Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXDRMX728DQ98X6TJG3TQP

The rain fell in sheets, turning Soho’s streets into a distorted mirror of neon and shadow. Detective Harlow Quinn’s breath rasped in her throat, a harsh counterpoint to the rhythmic slap of her boots on the slick pavement. Water streamed from her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair, plastering it to her scalp. Each lungful of air was a gulp of cold, damp city. Ahead, Tomás Herrera vaulted a stack of overflowing bins, his movements fluid and desperate. He landed without a sound, a phantom in the downpour, and sprinted down a narrow alley. Quinn followed, her body aching with the familiar burn of a long pursuit. She ignored the stitch tightening in her side, her focus narrowed to the fleeing figure. Eighteen years on the force had replaced youthful speed with a grim, relentless endurance. She rounded the corner, her shoulder brushing against the wet brick. The alley stank of stale beer and decay. Herrera was a dozen yards ahead, his dark curls matted to his head. He glanced back, his warm brown eyes wide with a fear that seemed too big for a simple medic caught with an unlicensed practice. A glimmer of silver at his throat, his Saint Christopher medallion, caught the stray light from a flickering streetlamp. "Police! Herrera, stop!" Her voice was a raw bark, swallowed by the noise of the city and the storm. He didn't listen. He never did. He pushed through a rusted gate at the end of the alley, its hinges screaming in protest, and disappeared onto another street. Quinn pushed harder, her strides long and efficient, a product of a lifetime of discipline. The worn leather of her watch strap was slick and cold against her wrist. She burst through the gate into Camden, the market's gaudy lights and late-night crowds a sudden, jarring sensory assault. Tourists huddled under awnings, their faces pale and bored. Herrera cut through the throng, a ghost weaving between the living. Quinn shoved past a group of teenagers, a gruff apology lost on the wind. She saw him again, a brief flash of his jacket as he ducked down a flight of steps marked with a faded Underground roundel. An abandoned station. Condemned for decades. Her boots hit the top step just as he reached the bottom. The air grew colder, thick with the scent of damp concrete and something else… something metallic and vaguely sweet, like old coins and ozone. Her pursuit had led her below the skin of the city. The tiled walls of the station were covered in layers of grime and graffiti, a forgotten history written in spray paint. The only light came from strings of bare, mismatched bulbs that cast long, dancing shadows. Herrera stumbled, his hand slapping against the wall to steady himself. He was flagging. Quinn descended the last few steps, her footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet. Water dripped from the ceiling, each drop a percussive beat in the tomblike space. "It's over, Tomás. There's nowhere else to run." He turned, his back pressed against a hulking, silent ticket barrier. His olive skin was pallid under the harsh light, his chest heaving. "You don't understand, Detective. You can't follow me." "Watch me." She moved forward, keeping her weight balanced, her hands free. He fumbled inside his jacket, and for a heart-stopping moment, she thought he was reaching for a weapon. Her own hand instinctively dropped to her hip. But he pulled out something small and white. A piece of bone, carved with intricate symbols that seemed to writhe in the poor light. A token. He shoved the bone token into a tarnished slot on the barrier. It wasn't a ticket reader; it was older, a solid block of iron and brass that shouldn't have been there. A low groan echoed from deep within the mechanism, the sound of gears that hadn't turned in a century. With a shuddering clang, a section of the barrier slid open. Beyond it was not the darkness of an abandoned platform. It was a riot of impossible light and sound. The air that washed over Quinn was heavy with the smell of exotic spices, unknown blossoms, and hot metal. A cacophony of voices, none of them speaking English, mingled with the hiss of steam and the chime of unseen bells. Herrera slid through the gap, his face a mask of grim relief. He looked back at her one last time, his sleeve riding up to reveal the puckered line of a long scar along his forearm. "Turn back, Quinn. This isn't your world." The barrier began to grind shut. Quinn lunged, her fingers catching the edge of the heavy iron gate. She strained against it, the metal biting into her skin. She held it open just enough to see through. She saw stalls fashioned from petrified wood and wrought iron, lit by glowing fungi and bottled lightning. Creatures with features she couldn't process bartered with vendors whose shadows moved independently of their bodies. The Veil Market. A rumour, a ghost story whispered by informants who always ended up dead or insane. The gate pushed against her, relentless. Her muscles screamed. The last time she’d ignored the impossible, she had found DS Morris in a warehouse, his face a canvas of pure terror, not a single mark on his body. The coroner called it a heart attack. She knew better. She had felt the cold in that room, a wrongness that had settled deep in her bones and never left. The gate was closing. Herrera was vanishing into the crowd. Her case, the network he worked for, everything was on the other side of that barrier. And so was the thing that killed her partner. She was sure of it. Some echo of that same chilling wrongness emanated from the market beyond. With a grunt, she heaved the gate open a few more inches. The choice was simple. Let the mystery that haunted her for three years fester, or step into the madness and face it. Her jaw set into a hard, sharp line. She squeezed through the gap just as it slammed shut behind her, the sound of its closing final and absolute. The ordinary world of rain and neon was gone. Before her, the Veil Market pulsed with a life that defied all reason.