Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXHXR4HPYF80V4HPV9Y5DE

Rain hammered the pavement, a relentless drumbeat that swallowed the rhythm of Quinn’s boots. She sprinted down the narrow alleyway, her breath hitching in her chest, the cold air stinging her lungs like broken glass. Wet asphalt slid beneath her feet, slick and treacherous, but her momentum carried her forward. She didn’t look at the fractured reflection of her face in the puddles; she kept her eyes locked on the figure ahead. The suspect weaved through the clusters of people huddled under awnings. A heavy coat he’d tucked into his waistband swung wide with every desperate step. He wasn't just running; he was fleeing something far worse than a failing breathalyzer test. Quinn knew the signs—the hunched shoulders, the darting glances. "Freeze!" The shout tore from her throat, raw and ragged. Her tactical training kicked in, her body snapping into a combat stance even as she pumped her legs. She reached for her sidearm, the leather strap of her holster damp against her hip. The figure didn't stop. He ducked under a wooden fence panel just ahead, disappearing into a shadowy recess that looked more like a ruin than an entrance. Quinn skidded to a halt, her boots squeaking against the wet brick. She peered around the corner, water dripping from the brim of her cap. A concrete door stood ajar, revealing a dark maw of an entrance. It was bolted shut from the inside, but the lock hadn't been shrouded in the heavy dampness that coated the rest of the city. Rainwater pooled near the threshold in unnatural, clean lines, defying the grime of the streets. She crouched, pressing her back against the damp wall. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a primal rhythm of survival. She tapped the comms device in her ear. Static. Just the hiss of electrical interference in the storm. *Useless. Just as useless as it was three years ago.* She looked at the open door. The dark interior smelled of ozone and copper. It wasn't the scent of sewage or rot; it smelled of magic. The kind of heavy, static-charged cold that made the hair on her arms stand up. Quinn vaulted over the fence, landing in a crouch on the other side. She crept forward, her military precision taking over. She reached for the doorframe, her gloved fingers tracing the rough concrete. To her left, a small, carved hole waited in the stone. Inside the hollow sat a small, bleached bone. A bone token. Just as the files indicated. But there were no crowds here, no tourists, no entry fee. The entrance to the Veil Market shifted locations every full moon, but some things remained constant. You needed a key. The suspect had access. He was already inside. Quinn pushed through the door. It clicked shut behind her, sealing the sounds of the city away instantly. The temperature dropped ten degrees in a heartbeat. The damp London chill was replaced by a stale, recycled air that smelled of strange spices and old iron. Torches lined the narrow passage, flames that burned with a sickly, violet hue. She stopped, pressing her hand against the stone to steady herself. The walls here were lined with rusted pipes that hummed with energy. This was beneath Camden, under the Tube station, where the very ground vibrated with the screech of trains miles above. The passage opened into a cavernous space, but it wasn't a cave. It was a series of tunnels carved into the bedrock, lit by flickering neon signs and guttering torches. Stalls lined the walls, arranged with a chaotic density that suggested organized crime. Vials of glowing liquids sat beside jars of dried, writhing herbs. Weapons of all shapes and descriptions—knives made of black glass, clubs wrapped in barbed wire—hung from hooks like meat in a butcher shop. She pulled her service weapon, checking the chamber. The click echoed loudly in the enclosed space. "He's close," she whispered, though she wasn't sure if anyone could hear her. The market was loud. A cacophony of bartering, hisses, and footsteps filled the air. A figure in a long, hooded cloak stood near the entrance, examining a stack of scrolls. The cloak was heavy, woven with a fabric that seemed to shift color in the gloom. Quinn watched the hood turn away. Her target was already twenty yards ahead, moving deeper into the maze of stalls. "Police!" she called out. Her voice didn't carry like she expected it to; the acoustics absorbed the volume, turning her command into a soft murmur. The hooded figure ignored her, heading for a stall selling strange alchemical apparatus. The suspect in the foreground turned a corner, moving toward a set of stairs leading down into a darker, lower level. Quinn tightened her grip on her gun. She needed backup. *South Yard, now.* But the silence of the comms device mocked her. She was alone in a den of supernatural criminals, and she had only seconds to decide. If she went back to the station, they would have to file the paperwork, notify the liaison, and wait for the appropriate supernatural task force. By then, the suspect would be gone, scattered into the ether. But if she followed him down into the belly of this beast, she walked into unknown territory where the laws of England didn't apply. She looked at the stall she’d passed. A woman with skin the color of obsidian sat there, mixing a bubbling potion. She didn't look up from her cauldron. The people in the market looked like refugees from a nightmare. They weren't afraid of a police uniform. They knew she didn't belong here. The suspect turned down the stairs. His silhouette was swallowed by the darkness. Quinn’s jaw tightened. The line of work had cost her too much. DS Morris hadn't died in a car crash. She knew that now, even if the official report said otherwise. He had been taken by something they hadn't seen in twenty years, and she suspected this market was the venue for business they preferred to keep in the shadows. She took a step forward, her boot crunching on something that crumbled like dry bones. The sounds of the market died down around her as heads turned. The collective gaze of the room pinned her to the spot like a specimen in a jar. She didn't flinch. Quinn adjusted her grip on her watch, the leather worn smooth against her palm, a grounding weight in the chaos. She walked toward the stairs, her eyes scanning the shadows for threats. The Veil Market was dangerous territory, a black market where the only coin that mattered was the bone token in her pocket. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of sulfur and anticipation. She stepped onto the first landing, the damp smell of the tunnel intensifying. The suspect was waiting for her on the floor below, a silhouette standing near a heavy iron door. There was no turning back now. She pressed the muzzle of her gun forward and began the descent.