Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX5DGSGHVKTANGSY6GVY4N

The rain hammered the pavement like bullets as Detective Harlow Quinn's boots pounded against wet concrete. Her quarry—a figure in a dark coat—darted between the late-night revelers stumbling out of Soho's neon-lit establishments. The green glow from The Raven's Nest's sign cast an eerie pallor across Quinn's sharp features as she pressed forward, her worn leather watch catching raindrops that slid down her wrist. "Stop! Metropolitan Police!" The suspect glanced back, revealing nothing but shadow beneath a pulled-up hood, then vaulted over a low railing and disappeared down stone steps that Quinn hadn't noticed before. She cursed under her breath. Three years of chasing ghosts through London's underbelly had taught her that nothing good ever came from following suspects into places that shouldn't exist. Her radio crackled with static. "Control to Detective Quinn, what's your location?" "Pursuing suspect on foot, heading..." Quinn paused at the top of the steps, peering into darkness that seemed to swallow her torch beam whole. The stone steps descended far deeper than any normal basement or Underground entrance should. "Heading underground near Camden Lock." The rain drove harder, forcing her to shout over the storm. Water cascaded down the steps like a waterfall, carrying with it the scent of something she couldn't identify—herbs mixed with copper and something else that made her skin crawl. "Detective Quinn, do you require backup?" Quinn's hand hovered over her radio. Backup meant explanations. Explanations meant forms, questions, and the kind of scrutiny that had already cost her two potential promotions since Morris died. The brass tolerated her unconventional methods because her clearance rate remained the highest in the division, but their patience wore thinner with each case that ventured into territory they couldn't categorize. She clicked the radio twice—the signal for negative—and started down the steps. The descent felt endless. Ancient brick walls pressed in from both sides, slick with moisture that had nothing to do with the storm above. Her footsteps echoed strangely, as if the sound travelled both forward and backward simultaneously. The deeper she went, the warmer it became, until steam rose from her rain-soaked coat. A murmur of voices drifted up from below. Quinn drew her weapon, keeping it low but ready. The steps opened into a vast space that defied the geography of Camden's underground. Market stalls stretched away into shadows, their surfaces gleaming with bottles, bones, and objects that hurt to look at directly. Candlelight flickered from wrought-iron fixtures, casting dancing shadows that seemed to move independently of their sources. "Welcome to the Veil Market." Quinn spun toward the voice. A man with olive skin and warm brown eyes stepped from behind a nearby stall, his hands raised peacefully. A Saint Christopher medallion caught the candlelight at his throat. "You're not supposed to be here." His accent carried traces of Spain, soft around the edges but firm with authority. "Neither is my suspect." Quinn kept her weapon trained on him but scanned the market beyond. Figures moved between stalls like smoke, never quite solid enough to focus on. "Which way did he go?" "She. And that depends on what you're willing to trade for the information." Quinn's jaw tightened. "I don't trade. I'm a police officer conducting official business." "Your badge means nothing here, Detective Quinn." The use of her name sent ice through her veins despite the underground warmth. "How do you know—" "The same way I knew you'd follow her down here eventually." The man stepped closer, and she noticed a scar running along his left forearm, pale against his skin. "My name is Tomás Herrera. I provide medical services to people who can't seek conventional treatment." "Like criminals." "Like people whose problems can't be solved with conventional medicine." A crash echoed from deeper in the market. Quinn's suspect was still moving, still within reach if she acted quickly. But every instinct trained into her over eighteen years of police work screamed warnings about this place, about the wrongness that permeated the air like incense. "She's heading for the transit point," Herrera said, following her gaze into the market's depths. "In five minutes, she'll be gone to a place your authority can't reach. In ten minutes, this entire market will relocate, and you'll never find either of us again." "Why are you helping me?" "Because the woman you're chasing killed someone I was trying to save. Someone who trusted me to keep them safe." Quinn studied his face in the candlelight. The medallion at his throat caught her attention—worn smooth by anxious fingers, the kind of talisman carried by someone who'd seen things that challenged faith rather than strengthened it. Another crash, closer this time. Glass shattered in the distance, followed by angry shouts in languages Quinn didn't recognize. "What kind of medical services?" she asked. "The kind that would cost me my license if I still had one to lose." "You lost your medical license?" "I chose to lose it rather than let people die from wounds that don't officially exist." The radio at her shoulder crackled again. "Detective Quinn, Control requesting status update." She looked back toward the stairs, toward the world of procedures and protocols and cases that made sense on paper. Then she looked ahead, into a market that sold impossibilities and harbored fugitives who might hold answers to questions she'd been afraid to ask since Morris died. "Detective?" Quinn clicked her radio. "Pursuing suspect through underground passages. May lose signal." She holstered her weapon and looked at Herrera. "Lead the way." His mouth curved into what might have been approval. "Stay close. Don't touch anything. And whatever you see, don't try to arrest it unless you want to become a permanent resident." They moved deeper into the market, past stalls selling bottled starlight and caged whispers, past vendors whose faces shifted when she wasn't looking directly at them. The air grew thicker with each step, heavy with possibilities that made her skin itch.