Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX2N5AGBBRWP0SGSA2RRRS

Rain hammered the pavement like a drumroll before the drop. Neon signs flickered in smeared halos across wet asphalt, their reflections trembling in oily puddles. Harlow Quinn sprinted through the deluge, her trench coat flaring behind her, water surging upward with each stride. Her breath came in tight bursts, sharp and controlled despite the ache in her ribs. The figure ahead—short coat, dark hood pulled low—veered sharply into an alley between two shuttered kebab shops, boots splashing through drainage grates. She didn’t hesitate. Quinn hit the alley’s mouth at full speed, shoulders hunched against the downpour, one hand braced against the brick wall as she pivoted. The scent of damp brick, fried grease, and something sharper—iron, maybe blood—clung to the air. Her fingers brushed the grip of her sidearm, but she didn’t draw. Not yet. Not in the open. Not with civilians potentially nearby. The suspect ducked between a rusted fire escape and a dumpster, then vanished down a narrow service stairwell that dropped beneath street level. Quinn slowed just long enough to peer over the railing. A metal door stood slightly ajar at the bottom, its paint long eaten by rust. A thin, pulsing blue light pulsed from within. No sound came up except the drip of water, the hum of distant electricity. She took the steps two at a time, her worn boots ringing on the metal. At the threshold, she pressed her back to the wall, drew her weapon, and nudged the door open with her boot. Empty. But warm. That was the first thing she noticed—the temperature. Below freezing outside, but here, the air was thick and humid, tinged with incense and ozone. The corridor stretched ten feet before opening into a dim, cavernous space lined with stone arches. The floor had been paved in cracked black tiles, worn smooth by centuries of unseen traffic. To her right, a skeletal escalator rose into darkness, its steps seized by corrosion. Quinn stepped inside, lowering her gun but keeping her finger along the trigger guard. Her eyes adjusted slowly. Stalls. Rows of them, crammed together under low-hanging paper lanterns that glowed amber and violet. Figures moved between them—hooded, cloaked, some with features too sharp, too still to be human. A woman with silver eyes bartered over a vial of swirling fog. A man with bark-like skin haggled for a bundle of dried feathers. She knew this place. She’d seen the sketches in Morris’s notebook. Pages filled with symbols she couldn’t read, scribbled warnings: *The Market moves. Never the same twice. They know when you’re not one of them.* The Veil Market. Real, then. Not madness. Not hallucination. And the man she’d chased—slim build, dark gloves, a patch of scarred skin above his collar—was already slipping toward a covered stall near the back, where a woman with chalk-white hair weighed something small and pulsing on a brass scale. Quinn moved fast, cutting between stalls. A vendor selling bottled shadows hissed as she passed. Another—a hunched figure in a moth-eaten overcoat—offered her a cracked monocle that “sees through lies.” She ignored them. Her pulse thudded in her jaw. The air grew heavier, thicker, as if she were wading through syrup. She caught a glimpse of the suspect’s sleeve vanishing behind a curtain of hanging beads. Then a hand caught her wrist. Not rough. Firm, warm. She spun, gun up, but stopped short. A man. Olive skin glistening under the lantern light, dark curls damp at the temples. A silver medallion hung at his throat—St. Christopher. He didn’t flinch from the barrel pointed at his face. “You don’t belong here,” he said, voice low and accented. “Then I suggest you let go.” She didn’t lower the weapon. His eyes flicked to her wrist—her watch. The leather strap worn through in two places, the face cracked but still ticking. Then back to her. “You’re Quinn. Harlow Quinn.” She froze. “Who the hell are you?” “Tomás Herrera. I knew your partner.” The words hit like a gut punch. Her finger twitched on the trigger. “Morris?” He nodded once. “He came here, too. Same night he disappeared.” A flicker behind her. The beads clattered. She turned just in time to see the suspect pull open a hatch in the floor and vanish. Quinn lunged forward, but Herrera caught her arm again. “Don’t.” “I’ve got a suspect—” “You’ve got a trap.” She stared at the open hatch. A ladder descended into darkness. No light below. No sound. “Morris went down there?” she asked. Herrera’s expression didn’t change, but his grip tightened. “Yes. He didn’t come back up.” “Then it’s even more important I go.” “You don’t understand what’s down there. This market—it’s not just a place. It’s alive. It watches. It remembers. And it *hates* intruders with badges.” Her jaw clenched. The watch on her wrist ticked too loud in the silence between them. “I don’t care what it hates,” she said. “That man was meeting someone. Probably the same someone who sold Morris the vial of ash he was carrying when they found his coat. The one they said was ‘too degraded’ to test.” Herrera’s eyes widened slightly. “You still have that?” “No. Evidence locker. But I remember the symbol on the pouch.” She reached into her coat, pulled out a folded square of notepad paper. Unfolded it. A crude sketch: a circle, three jagged lines, a crescent beneath. He exhaled sharply. “That’s a death sigil. Used in binding rituals. If Morris had that, he wasn’t here to investigate. He was here to *die*.” Quinn stared at him. “Then why didn’t anyone tell me?” “Because no one believed you’d survive knowing.” A low rumble shivered through the floor. The lanterns dimmed. From the edges of the market, figures turned their heads. Not toward her—but toward the hatch. Something was coming up. Herrera yanked her back as the ladder trembled. A hand emerged—skeletal, wrapped in blackened cloth. Then another. A figure climbed slowly into view, robed and faceless beneath a deep cowl. It carried a lantern with no flame, its glass filled with what looked like drowned stars. The market went silent. Herrera’s voice was urgent now, low against her ear. “That’s a Veil Warden. They don’t come out unless someone breaks the rules. Or unless they’re summoned.” Quinn didn’t move. Her gun stayed trained on the figure. “That man—I saw him drop something into the hatch. Before he climbed down.” “A token,” Herrera said. “Probably a bone token. Only way in. Without it, the Market ejects you.” “Then I’ll take one.” “You kill for it, you steal it, or you die trying. And even then—this place won’t let just anyone pass.” She holstered her weapon, reached instead for the switchblade in her belt. “I don’t need permission.” “You need *sense*.” He blocked her path as she stepped toward the hatch. “One more thing. Morris wasn’t just your partner. He was my friend. I treated his wounds when no one else would. And when he came here, I told him not to go down. He didn’t listen.” Quinn met his gaze. “Then help me do better.” For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he reached beneath his shirt and pulled off the St. Christopher medallion. “Take it,” he said. “It won’t protect you from what’s down there. But it might remind you why you came.” She hesitated. Took it. Cold against her palm. She stepped past him, crouched at the hatch. The Warden stood motionless, watching. Without looking back, she gripped the top rung. Lowered herself into the dark.