Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXF0FX1FR262NJABTRRPD4

The rain hammered down on Camden High Street, turning the pavement into a river of reflected neon. Detective Harlow Quinn's boots splashed through puddles as she pursued the figure ahead—a blur of dark clothing weaving between late-night pedestrians. "Metropolitan Police! Stop!" The suspect glanced back, face obscured by a hood, then vaulted over a construction barrier. Quinn followed, her worn leather watch catching on the metal fence. She yanked it free and dropped into the work site beyond. Mud sucked at her shoes. The suspect was already scrambling up the opposite side, heading for the mouth of an alley. Quinn's lungs burned, but eighteen years on the force had taught her to push through worse. She hauled herself over scaffolding and emerged onto a narrow side street. There—movement near a boarded-up shop entrance. The suspect pried at loose planking, creating a gap just wide enough to squeeze through. Quinn sprinted forward, but they'd already vanished inside. She pressed her back against the wet brick wall beside the opening. Rain dripped from her salt-and-pepper hair, running cold trails down her neck. Through the gap came the echo of footsteps descending stairs. Quinn clicked her radio. "Control, this is DI Quinn. In pursuit of suspect, entering abandoned building off Camden High Street. Request backup." Static crackled. "Copy that, Detective. Units en route. ETA five minutes." Five minutes. Too long. The suspect would be gone by then, along with any chance of answers about DS Morris and what really happened three years ago. Quinn ducked through the gap. The darkness inside was absolute. She pulled out her torch, its beam cutting through dust motes and revealing a staircase leading down. Construction equipment littered the space—this had been part of the Tube expansion project, abandoned when funding dried up. The stairs groaned under her weight. At the bottom, a service tunnel stretched in both directions. Fresh mud tracks led left. Quinn followed, her torchlight dancing across pipes and electrical conduits. The air grew thick, tinged with an odd metallic taste. Voices drifted from ahead. Multiple people, their words indistinct. Quinn killed her torch and crept forward, one hand on the tunnel wall for guidance. A faint glow appeared around a bend—candlelight flickering through a doorway. She peered around the corner. The doorway opened onto a platform, and beyond that... Quinn's breath caught. Where there should have been abandoned tracks lay a sprawling underground market. Dozens of stalls filled the station, their wares illuminated by floating orbs of light that defied explanation. Vendors in strange clothing haggled with customers whose shadows moved independently of their bodies. The suspect stood at the platform edge, pulling something from their pocket—a small white object. A token made of bone. Quinn's mind raced. Whatever this place was, it wasn't on any Metropolitan Police map. The suspect started down steps she hadn't noticed before, descending toward the market floor. "Looking for someone?" Quinn spun. A man stood behind her, olive skin pale in the strange light. A scar ran along his left forearm, and a medallion glinted at his throat. "Metropolitan Police." She reached for her warrant card. "I'm pursuing a suspect who—" "Into the Veil Market?" The man's accent carried traces of Spain. "That's not wise, Detective. Not without understanding what you're walking into." "Are you threatening an officer?" "Warning one." He gestured at the market below. "Your badge means nothing down there. Different rules, different... residents." Quinn studied him. Medical bag at his feet, steady hands despite finding a cop in this bizarre place. "You're a doctor." "Was. Tomás Herrera. And you're Detective Quinn. Heard about you—the cop who won't let go of her partner's case." Her jaw tightened. "You know about Morris?" "I know chasing ghosts through the Veil Market won't bring him back." Tomás stepped past her to the platform edge. "But if you insist on going down there, at least know what you're risking. See those symbols on the stall banners? Stay clear of the red ones—they trade in memories. The vendors with silver masks? They'll know you're police before you open your mouth." "Why are you helping me?" "Because someone helped me once, when I first stumbled into this world." His hand went to the medallion. "Saint Christopher. Patron of travelers. Figure you could use some guidance." Below, the suspect had reached a stall draped in black cloth. They handed over the bone token, receiving a wrapped package in return. Quinn's radio crackled. "DI Quinn, what's your position? We're at the construction site." She had to decide. Report back, let the suspect escape with whatever they'd acquired. Or descend into this impossible market, risking everything on the chance it connected to Morris's death. The suspect was moving again, heading deeper into the crowd. In moments, they'd be lost among the stalls and shadows. Tomás watched her, waiting. "Once you cross that threshold, Detective, there's no unknowing what you'll learn. The world's bigger than Scotland Yard teaches." Thunder rumbled overhead, muffled by tons of earth and concrete. Quinn thought of Morris—his laugh, his terrible jokes, the way his eyes had widened in those final moments as something impossible tore through reality. She clicked off her radio. "Tell me the rules."