AI Rain lashed against the pavement, a relentless drumming that soaked through Harlow Quinn’s coat and chilled the skin beneath. She stood across the street from the Raven’s Nest, the green neon sign buzzing in the damp air, its reflection shimmering in oily puddles on the road. The sharp jawline she pressed against her collarbone tightened. Her watch read eleven-forty. Late for a meeting, early for a body.
A figure burst out of the bar's heavy oak doors. A hood obscured the face, but the frantic energy, the way the shoulders hunched forward, screamed guilt.
Harlow moved. Boots gripping the slick asphalt, she crossed the street, dodging a black cab that hissed and swerved, tyres throwing up a curtain of filthy water. She ignored the driver's curses.
"Police! Stop!"
The figure didn't falter. He sprinted toward the mouth of an alleyway, cutting between a kebab shop and a boarded-up laundrette.
Harlow followed, her breathing already falling into the rhythmic cadence she’d perfected over eighteen years on the force. Three years since Morris died under that bridge, since the shadows had grown teeth and the world had stopped making sense. She’d chased things like this before, things that shouldn't exist but left footprints in the mud.
She hit the alley at full tilt. Bags of rubbish lined the brick walls, smelling of rot and chip grease. The suspect vaulted a stack of crates with an agility that bordered on unnatural, landing without a sound on the other side.
Harlow scrambled over, scraping her palms against the rough wood. Her knees protested, but she pushed the pain down. Military precision. One foot in front of the other.
The alley opened onto a narrower service road behind the theatres of Shaftesbury Avenue. The rain here came down in sheets, distorting the streetlights into bleeding watercolours. The suspect was twenty yards ahead, turning sharp left toward Camden.
She picked up speed. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. She needed to close the gap. If she lost him in the labyrinth of North London, he’d be gone. Another ghost. Another dead end.
"Stop or I will tase you!"
The figure glanced back. For a split second, lightning illuminated the face beneath the hood. Pale skin, eyes too wide, a mouth twisted in terror. Not a normal criminal. A runner for the clique.
He put on a burst of speed, moving impossibly fast. Harlow gritted her teeth and forced her legs to pump harder. The muscles in her thighs burned, acid building up, but she ignored it. Focus. The target.
They left the main roads, slipping into the quieter, industrial shadow of the Camden locks. The canal water below them churned , black and angry. The suspect scrambled down a grassy embankment, slipping on the mud but righting himself instantly.
Harlow followed, sliding down the incline, using a tree trunk to brake her descent. Bark bit into her shoulder.
He was heading for the old station.
Abandoned since the war, the entrance to the Underground station stood like a gaping wound in the earth. Fences had been erected , but someone had cut through the chainlink weeks ago, leaving a jagged hole. The sign above was rusted illegible, the paint flaking away like dead skin.
The suspect vanished into the darkness of the tunnel mouth.
Harlow skidded to a halt at the threshold. The air here was different. Colder. It smelled of ozone, old dust, and something metallic, like blood left on a counter. The sounds of the city—the distant traffic, the hum of the pubs—faded, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence .
She unholstered her torch, flicking the beam on. The light cut through the gloom , illuminating damp, tiled walls covered in graffiti.
"Police! Come out with your hands where I can see them!"
Her voice echoed, bouncing off the curved ceiling, sounding strangely flat.
She stepped onto the platform. Debris littered the ground—old tickets, syringes, crushed beer cans. Her beam caught movement at the far end of the platform. A heavy iron door, painted a deep, bruising purple, stood slightly ajar. The suspect was standing before it, fumbling with something in his hands.
Harlow ran, keeping her footsteps light.
The door swung open. Warm, amber light spilled out onto the dirty concrete, accompanied by a wave of noise. Chatter, the clink of glass, low thrumming music. It smelled of spices, leather, and unwashed bodies.
The Veil Market. The rumours were true.
The suspect threw himself through the doorway.
Harlow was ten yards away. Five yards.
A hand shot out from the opening and grabbed the suspect by the collar, yanking him inside. Another figure stepped into the frame to block the way.
Harlow skidded to a stop, raising her weapon.
"Step back! Let me through!"
The figure in the doorway didn't flinch. He was shorter than the runner, olive-skinned, with short curly dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He wore a loose shirt that revealed the scar running along his left forearm. A Saint Christopher medallion glinted around his neck.
Tomás Herrera. She knew his face from the files. The paramedic who lost his license.
He looked at her, his warm brown eyes devoid of fear. He looked at the gun, then at her face.
"You shouldn't be here, Detective."
His voice was calm, carrying over the noise of the market behind him. He held a small, carved bone token in his hand—the key to the door.
"I'm placing you under arrest," Harlow said, though her grip on the gun tightened. The air pressure was dropping , her ears popping. "Step away from the door."
Tomás shook his head slowly . "This isn't your jurisdiction. You know that. Deep down, you've always known that."
Behind him, the shadows of the market seemed to writhe. Figures moved in the amber haze, distorted shapes that didn't look quite human.
"I have a suspect fleeing custody. That makes it my jurisdiction."
"He isn't fleeing custody. He's seeking asylum." Tomás stepped back, his hand on the iron door handle. "Go home, Harlow. Go back to the rain and the real world."
He used her first name. A chill that had nothing to do with the rain raced down her spine .
"Stop!" she shouted.
Tomás pulled the door.
"Wait!"
The iron slab swung shut with a heavy, final thud. The lock clicked into place, loud as a gunshot in the sudden silence of the abandoned station.
Harlow stood alone in the dark. The beam of her torch caught the empty space where he had stood. The door was solid, seamless iron. No handle on this side. No keyhole. Just a barrier between the world she knew and the world she hunted.
She lowered her weapon slightly , breathing hard. The silence pressed in on her ears. The chase had ended at a brick wall. A literal and metaphorical dead end.
She walked up to the door, placing her hand against the cold metal. It vibrated faintly, the energy of the crowd on the other side humming through the steel. She could smell the lingering scent of whatever incense they burned in there—sulphur and sandalwood.
She could turn around. Walk back up the stairs, call it in, report a suspect lost in the tunnels. Write it up like she did the others. A glitch in the system. A runner who got away.
She looked down at her wrist, at the worn leather watch . The second hand ticked, indifferent to the impossible door standing before her. Morris would have gone through. Morris would have kicked the damn thing down or found a way to burn it.
Harlow holstered her gun. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her tactical knife. The blade snapped open with a clean click. She knelt by the door, examining the frame, the gaps between the iron and the crumbling concrete of the station wall.
If the token was a bone, maybe the lock was old. Maybe it responded to something else. Force, or blood, or sheer stubborn will. She wasn't leaving . Not tonight. Not while the image of Tomás Herrera's calm eyes burned in her memory.
She jammed the tip of the knife into a small fissure in the mortar surrounding the door frame. She put her weight behind it. The stone crumbled slightly , dust puffing out.
The decision wasn't about the arrest anymore. It was about the truth.
She pulled on the knife, testing the integrity of the wall. It groaned, a low, grinding sound of stone shifting against iron. She was an outsider here, a tourist in hell, but she was a tourist with a crowbar and a grudge.
She leaned her shoulder against the door, pushing with everything she had, ignoring the strain in her muscles, the rain drying on her skin, the logical part of her brain screaming that she was about to step off a cliff. The door didn't budge, but the stone around it shifted.
Just a little.
She gritted her teeth, wiped the sweat from her eyes with her sleeve, and shoved again.