Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX48GQH6CH04RREETGKDEV

The rain fell in sheets, turning the Soho streets into a slick, reflective maze. Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she kept her eyes locked on the figure darting between the neon glow of shop signs. The suspect—lean, hooded, moving with the kind of urgency that screamed guilt—had bolted the second she’d flashed her badge outside *The Raven’s Nest*. No hesitation. No denial. Just the instinctive flight of someone who knew they were already caught. She didn’t call out. Words would only slow her down. A taxi horn blared as the suspect cut across the road, forcing a black cab to swerve. Quinn didn’t flinch. She followed, her breath steady despite the burn in her lungs. Eighteen years on the force had taught her how to chase—when to push, when to conserve. The suspect was fast, but reckless. They took a sharp left into an alley, their shoes skidding on wet cobblestones. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She lunged, her fingers brushing the suspect’s jacket before they twisted away, vanishing into the shadows of a narrow passage. She cursed under her breath, her pulse hammering in her throat. The alley dead-ended at a rusted fire escape. No way out. Unless— A grating sound. Metal scraping against stone. She spun just in time to see the suspect yank open a manhole cover, the heavy iron disc clattering against the pavement. They dropped into the darkness without a second thought. Quinn’s stomach twisted. She knew what lay beneath London’s streets—sewers, abandoned Tube tunnels, the kind of places that swallowed people whole. But she also knew the rules: *never let a suspect out of your sight.* She crouched at the edge of the hole, the stench of damp concrete and something older, something *wrong*, rising to meet her. The suspect’s footsteps echoed below, fading fast. No time to call for backup. No time to second-guess. She gripped the ladder and descended. The drop was longer than she expected. Her boots hit the ground with a jolt, the impact shooting up her legs. She steadied herself, her hand instinctively going to the torch on her belt. The beam cut through the darkness, revealing a narrow tunnel lined with peeling posters and graffiti. The air was thick, humid, the kind of damp that clung to her skin. The suspect was already gone. Quinn moved forward, her torch sweeping the walls. The tunnel sloped downward, the floor uneven beneath her feet. She could hear water dripping somewhere ahead, the sound echoing like a slow, uneven heartbeat. Then—voices. She killed the torch. A flicker of light up ahead. Not the harsh glow of a police-issue flashlight, but something softer, warmer. Like candlelight. She pressed herself against the wall, inching forward until the tunnel opened into a vast, cavernous space. Her breath caught. The Veil Market. She’d heard the whispers—rumours among the night shift, the kind of stories that got dismissed as urban legend. But this was real. Stalls lined the walls, their wares glowing with an unnatural light. Jars of swirling liquid, bundles of dried herbs, weapons that hummed with energy. The air smelled of ozone and something metallic, like blood. And the people—if they *were* people. Some had too many eyes. Others moved with a fluidity that wasn’t quite human. A few turned to stare at her, their expressions unreadable. Quinn’s fingers twitched toward her radio, but she stopped herself. No signal down here. No backup. The suspect was weaving through the crowd, heading toward a stall at the far end. A figure stood behind it, tall, cloaked, their face obscured by shadow. The suspect leaned in, speaking urgently. Quinn didn’t need to hear the words. She could read the body language—*desperation.* She took a step forward. A hand clamped onto her shoulder. She spun, her fist already raised, but the man who’d grabbed her didn’t flinch. Warm brown eyes met hers, familiar despite the dim light. “Tomás,” she hissed. Tomás Herrera didn’t let go. “You shouldn’t be here, *detective.*” She jerked free. “I’m following a suspect.” “And you think this is the place to do it?” His voice was low, urgent. “You don’t even know what half of these things *are.*” She glanced back at the stall. The suspect was still there, but the cloaked figure was handing them something—a small, wrapped package. Whatever it was, it wasn’t legal. Not by any law she recognised. “Move,” she said. Tomás blocked her path. “Quinn, listen to me. You go in there, you’re not coming out the same.” She bared her teeth. “I don’t have a choice.” He exhaled sharply, then stepped aside. “Then at least let me come with you.” She didn’t argue. She didn’t have time. They moved through the market, the crowd parting around them like they were contagious. The suspect was still at the stall, but now they were arguing with the cloaked figure. The package sat between them, untouched. Quinn’s hand hovered over her baton. She could take them. She could— A sharp *crack* echoed through the cavern. The suspect staggered back, clutching their chest. Blood seeped between their fingers. Quinn’s stomach dropped. The cloaked figure hadn’t moved. But the package on the stall was gone. Tomás cursed under his breath. “We need to go. *Now.*” The suspect collapsed. The market erupted into chaos. Stalls were overturned, people scattering. Quinn lunged forward, but Tomás grabbed her arm, yanking her back. “Quinn, *look!*” She followed his gaze. The cloaked figure was gone. And the suspect wasn’t breathing.