Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX461S7NWR8XNS0F8P5H5K

The rain hammered down like a thousand tiny fists, turning the Soho pavement into a slick black mirror. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles deep enough to soak her socks, but she didn’t slow. The suspect—lean, wiry, moving like a rat with a firecracker up its arse—ducked around a corner, his dark jacket blending into the shadows. Quinn’s breath came sharp and controlled, her pulse a steady drumbeat in her ears. Eighteen years on the force had taught her the rhythm of a chase: the way adrenaline sharpened her focus, how the city’s noises faded into a dull hum when she locked onto her target. She rounded the corner just in time to see him vanish into an alley so narrow it looked like a crack in the buildings. No hesitation. She followed. The alley stank of damp brick and something metallic, like old blood. A flickering streetlamp cast jagged shadows, turning the suspect’s silhouette into a shifting blur. He moved fast, but Quinn was faster. She’d spent too many nights chasing ghosts through London’s underbelly to let this one slip. Then he stopped. Not because he’d given up. Not because he’d run out of steam. He stopped because he’d reached a dead end—a rusted fire escape bolted to the wall, its ladder dangling just out of reach. The suspect turned, his face half-lit by the sickly glow of the streetlamp. Young. Too young. His eyes darted, calculating, before he spat on the ground and grinned. “Lost, Detective?” Quinn didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The kid—couldn’t have been more than twenty—knew exactly who she was. That meant he was connected. And if he was connected, he knew things. Things about the clique. Things about what had happened to Morris. She took a step forward, her hand resting on the baton at her hip. “You’re coming in.” The kid laughed, a sharp, barking sound. “Nah. I don’t think so.” He reached into his jacket. Quinn’s muscles coiled. She’d seen that move before—the telltale shift of a hand going for a weapon. But before she could react, the kid didn’t pull a knife or a gun. He pulled a *token*. Small. White. Carved from what looked like bone. He tossed it at her feet. It clattered against the wet pavement, rolling to a stop against her boot. Quinn didn’t take her eyes off him, but her gaze flickered down just long enough to see the strange symbol etched into its surface—a crescent moon cradling a serpent. “What the hell is that?” The kid didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and *jumped*, his fingers closing around the lowest rung of the fire escape. He hauled himself up with a grunt, his boots scraping against the metal. Quinn lunged, but he was already out of reach, climbing like a spider up the side of the building. She cursed under her breath. No way she was letting him get away that easily. Quinn grabbed the ladder and yanked. It groaned but held. She hauled herself up, her arms burning with the effort. The kid was already at the top, disappearing over the edge of the roof. She climbed faster, her boots slipping on the wet rungs. Then she heard it. A sound that didn’t belong. A *click*. Not the metallic snap of a gun being cocked. Something else. Something older. Like stone grinding against stone. Quinn froze. Below her, the alleyway *shifted*. The pavement split open with a sound like a groan, revealing a yawning darkness beneath. The fire escape trembled, the metal groaning as if the building itself was breathing. Quinn’s stomach lurched. She tightened her grip on the ladder, her knuckles white. The kid’s voice drifted down from the rooftop, smug and mocking. “Better hurry, Detective. The Market don’t wait for no one.” Quinn didn’t look down. She didn’t need to. She could *feel* it—the pull of the darkness below, the way the air had gone thick and heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks. She’d heard the whispers. The rumours. The things the clique didn’t talk about, not even in hushed tones. The Veil Market. She should’ve known. Should’ve *recognized* the signs. The way the kid had moved, the way he’d thrown that token like it was a key. This wasn’t just some punk running from the law. This was something else. Something *supernatural*. Quinn’s jaw tightened. She had two choices: climb back down and lose him, or follow him into the unknown. She didn’t like unknowns. But she liked losing even less. With a sharp exhale, she swung herself onto the rooftop. The kid was already gone, vanished into the rain-slicked night. But the rooftop wasn’t empty. A hatch stood open, its edges lined with rust, a ladder descending into blackness. Quinn crouched, peering into the dark. The air rising from below was cold. Too cold. Like the breath of a tomb. She pulled her torch from her belt and clicked it on. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating a narrow shaft that dropped straight down. The walls were brick, old and crumbling, covered in graffiti that didn’t look like any tag she’d seen before. Symbols. Sigils. Things that made her skin prickle. She hesitated. This wasn’t her world. This wasn’t the London she knew—the one with rules, with procedures, with *logic*. This was something else. Something that had taken Morris from her. Something that had left her standing in an empty morgue three years ago, staring at a body that shouldn’t have been *possible*. Quinn’s fingers tightened around the torch. She could walk away. Call it in. Let someone else deal with this. But she’d spent three years chasing ghosts. Three years waiting for answers. And now, for the first time, she had a lead. She swung her legs over the edge of the hatch and started to climb down.