Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXE78XWMDGAPF58EGP0ENR

Techno music engaged in a violent war with the thunder rolling over Soho, the bass vibrating through the soles of Harlow’s boots. Rain sheeted down in aggressive curtains, turning the neon lights of the district into smeared oil paintings reflecting on the asphalt. Note to self: get better boots. Harlow Quinn rounded the corner of Old Compton Street, her breath tearing out of her lungs in ragged, burning bursts. The suspect was fifty yards ahead, a silhouette carved out of shadow and speed, cutting through the late-night throngs of tourists and revelers with liquified grace. He didn't shove people aside; he seemingly passed through the gaps in their attention, a ghost in a tracksuit. She didn't have that luxury. Harlow slammed her shoulder into a intoxicated patron stumbling out of a pub, sending him reeling into a lamppost. "Police! Move!" The command ripped from her throat, raw and stripped of patience. She didn't stop to check the man’s balance. Her eyes locked on the white distinct stripe of the suspect's jacket. He vaulted a parked taxi, feet barely touching the wet metal roof, landing on the other side with the silence of a falling leaf. Harlow planted her hand on the taxi’s hood and swung her legs over, the leather of her watch scraping against the yellow paint. She landed heavy, water splashing up to her shins. Forty-one years old. The knees complained, a sharp, grinding protest that shot up her thighs, but the adrenaline flooded the pain receptors. She forced her body back into the sprint. Military precision. One foot in front of the other. Do not let the target break the line of sight. The chase bled into the darker arteries of the city. The suspect hooked a sharp left, diving into an alleyway that stank of urine and refuse. Harlow followed, her hand instinctively drifting to the holster beneath her soaked blazer. The alley was a dead end—or should have been. A ten-foot brick wall loomed at the terminus, slick with moss and rain. The figure didn't slow down. He hit the vertical surface, one foot driving into a crack in the masonry, propelling him upward. fingers curled over the rusted iron railing of a fire escape two feet above his head. With a heave that defied standard physiology, he swung up and over the wall, disappearing into the gloom of the adjacent construction site. Harlow skidded to a halt, the grit grinding beneath her soles. She stared up at the wall. Impossible. The vertical leap required was Olympic standard, yet the man had done it with the casual effort of stepping onto a curb. A memory flashed—flashbulb bright and searing hot. DS Morris, eyes wide, blood pooling black in the moonlight, screaming about things that moved too fast to be human. Harlow shook the ghost away. She scanned the alley. A dumpster sat overflowed with cardboard boxes against the adjacent building. She scrambled up the side, boots finding purchase on the plastic lid, and hauled herself onto the lower rungs of the fire escape. The metal groaned under her weight. She climbed, vaulting the railing to the roof logic dictated the suspect had crossed. Below, the skeletal remains of a demolished block sprawled towards Camden, a maze of I-beams and concrete pits. The rain fell harder here, unimpeded by the tunnel of buildings. She spotted movement. A flicker of white near the center of the site, heading toward the ground level where the excavators had dug deep into the bedrock. "Metropolitan Police! Stay where you are!" Harlow leveled her weapon, the cold steel steady despite the heaving of her chest. The figure paused. Just for a heartbeat. He turned his head. Even at this distance, through the deluge, the darkness of his hood seemed impenetrable, but Harlow felt the weight of his gaze. It felt like static electricity brushing against her skin. He dropped. He didn't climb down; he stepped off the edge of a concrete precipice and plummeted into the darkness of the excavation pit. Harlow holstered her weapon and sprinted to the edge. A makeshift ramp of plywood and scaffolding led down into the earth, spiraling toward what looked like an exposed section of the old Tube network—tunnels abandoned decades ago, sealed off from the public. She navigated the treacherous descent, salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her skull, water dripping into her eyes. The noise of the city above—the sirens, the traffic, the shouting—faded, replaced by the rhythmic *drip-drip-drip* of water echoing through subterranean chambers. Her boots hit the floor of the pit. The air here was cooler, carrying the scent of wet clay and something metallic, like ozone before a storm. Before her lay a jagged hole in a brick wall, revealing the curved architecture of a train tunnel. Harlow clicked on her flashlight. The beam cut a cone of stark white through the dusty dark. She entered the tunnel. The tracks were gone, leaving only the rotting wooden sleepers embedded in the mud. Rats scattered at the intrusion of light, their eyes reflecting red in the beam. Fifty meters in, the tunnel widened into a station platform that didn't appear on any modern map. Faded tiles clung to the walls, covered in graffiti that twisted the eyes—shapes that looked like letters but refused to resolve into words. The suspect stood at the far end of the platform, in front of what looked like a ticket booth reforged from scrap metal and bone. A heavy iron gate blocked the passage beyond, welding scars knitting the bars together in ugly, bulbous ridges. Harlow killed the light and moved into the cover of a tiled pillar. She drew her weapon again, breathing through her nose to quiet the gasp of exertion. The suspect reached into his pocket. The sound of ceramic clinking against metal echoed in the quiet. He produced a small, flat object. In the gloom, it looked pale. Like ivory. Or bone. He stepped up to the gate. There was no keyhole, no electronic keypad, no card reader. Instead, a skeletal hand—human, by the look of the carpals—was mounted to the center of the iron bars, palm open, waiting. The man placed the token into the skeletal palm. Harlow watched, her jaw setting into a rigid line. The skeletal fingers snapped shut. A sound resonated through the platform, a low hum that vibrated in Harlow's teeth. The iron gate didn't swing open on hinges; it seemed to dissolve, the metal twisting and folding in on itself like burning paper, revealing a corridor bathed in a sickly, pulsating violet light. Smells wafted out—spices she couldn't name, roasting meat that smelled too sweet, and underneath it all, the copper tang of magic. The suspect stepped through. As he crossed the threshold, the iron began to reform, knitting itself back together from the edges inward. Harlow broke cover. She sprinted across the cracked tiles, boots hammering the ground. "Hold it!" The gate was sealing fast. The suspect was already ten feet down the violet corridor, walking with a leisurely gait. He didn't look back. He knew she couldn't follow. Harlow reached the barrier just as the last of the iron bars fused shut. She slammed her hand against the cold metal, rattling the gate. It held fast, solid as a bank vault. The violet light from the other side cast long, warped shadows through the bars. She could see the tunnel opening up into a massive cavern further down. Noise drifted back to her—a chaotic bazaar, shouts, bartering, the hiss of steam. The Veil Market. She had heard the whispers in the intake rooms, the rumors the older alcoholics on the force laughed about. A place that moved with the moon. A place where the laws of physics were suggestions rather than rules. Harlow looked at the skeletal hand mounted on her side of the gate. It was open again, waiting. *Entry requirement: bone token.* She stared at the hand. The palm was empty. "Damn it." She holstered her gun and grabbed the bars, shaking them again. Futile. She was locked out. Then she saw it. In the mud near the suspect's previous position, half-buried in the silt accumulated from the ceiling leaks, a small white chip gleamed. The suspect must have fumbled when he pulled the token from his pocket. A spare? Or maybe dropped by a previous traveler. Harlow knelt. She dug her fingers into the cold slime and retrieved it. It felt heavy for its size. Carved from a knucklebone, etched with a single, burning symbol that made her eyes water if she focused on it too long. She stood up, the token burning cold against her palm. Rationality screamed at her. Call backup. Set a perimeter. Wait for specialized units that didn't exist. This was insane. This was how Morris ended up in a closed casket. She looked through the bars. The suspect was disappearing into the crowd of the market. If she let him go, the lead died here. The connection to the clique, the reason for the bodies piling up in the morgue with unexplained tox screens—it all walked away. But walking in there meant leaving behind the world she understood. It meant stepping onto a chessboard where she didn't know how the pieces moved. Harlow looked at the skeletal hand. She looked at her watch. 02:14 AM. "Morris would have kicked down the door," she whispered to the empty station. Harlow Quinn reached out and placed the bone into the waiting dead hand. The fingers snapped shut around her offering, cold and sharp enough to pinch her skin. The hum returned, louder this time, shaking dust from the ceiling. The iron bars in front of her began to twist and scream, metal turning to liquid smoke. The violet light washed over her face, turning the hard lines of her expression into something ghostly. She drew her weapon, checked the chamber, and stepped into the light.