Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXDX9RG58V9ARHR8YNCNG8

Rain lashed the slick pavement, turning the sodium glow of streetlights into shimmering halos. Harlow Quinn’s boots hammered a steady, punishing rhythm against the ground, her breath coming in sharp clouds that vanished into the downpour. Twenty meters ahead, a dark figure—Tomás Herrera—ducked around the corner of a newsagent’s, his silhouette briefly caught in the flash of a passing cab. “Met Police! Stop!” He didn’t even glance back. Three weeks of surveillance on the so-called social club meeting at The Raven’s Nest, three weeks of watching the odd comings and goings, and tonight it had finally cracked open. Herrera had left the bar with a silver case, moving with a purpose that screamed guilty knowledge. When Quinn had stepped from the shadows of a doorway to intercept him, he’d bolted. Now they were in a deadly game of chess through the backstreets of Camden, the rain washing away any trace of them. He led her away from the main roads, into a maze of service alleys choked with overflowing bins and the ghosts of old graffiti. The air smelled of wet brick and decay. Quinn’s hand went to the radio on her belt, her fingers slick with rain. Static crackled, useless this far under the railway arches. She was on her own. She rounded a corner and skidded to a halt. The alley ended in a high brick wall topped with rusted barbed wire. No Herrera. Her eyes scanned the shadows. A single, heavy steel door, painted a grimy black, stood slightly ajar in the wall to her left. A thin sliver of unnatural, greenish light spilled from the gap, cutting across the wet asphalt. Quinn approached, her movements silent, military-precise. The door bore no marking, no number. She placed a palm against the cold steel and pushed it open just enough to see. A set of narrow, winding concrete stairs descended into darkness, lit at intervals by weak, buzzing bulbs encased in wire cages. The air that drifted up was warm, thick with the smell of damp earth, ozone, and something else—incense and hot metal. From below came a low murmur, the echo of many voices in a confined space. This wasn’t on any schematic. It wasn’t a basement or a maintenance tunnel. This was something else. She heard a scuff of a shoe on concrete, several flights down. Herrera. Quinn hesitated, one foot on the threshold. Procedure screamed at her to hold, to call for backup, to secure the perimeter. But backup was a static-filled radio call away, and the perimeter was a rain-swept dead end. Herrera, and whatever he was carrying in that case, was slipping away into the city’s underbelly. Morris’s face flashed in her mind—the confusion in his eyes in those final moments before the warehouse went dark, the official report that blamed faulty wiring and panic. She’d never believed it. The things she’d seen since, the edges of cases that didn’t add up, they all pointed to a world just out of sight. She went down. The stairs seemed to descend forever, coiling deep beneath the city. The murmur resolved into a cacophony—bartering, arguing, the clink of glass and metal. The greenish light grew stronger, emanating from flickering gas lamps that lined the walls of a vast, vaulted space. She emerged onto a balcony overlooking a scene that stole her breath. It was an abandoned Tube station, but transformed. The old platforms were lined with makeshift stalls fashioned from wood, silk, and rusted iron. Vendors haggled with customers whose shapes seemed to shift at the corner of her eye. A woman with skin the colour of polished jet sold vials of swirling liquid that pulsed with their own light. A hunched figure in a heavy cloak offered what looked like carved bones from a velvet cushion. The air vibrated with a low, sub-audible hum that made her teeth ache. The Veil Market. She’d heard whispers, always dismissed as junkie ramblings or ghost stories traded in late-night canteens. And there, moving with purpose through the throng on the main platform below, was Tomás Herrera. He held the silver case close to his chest, nodding to a vendor as he passed, familiar in this place of strangeness. Quinn edged along the balcony, keeping to the shadows. The watch on her wrist felt heavy. Going down there was madness. It was a violation of every protocol, a plunge into a jurisdiction that didn’t exist. She was a detective, not a folklorist. Her weapon was her warrant card and the weight of the law, but what law governed this? A figure detached itself from the shadows near the stairwell—tall, thin, wearing a long coat that seemed to drink the light. It turned a featureless porcelain mask towards her. “Token for entry,” it intoned, the voice a dry rustle. “Metropolitan Police.” Quinn flashed her badge, the gesture feeling absurd. The mask tilted. “Irrelevant. Token. Or departure.” Her eyes tracked Herrera again. He was approaching a stall at the far end, where an old man with fingers like gnarled roots was laying out what looked like dried, unfamiliar flowers. He was going to make the exchange. Whatever was in that case would vanish into this subterranean economy, and with it, perhaps another piece of the puzzle Morris had died trying to solve. The masked figure took a step closer, the air around it growing colder. Quinn made her decision. She didn’t have a token. She had eighteen years of service, a sharp jaw set in determination, and a debt to a dead partner. She moved past the figure, not running, but walking with the deliberate, authoritative stride she used to clear a crowded street. She descended a short set of metal steps onto the main platform, the sea of unnatural commerce parting slightly before her. Eyes, of too many colours and shapes, followed her. The hum in the air spiked. Herrera had reached the stall. He placed the silver case on the counter. The old vendor reached for it. “Herrera!” Quinn’s voice cut through the market din, sharp and commanding. It echoed off the tiled arches. He froze, his hand still on the case. He turned, and for the first time she saw his face clearly in the greenish light—the olive skin taut with surprise, the warm brown eyes wide. The Saint Christopher medallion glinted at his throat. “You don’t want to do this, Tomás. Step away from the case.” The market had gone quiet. All other conversations died. Every vendor, every customer, was now watching them, a ring of silent, eerie spectators. Herrera’s gaze darted from her to the vendor, then to the shadowed exits. He swallowed. “Detective Quinn. You shouldn’t be here.” “I go where the evidence leads. That case is evidence. Hand it over.” The old vendor slowly closed his gnarled hand over the case. “Transaction is complete,” he hissed, his voice like sand on stone. “It is not.” Quinn took another step forward. The crowd didn’t part this time; it seemed to solidify around her. She could feel the pressure of their stares, a physical weight. “Tomás, whatever he’s paying you, it’s not worth it. Come with me. Now.” He looked at her, and she saw the conflict in his face—not the fear of a common criminal, but the desperate calculation of a man in an impossible situation. His thumb rubbed over the scar on his forearm. “You don’t understand what this is,” he said, his voice low, urgent. “You need to leave.” “Not without you. Not without that case.” The vendor pulled the case off the counter and into the shadows of his stall. Herrera flinched, as if the movement severed a connection. From the periphery, Quinn saw the tall, masked figure from the balcony now standing at the foot of the metal stairs, blocking her retreat. Other shapes were moving through the crowd, converging slowly. She was in their territory now. And she’d just interrupted their business.