Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX9YRRV3MDYSJ01AYMB1NZ

The rain had turned London into a blurred watercolour of neon and grey, but the cold biting at Harlow Quinn’s cheeks was sharp enough to cut. She didn’t feel the water soaking through her trench coat, nor the ache in her knees that usually flared up int this damp weather. She only felt the hunt. Her boots slammed against the pavement, kicking up sprays of oily water as she sprinted down the alleyway. "Met Police! Stop!" The command was a reflex, useless and lost to the wind. The figure ahead of her didn't even flinch. He—if it was a ‘he’—moved with a fluid, impossible grace that made Harlow’s stomach turn. He wasn't running so much as flowing over the obstacles, vaulting a stack of pallets and clearing a six-foot chain-link fence without breaking stride. Harlow hit the fence a second later. She didn't have his grace. She scrambled, metal biting into her palms, and dropped to the wet concrete on the other side with a heavy grunt. She was forty-one, and nights like this reminded her that she wasn't a twenty-year-old rookie anymore. But she had the endurance of a mule and the stubbornness of a tectonic plate. She wiped mud from her eyes. The suspect had veered off the main thoroughfare, heading toward the skeletal remains of the huge construction project near Camden—the one that had been stalled in litigation for three years. He was heading underground. Harlow pushed harder, her breath coming in ragged tears. She saw him slip through a boarded-up entrance to what should have been a sealed service tunnel. When she reached the entrance, she halted. The boards were thick, rotted plywood, nailed shut. There physically wasn't space for a human to pass through. "Where did you go..." she whispered, the steam of her breath clouding her vision. She clicked on her heavy-duty flashlight. The beam cut through the gloom, illuminating graffiti tags and trash. Nothing. No loose board. No hidden door. Then, the beam caught something white on the muddy floor. Harlow crouched. It was a token. Small, heavy, made of bone. It felt warm to the touch, vibrating slightly against her thumb. Instinct screamed at her to drop it. It triggered the same primitive alarm bells that had rung the night she found DS Morris in that warehouse, twisted and broken by things that didn't belong in a police report. *Entry requirement,* a thought surfaced, unbidden. She looked at the blockade. On a hunch, she pressed the bone token against the wood. The air pressure dropped so sharply her ears popped. The wood didn't move; it rippled like a disturb pool of water, turning translucent, then gaseous. A smell hit her—ozone, frankincense, and the copper tang of old blood. The barrier was gone. In its place, a dark staircase spiralled down into the earth, far deeper than the Tube lines ran. Harlow stood at the precipice. This was the threshold. Above her was London—rules, paperwork, the slow but logical grind of the justice system. Below was... Morris’s world. The world that killed him. She checked the worn leather watch on her left wrist. 02:23 AM. "Damn it," she muttered. She drew her baton, flicking her wrist to extend the steel shaft with a sharp *clack*. She stepped onto the stairs. The descent was silent, the noise of the rain fading instantly. By the time she reached the bottom, the air was dry and warm. She turned a corner and stopped dead. It was an abandoned Tube station, recognizable by the oxblood tiles and the curved architecture, but it had been colonized. Lanterns hung from the arched ceiling, burning with a silent, spectral green fire that cast long, dancing shadows. It was a market. Stalls lined the platform, draped in heavy purples and velvets. Instead of commuters, figures in hooded robes and heavy coats moved between the vendors. Harlow saw a jar on a nearby table containing a human hand that was flexing its fingers. She backed up against a tiled pillar, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. *The Veil Market.* The name from Morris's notes. It was real. She scanned the crowd, her detective’s eye dissecting the chaos. There. Fifty yards down the platform, near a stall selling dried bundles of grey herbs, stood her quarry. He had pushed his hood back. Dark curly hair. Olive skin. He was rubbing a scar on his left forearm, looking agitated. He spoke to the vendor, handing over a few coins that glinted with an unnatural lustre. Harlow took a breath. Fear was a chemical reaction. She could suppress it. She had a job to do. She stepped out from the pillar, marching down the platform with the military precision that defined her bearing. The crowd parted around her—not out of respect, but out of confusion. They smelled the law on her; the scent of cheap precinct coffee and rigid morality. "Herrera!" The name echoed unnaturally loud in the cavernous station. The suspect froze. He turned slowly, eyes wide. He wore a Saint Christopher medallion over a grey henley. Tomás Herrera. The name she’d pulled from a tip-off two days ago after a string of unauthorized medical procedures popped up on the radar. Herrera stared at her, then at the baton in her hand. He didn't run. He looked... pitying. "Detective Quinn," he said, his voice carrying a soft Spanish lilt. "You have walked very far from home." Harlow stopped ten feet from him. She kept the baton raised. "Hands where I can see them, Tomás. You're coming in for questioning regarding the assault on High Street and practicing medicine without a license." A low, raspy chuckle came from the vendor behind Herrera—a creature whose face was entirely wrapped in bandages. "License," it wheezed. "She speaks of licenses in the Raven's basement." "Quiet," Harlow snapped, not taking her eyes off Herrera. "Tomás. Now." "You don't understand," Herrera said, raising his hands slowly, palms open. "You holding that bone token... it let you in. But it doesn't mean you belong. If the Guardians see a badge down here..." "I don't care about your club rules," Harlow said, though her knuckles were white around the baton handle. "I care about the law." Herrera stepped closer, lowering his voice. "The law stops at the street level, Quinn. Look around. Do you think you can arrest a warlock? Do you think you can cuff a shade?" Harlow looked. She saw a figure to her left whose shadow moved independently of his body. She saw the banded merchant sharpening a knife that seemed to absorb the light. The memory of Morris hit her again—the emptiness in his eyes. "I can try," she said, her voice steel. "I lost a partner to this freakshow. I'm not losing a suspect." Herrera looked at her, searching her face. He saw the sharp jawline, the tired eyes, the grief hardened into anger. "Morris," Herrera said softly. "You're the one who wouldn't let it go." "He was my partner." "He was in over his head. Just like you are right now." Herrera glanced past her shoulder, toward the stairs. His expression tightened. "Don't look, but we have company." Harlow instinctively tensed. "I said hands up." "Put the stick away, Quinn," Herrera hissed, stepping into her personal space. "There are three Skin-Eaters coming down the stairs. They smell fear and they smell authority. If you initiate violence, they will strip the flesh from your bones before you can read me my rights." Harlow held his gaze. He looked terrified, but honest. The paramedic in him was surfacing—triage. Assessing the threat. She lowered the baton but didn't collapse it. "Give me one reason not to drag you out right now." "Because I'm the only one here who speaks human," Herrera whispered. "And because I know what really happened to DS Morris." The air in the station seemed to grow colder. The green lanterns flickered. Harlow felt a chill crawl up her spine that had nothing to do with the rain. She looked at the exit, then back at Herrera. "You talk," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Fast." "Not here," Herrera said, grabbing her elbow and steering her away from the stairs, deeper into the market. "We have to blend in. Walk. Don't stare at anyone. And for God's sake, put the weapon away." Harlow hesitated. Every protocol she knew screamed at her to secure the scene. But the scene was impossible. She collapsed the baton and shoved it into her belt. She fell into step beside Herrera, walking past a stall selling bottles of fog. "You're not escaping," she murmured. "Detective," Herrera said, guiding her toward the dark tunnels at the far end of the platform. "At this point, I'm just trying to keep your soul attached to your body."