Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX61T6PCRZ8PC9VAMZKRC1

Rain slapped the pavement like gunfire, each drop exploding against the cracked concrete of Soho’s back alleys. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots skidded on wet cobblestones, her breath coming in tight, controlled bursts. She rounded the corner, coat flaring behind her like the wings of a wounded bird, eyes locked on the figure ahead—half-shadow, half-silhouette—darting between overflowing dumpsters and sagging fire escapes. She didn’t know his name. Not yet. But she knew the shape of guilt, and she’d seen it in the flicker of his eyes through the cafe window three blocks back. He wasn’t just running from her—he was running from something else too. Something deeper than the law. Her fingers brushed the butt of her sidearm, but she didn’t draw. Not here. Not in the open. Too many witnesses. Too many windows. “Stop! Police!” she shouted, voice sharp over the storm. He didn’t look back. Quinn tightened her grip on the worn leather of her wristwatch, a nervous habit she couldn’t shake since Morris died. Her pulse hammered behind her ribs. Eighteen years on the force and she’d never chased anything like this. Not in broad daylight, not in plain sight. This felt wrong. The timing. The route. Every instinct screamed trap. But the alley narrowed, and the figure vanished. She hit the dead end—brick wall, graffiti-tagged bin, fire door chained shut—and for a second, her stomach dropped. Then she saw it: the grate. Loose. Half-covered by a tarp, but not enough. A breath of warmer air curled up from below, carrying the faintest tang of incense and something metallic, like old coin. She dropped to one knee, shoved the tarp aside. Below, stone steps wound down into darkness. The bone token. She remembered the file Morris had hidden—notes scrawled in the margins about “the Market,” about movement under the full moon. She’d thought it was grief talking. Madness. But the token was real. She’d found it wrapped in cloth in his desk drawer, yellowed and carved with unreadable glyphs. She reached into her coat, pulled it from an inside pocket. Cold against her palm. One chance. She pocketed the token and started down. The steps groaned under her weight, slick with mildew and something darker. The air thickened. Her boots echoed like gunshots. Twenty steps. Thirty. Then the corridor opened. And the world changed. The Veil Market stretched beneath Camden in vaulted tunnels once used by the Underground. Arches of crumbling brick framed stalls lit by candlelight and floating orbs of sickly green flame. Canopies of moth-eaten velvet flapped in unseen currents. Figures moved in hooded cloaks, their faces obscured, carrying bundles wrapped in burlap, cages that rattled with unidentifiable movement. A woman with eyes like polished jet sold bottled shadows in glass vials. A man with antlers grafted to his skull bartered over a rusted music box. The scent of burnt sage and rotting lilies clung to the air. Quinn kept low, back to the wall, hand near her holster. Her watch ticked—too loud. She scanned the crowd. Looked for the runner. Looked for anything familiar. A stall to her left sold teeth—human, animal, things with too many roots. A child no older than ten handed over a gold crown in exchange for a vial of swirling mist. Quinn’s jaw tightened. Then—a flicker. There. At the far end. The same build. The same dark coat. She moved. But the market twisted. A straight path curved. Distances lied. She passed a vendor selling mirrors that reflected faces not her own. A clock melted on a shelf, hands spinning backward. She stopped, breathing hard. Her watch—her father’s watch—shivered on her wrist. The leather creaked. Then someone stepped from the shadows. Not the runner. A man, mid-thirties, curly dark hair slick with rain. Olive skin. A scar tracing his forearm like a sentence left unfinished. Around his neck, a metal medallion: Saint Christopher. He blocked her path without touching her. “You shouldn’t be here, Detective.” She didn’t flinch. “And you are?” “Tomás Herrera. I patch up the ones the world forgets.” She studied him. Calm. Confident. No fear. That worried her more than a blade would. “You’re not police. No uniform. No ID.” “No,” he said. “But I know why you’re here. And I know what you’re chasing.” Her fingers twitched. “You helping him?” “Not him. You.” She almost laughed. “You don’t know me.” “I know what you lost.” His voice dropped. “DS Morris. Three years ago. Case never closed. Body never found. Just a stain on the floor and a pair of boots too big for a man his size.” Her breath caught. “How do you know that?” “I was there,” he said. “Not at the scene. But after. They brought him to me. Too late. Whatever took him… it wasn’t human.” She stared. Her hand hovered over her gun. “You expect me to believe that?” “I expect you to survive.” The crowd around them shifted. A merchant began packing up, folding cloth over empty trays. The candles dimmed. “It’s closing,” Tomás said. “The Market doesn’t stay in one place long. We have minutes.” “And the man I chased?” “He’s smoke in a storm. You won’t catch him tonight. But you might walk out alive—if you let me help.” Her mind raced. Protocols. Procedure. Years of training screamed at her to cuff him, to call for backup, to shut this place down. But there was no backup. No signal down here. No badge strong enough to hold back what she’d seen already. She looked at Tomás. At the medallion swinging gently from his neck. “You said you know what I lost,” she said. “Then tell me—what killed Morris?” He hesitated. Then stepped closer. “Not what. Who. A watcher from the outer circles. It wears names like coats. He’s here, Detective. In this market. And he’s been watching you since you stepped off that first stair.” A cold ripple ran down her spine. “Why?” “Because you’re close,” Tomás said. “Closer than anyone’s been in decades. And the ones who hide in the dark don’t like the light.” Somewhere in the tunnels, a bell rang—deep, hollow, final. The stalls folded in on themselves. The lights waned. The air grew colder. Tomás turned. “Come with me. Or stay and become another stain on the floor.” She looked down at the bone token in her palm. Then at the last flicker of the runner’s coat disappearing through an archway guarded by two figures in grey rags. Her breath fogged in front of her. She slipped the token back into her pocket and followed Tomás into the dark.