Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX9E4S3GDM36F889GDENSA

Rain needled down in icy sheets, blurring the glow of streetlamps into smudged halos across Soho’s slick cobbles. Harlow Quinn’s breath came sharp and even, each exhale a white ghost in the cold. Her worn leather boots slapped the pavement, water already seeping through worn soles, but she didn’t slow. Not with the figure ahead—small, hooded, darting like a rat between newsstands and closing pubs—vanishing into the narrow throat of Wardour Street. Her fingers brushed the butt of her sidearm, holstered low on her hip. Standard issue. Useless, probably, for what she was chasing. But instinct kept her hand there, grounded in procedure even as the world around her slipped into something else. Three years. That’s how long it had been since Morris vanished in the alley behind St. Pancras—no body, no blood, just his radio crackling with static that sounded like whispering. The investigation stalled. Officially, it was an unsolved disappearance. Unofficially, Quinn had spent every spare hour chasing whispers of her own. Clandestine meetings. Strange symbols scrawled on brickwork. Disappearances with no pattern, unless you looked too closely. And now this. A tip-off—anonymous, untraceable—about a man selling cursed relics near the old Tube tunnels. A connection to the Raven’s Nest. To *them*. The clique. She rounded the corner fast, shoulder braced, eyes scanning. The figure was gone. Vanished. Only the green neon sign of the Raven’s Nest remained, flickering weakly above a black door, rain slicking the glass. It pulsed once, twice, then steadied. Like a heartbeat. Quinn hesitated. Silas’ bar. Known to police as a low-key dive, frequented by musicians, strung-out poets, people who liked their secrets dark and cheap. But her sources—unreliable, but persistent—claimed it was a front. A gateway. She stepped inside. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the sour tang of old beer. No music. Just the low hum of murmured conversation and the clink of glasses. A man with silver hair and a face like carved oak stood behind the bar, polishing a tumbler with a cloth. Silas. He didn’t look up. Her badge snapped open. “Detective Quinn. Metropolitan Police.” She held it up, slow, deliberate. “Saw someone come in here. Hooded. Running.” Silas exhaled through his nose. “Place is open to the public, Detective.” “Don’t play that with me. You know what I’m after.” He set the glass down. Lifted his eyes. Cold. Assessing. “And if I did? You think a badge means anything here?” She glanced past him. Behind a false bookshelf near the restrooms, a sliver of light—flickering, gone. The secret room. The one her intel mentioned. “You’ve got three seconds,” she said, voice low, “to tell me who he was.” Silas wiped his hands on his apron. “Or what? You’ll raid the place? Go ahead. Find nothing. Waste your time. Like last time.” She stepped forward, jaw tight. “Last time, someone died. A constable. Found him in the Thames with his eyes… *gone*. You heard about that, didn’t you? The one who came snooping around your little club?” Silas didn’t flinch. “Can’t say I have.” Liar. She turned on her heel and headed for the bookshelf. “Quinn.” She stopped. “You go back there,” Silas said, “you don’t come out the same.” She didn’t answer. Just shoved the bookshelf. It groaned, then gave way with a hollow click, revealing a narrow stone staircase descending into darkness. Cold air rushed up, damp and ancient, smelling of earth and something metallic. Blood? Rust? She flicked on her torch. The beam cut through black, revealing moss-streaked tiles, steps worn uneven with time. She took them one at a time, hand on her gun, ears straining. The stairs emptied into a wide tunnel—abandoned Underground, maybe. But not empty. Lights glowed ahead. Yellow bulbs strung on wires. The clatter of carts. Voices—not English. Snatches of Latin, Aramaic, something guttural and unplaceable. A market. A *living* black-market bazaar buried beneath Camden. The Veil Market. Tents of faded velvet and rusted iron stood in crooked rows. Stalls overflowed with jars of preserved eyes, vials of smoking liquid, cages holding creatures with too many limbs. A woman with no mouth bartered with a man whose shadow moved independently. Quinn’s pulse hammered, but she kept her face blank. *Move. Stay seen. Don’t show fear.* She followed the edge of the market, eyes scanning. Then she saw him—the hooded figure—ducking behind a stall stacked with ancient books bound in what looked like skin. She moved. A hand clamped her wrist. Tight. Warm. She spun, fist cocked. “Easy.” Tomás Herrera. Olive skin slick with rain, curls damp against his forehead. His Saint Christopher medallion gleamed under a string of flickering lanterns. He wore a battered leather jacket, hands up now. “You don’t want to do this,” he said. “You’re under arrest.” She reached for cuffs. He didn’t resist—just held her gaze. “For what? Breathing? You’re not in your jurisdiction anymore, Detective.” “This is *England*.” “And this,” he said, glancing at the market, “isn’t.” She tried to pull free. He didn’t tighten his grip, but he didn’t let go, either. “You don’t know what’s down here,” he said. “That man you’re chasing? He stole a memory vial. Belonged to a grieving mother. Now it’s leaking ghosts into the ventilation. You chase him, you’ll walk into a haunting. Or worse.” Her voice was steel. “You’re part of this. All of it. The Raven’s Nest, the disappearances, Morris—” His expression flickered. “Morris?” She saw it. The recognition. Too quick to hide. “You *knew* him.” He looked away. “He came here. Asking questions. Didn’t listen when we told him to leave.” Her breath caught. “Where is he?” “I don’t *know*.” Tomás’ voice dropped. “But if you keep going, you’ll end up like him. Or worse.” A scream tore through the market—from the direction the hooded man had gone. Not pain. Not human. A sound like glass breaking inside a throat. People scattered. Tents flapped. Shadows twisted unnaturally along the tunnel walls. Tomás’ grip tightened. “That’s the vial. It’s cracked. Whatever’s in there is loose.” Quinn looked at the chaos. Then at the path the suspect had taken. She yanked her wrist free. “Stay here,” she said. He caught her arm again. Not rough. Firm. “You don’t have the token. They’ll know you’re an outsider. You walk into a hunting ground blind, you die.” “I don’t care.” She met his eyes. “Morris didn’t come out. I’m not leaving without answers.” He studied her—her sharp jaw, the pulse in her temple, the way her fingers trembled not from fear, but from need. Then he reached into his jacket. Pulled out a small, carved bone token. Held it out. “If you go,” he said, “you’re on your own. No badge. No backup. No rules. You break one law down here—*any* law—and you don’t walk back up.” She took the token. It was cold. Carved with symbols she didn’t recognize. He stepped aside. She moved forward, into the flickering light, heart loud in her ears. Behind, Tomás whispered, low, “God help you.” She didn’t look back.