Light seeped from inside. She pressed her shoulder against the door and slipped through. The room smelled of damp straw and candle smoke. A wooden table bore scraps of parchment, charcoal sketches of eyes, and a single bone token pinned to a board. The token gleamed under two candles. Someone had torn it from its owner. Quinn lifted it, thumb brushing the notch. Metal groaned behind her. She spun. The suspect stood in the archway, coat collar turned up. His eyes caught the candlelight, glowing a pale amber. He held a revolver. “You shouldn’t,” he said. Quinn gripped the token. “Drop it.” He smiled—too wide, too sharp. Ivory teeth and no warmth between them. “You don’t belong here.” She advanced. The token felt heavy in her hand. “I’m a detective.” He shook his head. “Detectives don’t chase ghosts.” Plaster dust fell from the ceiling. Candle flames flickered. She snatched her torch from the table and clicked it on, the beam slicing across his chest. He froze, then lunged. Her hand shot out. The token slapped the floor. He kicked it away. Quartz shards rained across the boards. She sidestepped, fist swinging. Her knuckles cracked against his jaw. He staggered, sweat and rainwater beading his hair. He shoved her back. Torch clattered against the table, candles guttered and went out. Darkness closed around them. Quinn drew her service revolver. She’d promised DS Morris she’d never let darkness catch her. She aimed for his chest. A soft chuckle drifted through the doorway. More footsteps. Figures gathered—hoods and shadows melding into one. “Friends of yours?” she asked. His breath hitched. He backed away, gaze sweeping the crowd. “My debt ends tonight.” He bolted, weaving past the table. Quinn fired once. The shot rang off the brickwork. He dropped to one knee, then launched into a sprint through the side exit. Quinn followed, boots echoing on flagstones. She crossed a low arch and spilled into a corridor lined with battered suitcases. Each bore a nameplate in fading ink. In the distance, she saw a faint glow—stairway up. She lunged at a trolley piled high with leather trunks and shoved it to the side. The suspect scrambled over, nearly toppling the lids. A trunk split open, spilling clothes and a tarnished pistol. He reached the glow. Quinn sprinted. She caught his coat with one hand and yanked. He slammed into the rail and lost his footing. He tumbled down the stone stairs. His revolver skidded away. Quinn drew her cuffs. At the top, she paused. Rain roared through an iron grate overhead, spilling onto her face. The staircase ended at a locked iron gate. Thick padlock and chain. No key in sight. The suspect pressed himself against the gate, hands extended, eyes wide. “You mad? You’ll die down there.” Quinn crouched beside him, cuff in hand. “Stay calm. I’m taking you in.” Metal creaked. Something shifted behind her. She turned and found herself on a platform above the tunnel mouth. Steel beams arched overhead. Beyond the gate, a ladder led up toward faint light. Above that, a manhole. She glanced back at the suspect. His pulse hammered beneath damp skin. His jaw throbbed where her fist had landed. He reached for his bleeding lip. She could haul him up, drag him through the tunnel, then surface into Camden. But he wouldn’t survive the fall down there. She could leave him. Call for backup. Risk losing him in the labyrinth. Her watch beeped. She flicked its face. No signal. Her phone lay dead in her pocket. No way to shout for help above. Rain hammered the grate again. A rush of wind carried distant city noise—a car horn, muffled laughter, the swell of Thames water against embankments. Her jaw clenched. She stood, leaving the suspect pressed against the gate. Cuffs dangling from her fingers. She stared at the locked chain, then at the manhole above. She could walk away, file a report, come back with warrants. Or she could figure out this token business and chase him into the Stygian tunnels below. Into the Veil Market’s heart. Into the space where Morris had died. She stuffed the cuffs into her pocket. She dropped her hand to the suspect’s shoulder. He blinked at her, hope sparking in his amber eyes. She peered up the ladder. Water dripped from the rungs. Metal smelled of rust and cold. She hooked a fingertip under the gate, nudged it with her boot. The lock rattled. She pivoted. When the bolt popped free, she bent and slipped through the gate before he could protest. She hauled herself onto the ladder. The suspect scrambled after her. She reached the grate, grabbed its edges, and kicked it upward. It gave way with a snap. She hauled it aside and dropped back onto the rain-slick street. Lightning split the sky. She rolled and sprang up, drawing the suspect down with her. He cussed, teeth chattering. She cuffed him then hauled him upright. She paused at the manhole’s mouth, looked down. Darkness beckoned. Her breath caught. She hefted him over her shoulder. Sirens wailed far off. She slung him toward the pavement, pressed his head against the cold brick wall. Her watch read 2:46. She twisted the cuffed hands behind his back and locked them. He sagged, head drooping. She eyed the ladder. Each rung disappeared into the depths. Every inch of it held memory of Morris’s fate. She exhaled. The suspect lifted his head, chin against her knee. “You’re coming with me.” She studied the tunnel mouth. Water cascaded in from the grate above. The bone token lay half-buried in mud. She knelt, scooped it up, examined its rough edges. Then she stood, slung her service revolver, and looked back at the ladder. She hesitated a heartbeat, then dropped the token into her pocket and stepped toward the stairs. Rain washed the city steel, but in the Veil Market, she would find answers.