Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRPFQ1S1MKG3ZKJ4Z738B4

Rain slicked the pavements in Soho, turning streetlamps into molten gold. Detective Harlow Quinn pressed her shoulder against the patrol car door, boot heels crunching on wet asphalt. She angled her chin toward the lean silhouette slipping through the back entrance of the Raven’s Nest. Green neon haloed the bar’s name, its glow reflected in her sharp brown eyes. She launched forward. Leather watch creaked as she raised her arm. She jerked her head, memorised the figure’s hunched shoulders, the black hoodie trailing water. Eight years in the Marines sharpened her instincts. She smelled danger. “He’s mine,” she rasped. Footsteps splashed behind her. The suspect reached the curb, veered left. Quinn’s boots thudded on leftover puddles. She cleared four strides in one bound. “You’re not getting away,” she called. No answer. Only the hum of traffic and distant sirens. Her breath came in controlled bursts. She tracked him toward Greek Street, cold air biting her lungs. Neon signs flickered above shuttered shops. She cut through a side alley, hands ready on the Glock at her hip. The suspect skidded around a dumpster, glancing over a shoulder. Quinn closed ground in two strides. His hoodie fell open for a heartbeat. She saw a bone-white token hanging from his neck. A small carved femur. He bolted again, lunging for a manhole cover. She planted her palm on rusted iron. It rolled aside. He dove in. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She yanked the cover free, kicked it aside, and dropped through the gap. Water stung her ears as she hit the tunnel floor. She pushed up, boots splashing in freezing runoff. Pipes overhead hissed. Darkness swallowed her. “Stop!” Her voice bounced off concrete. A distant echo answered: footsteps splintering into the void. She followed the echo down soggy tracks. Walls curved inward, graffiti on cracked tiles spelling out messages she couldn’t read. Her watch face shone in the gloom, its hands ticking with clinical precision. A flicker of orange light bloomed around a corner. She advanced, weapon raised. Shadows scuttled at the edge of her vision. She paused. Muffled voices drifted from beyond a boarded-up platform. She stepped over broken rail sleepers. Stalls lined a narrow corridor. Lanterns hung low, casting long shadows. Tables held jars of glowing powder, vials of dark liquid, bone trinkets arranged like offerings. Hooded figures bartered in hushed tones. One flashed a pile of banknotes. Another weighed silver coins on a brass scale. She recognised the market from whispers. The Veil Market. Every full moon it shifted beneath the city. Today it anchored here, in an abandoned Tube station beneath Camden. Entry cost a bone token. Tonight it bustled with creatures who dealt in forbidden wares. Quinn’s jaw clenched. She crouched behind a stall draped in moth-eaten velvet. Her pulse echoed in her ears. She angled her pistol at a guard blocking the next passage. The guard’s eyes glowed faintly red. His teeth sharpened into points when he smiled at a customer. Her target stood just ahead, trading the bone token for a rolled parchment. He tucked it inside his jacket. He sprinted down the corridor as the guard raised an arm. A bell chimed. Doors creaked open at the tunnel’s far end. Quinn stepped forward, gut coiling. She’d lost DS Morris to something like this three years ago. She’d never understood what pulled him under. Unfinished business lingered with every step she took in the subterranean dark. “Stop,” she said again, low and firm. Her target paused. He twisted. A sliver of moonlight from a broken skylight mapped his face in icy relief. Rain traced down his cheeks. He edged toward the threshold, where the tunnel led back to the street. Quinn’s mind raced. The parchment might be evidence. Or a map to worse horrors. She needed him alive. She checked the magazine’s clip. Four rounds. Enough. A vendor across the way banged a wooden tray. “No weapons,” he warned in a gravelly voice. Quinn didn’t flinch. She aimed. The suspect dove toward a side passage. Quinn sprinted, knocking over a crate of rattling skulls. Sharpened teeth clattered on stone. The guard blocked her path, massive frame filling the tunnel. Quinn sidestepped, lashed out with her elbow. He grunted, stumbled. She grabbed his shoulder, shoved him into a stack of bone tokens. They exploded onto the floor. She kicked the guard aside and took off. The suspect’s footsteps pounded ahead. She heard them vanish around a bend. She pivoted, chased the echo deeper. The ceiling dropped. Damp brick replaced tile. Water dripped from crevices. She skirted pools glowing faint green. She spotted fresh footprints in the muck. She followed them to a makeshift archway draped in torn cloth. Beyond lay a platform. Rusty tracks stretched into darkness. A single carriage stood at the far end, doors yawning. Headlights from the abandoned tunnel flickered, then died. He was inside. She raised her gun. He turned, boots scraping metal. He held out the parchment. “You shouldn’t have come,” he said. Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Let me see that.” He shook his head. “You don’t belong here.” Her boots rang on the platform. She kept the distance tight. “I belong wherever criminals run.” He laughed—short, sharp. “This place doesn’t answer to your badge.” He lunged for the carriage. She fired once. The shot cracked the silence. He stumbled, clutching his shoulder, parchment slipping from his grip. She advanced. The carriage rocked. A horn sounded faint beyond the tunnel’s mouth. She risked a glance back. Figures gathered at the archway. Traders swarmed forward, whispers growing into a low roar. They eyed her uniform, then the weapon. She knew how this would end if she hesitated. She kicked the parchment toward her. It fluttered at her feet. She snatched it up. He rolled to one knee, sliding toward the carriage open door. She pointed the gun. “On your knees,” she ordered. He complied. Water dripped from his face. He held out a hand. “Tell me what this is.” He spit blood. “The market moves every full moon. This map shows where.” He coughed. “You’ll never get it back once they realise.” She gauged the distance to the carriage. Traders pressed forward, eyes cold. She could clear a path or disappear into the crowd. She pressed a finger to her lips, then tucked the parchment into her coat. Rain pattered through holes above. She glanced at the tunnel arch. The street level was a few blocks away. She lifted her head. “Stay where you are.” He nodded, panic widening his eyes. She signalled to the closest trader. “Move aside. Let me pass.” The trader held still. Quinn slipped her Glock into a pocket. She raised her free hand, palm open. She said something in a clipped tone. The trader hesitated, then leaned back. Quinn offered the suspect a wary look. “I’ll keep watch.” She stepped past him and toward the passage. The market’s hum stilled. She felt every pair of eyes tracking her. She reached the archway and peered into the corridor. The guard from before stirred among a knot of stalls. He saw her. He spat on the ground. She squared her shoulders, flicked the safety off her sidearm with one thumb. Her leather watch gleamed against her sleeve. She could climb out, vanish into the night, leave this place behind. Or she could dive deeper, find out what lurked beneath London’s veins. Above, thunder rumbled. A trickle of moonlight fell onto the broken tracks. She’d promised answers. She’d lost her partner to this kind of darkness. She took a breath. She stepped back into The Veil Market.