Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX37YXFV18J695X929MGSY

The rain came down in sheets, turning the Soho cobbles into a slick mirror that reflected the sickly glow of the green neon sign above *The Raven’s Nest*. Detective Harlow Quinn didn’t slow. Her boots splashed through puddles, the cold seeping through the leather, but she kept her eyes locked on the figure darting between the alleyways ahead. A man—no, a *boy*, really—wearing a hoodie two sizes too big, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into the fabric. She’d been tailing him for three blocks now, ever since he’d bolted from the bar’s back door like his arse was on fire. No ID, no name, just a face she’d seen in the files—one of Silas’ runners, the kind who moved things that didn’t belong in the light. And if Silas was involved, then so was the rest of them. The clique. The ones who’d cost her Morris. The boy skidded around a corner, his trainers slipping on the wet stone. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She lunged, fingers brushing the damp fabric of his hoodie, but he twisted away, breath coming in ragged gasps. “Oi! Police! Stop *running*!” He didn’t. She cursed under her breath, her pulse hammering in her throat. Eighteen years on the force, and she still hadn’t lost the thrill of the chase—the way her body moved on instinct, muscles remembering drills from basic training. But this wasn’t some drunken brawl outside a pub. This was something else. Something that smelled like ozone and old blood. The boy veered left, down a narrow passage between two buildings, the kind of gap that shouldn’t have been there but was, like the city itself was shifting to let him through. Quinn followed, her shoulder scraping against the brick. The alley opened into a dead end—a rusted fire escape, a dumpster overflowing with sodden cardboard, and a manhole cover, its edges corroded but the bolts fresh, gleaming under the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. The boy didn’t slow. He dropped to his knees, fingers prying at the manhole cover. Quinn’s stomach twisted. *No. Not down there.* “Last chance,” she called, her voice cutting through the rain. “Walk away now, and I’ll forget I saw you.” He didn’t look up. The cover groaned as he lifted it, the stench of damp earth and something older, something *wrong*, rising from the darkness below. His legs disappeared into the hole, and Quinn’s instincts screamed at her to stop, to call for backup, to *think*. But she didn’t. She holstered her baton, crouched, and followed. The ladder was slick under her palms, the rungs cold and uneven. The drop was longer than she expected, the air thickening as she descended, pressing against her skin like a second layer. The boy’s footsteps echoed ahead, quick and light, but she could hear the tremor in them now—the fear. Good. Fear meant he knew what he was running from. The tunnel opened into a wider space, the walls lined with flickering gas lamps that cast long, wavering shadows. The boy was already halfway down the passage, his hoodie flapping behind him like a flag of surrender. Quinn’s boots hit the ground, and she straightened, her hand hovering over her radio. No signal. Of course there wasn’t. She moved forward, her senses sharpening. The air smelled of wet stone and something metallic, like old coins left in the rain. The walls were covered in graffiti, but not the usual tags—these were symbols, twisted and unfamiliar, etched into the brick like they’d been carved by something with too many fingers. The boy glanced back, his face pale under the hood. “You don’t wanna be here, *cop*,” he spat, his voice cracking. “This ain’t your world.” Quinn didn’t answer. She kept walking. The passage sloped downward, the ground uneven underfoot. The boy’s breath came in short, sharp bursts now, his steps faltering. He was tiring. Good. She could almost taste the end of this—almost. Then the tunnel opened into a cavern. Quinn stopped dead. The space was vast, the ceiling lost in darkness, supported by pillars of blackened stone. Stalls lined the walls, their awnings patched together from mismatched fabrics, their wares glowing with an eerie light. Jars of swirling liquid, bundles of dried herbs that smelled like burnt sugar, knives with blades that shimmered like they weren’t quite solid. People—if they *were* people—moved between the stalls, their faces half-hidden in the dim light. Some had too many eyes. Others had none at all. The boy was gone. Quinn’s fingers twitched toward her baton, but she didn’t draw it. Not yet. She scanned the crowd, her pulse roaring in her ears. There. A flash of dark fabric near the far wall. The boy, slipping between two stalls, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. She started forward, but a hand clamped around her wrist. Quinn whipped around, her free hand already reaching for her cuffs, but the grip was iron. A man stood there, his skin the colour of old parchment, his eyes black and depthless. He wore a long coat that looked like it had been stitched together from shadows, and his fingers were too long, the joints bending in ways that made her stomach lurch. “You don’t belong here, *detective*,” he said, his voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement. Quinn yanked her arm free. “Let go of me.” The man didn’t move. “This is the Veil Market. The rules here are not yours.” She bared her teeth. “I don’t give a damn about your rules. I’m here for the boy.” A slow, humorless smile spread across his face. “The boy is already gone. But you…” His gaze flicked over her, lingering on the worn leather of her watch, the sharp angle of her jaw. “You smell like loss. Like *grief*.” Quinn’s breath hitched. Morris. The way his body had looked in the morgue, the way the coroner’s report had read *unexplained circumstances*. The way she’d woken up screaming for three months straight. She forced the memory down. “Where is he?” The man tilted his head, his smile widening. “Deeper. Where the light doesn’t reach.” Quinn’s fingers curled into fists. She could turn back. She could climb those ladder rungs, surface into the rain, call for backup, and pretend she’d never seen this place. But the boy was still down here. And if he was running, it meant he knew something. Something about Morris. Something about *them*. She met the man’s gaze, her voice low and steady. “Then I’m going deeper.” The man’s smile didn’t waver. “As you wish, detective. But remember—” He leaned in, his breath cold against her ear. “—down here, the rules are *mine*.” Quinn didn’t flinch. She stepped past him, her boots striking the stone as she moved toward the far wall. The crowd parted for her, their whispers following like a trail of smoke. The boy was ahead. And she was going to find him.