Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXKJESEAC22CB0BGGFC63X

Rain lashed against the grimy brickwork of the Soho alley, the kind of biting, cold November rain that soaked through clothes and chilled to the bone. Detective Harlow Quinn’s closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her scalp, water streamed down her sharp jaw, blurring the streetlights into distorted halos. Her breath plumed out in ragged gasps, each one a struggle against the burn in her lungs. The worn leather watch on her left wrist pressed into her skin as she pumped her arms, pursuing the figure ahead. Tomás Herrera, a blur of dark clothing, wove through overflowing bins and discarded takeaway boxes. He moved with a speed Quinn would not have expected from a civilian. She’d underestimated him. A grave error she wouldn’t repeat. The alley opened onto a wider street, the neon glow of “The Raven’s Nest” a lurid splash of green against the grey. Herrera didn’t hesitate, hooking a sharp left, disappearing around the corner. Quinn pushed harder, her military precision bearing her forward despite the fatigue. Her boots skidded on slick pavement. She rounded the corner. Herrera had vanished. She scanned the street. The rain hammered down, creating a shimmering veil, distorting her view. A flash of movement, a dark coat disappearing into a narrow gap between a boarded-up shop and a grimy pub. An access point she hadn't charted. She darted towards it, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and damp earth. The gap was barely wide enough for her shoulders, a tunnel of grime and shadow. She squeezed through, her clothes snagging on unseen protrusions. The space opened onto a deserted stretch of cobbled backstreet, lit by a single flickering streetlamp that cast long, dancing shadows. Herrera was a hundred yards ahead, a dark silhouette against the dull glow of streetlights in the distance. He looked back, his face a pale oval, a moment of hesitation before he accelerated. “Police! Stop!” Quinn’s voice was hoarse, swallowed by the drumming rain. Herrera ignored her, his short curly dark brown hair plastered wetly to his head. He sprinted, his olive skin gleaming as the streetlamp caught him. The Saint Christopher medallion around his neck swung wildly, catching the light like a tiny, erratic pendulum. He wasn’t a street rat, not really, but he moved like one, agile and quick. The street ended abruptly at a high brick wall. No escape. Quinn felt a surge of triumph, the chase nearing its conclusion. But Herrera didn’t falter. He slid to a halt, hands braced against the wall. A loose brick, hidden in the perpetual gloom, popped inwards, revealing a narrow opening. An old service entrance, long forgotten. He disappeared inside, a ghost fading into the stone. Quinn reached the wall seconds later, panting, her hands pressed against the cold, wet brick. She found the loose brick, pushed, and felt a rush of stale, damp air. The opening was a dark maw, a staircase spiralling downwards into absolute blackness. No light. No sound except the distant rumble of the Tube and the unending downpour above. She drew her sidearm, the cold steel a familiar weight in her hand. The glow of her phone’s torch cut through the gloom, revealing rough concrete steps, slick with moisture. A faint metallic tang, like old blood and rust, hung in the air. This wasn’t an ordinary cellar. The air grew heavy, thick with an almost palpable silence, broken only by the drip of water. Quinn descended cautiously, her training kicking in, each step deliberate. The staircase seemed endless, twisting and turning, disorienting her. The concrete gave way to rough-hewn earth, the air growing colder, carrying a faint whisper of… something unidentifiable. A faint, distant hum, like a forgotten city breathing. She reached an archway, shrouded in shadow. Herrera’s footsteps, faint but distinct, echoed from beyond. She moved through the arch, past the crumbling remains of what looked like an old turnstile, forgotten for decades. The space opened into a vast chamber, far larger than she expected. An abandoned Tube station, long disused. But it wasn’t empty. A kaleidoscope of glowing lanterns illuminated a chaotic scene. Stalls crafted from salvaged wood and rusted metal lined a wide platform. Shadows danced across the vaulted ceiling, lost in the cavernous space. Strange, aromatic smoke drifted from braziers, mingling with the scent of spices and something else, something wild and untamed. Faces, human and not-quite-human, moved through the throng. Figures wrapped in heavy cloaks, some with eyes that gleamed with unnatural light, haggled over goods on display. Trinkets that pulsed with a faint, internal glow. Vials filled with swirling, iridescent liquids. A low murmur of voices, a confluence of languages she didn’t recognize, filled the air, a constant hum that vibrated through the very ground. This was the Veil Market. She’d heard whispers, the kind of urban legends dismissed by rational minds. Stories from street informants, the ones about impossible goods and shadowy figures. A place that moved locations every full moon, accessible only with a bone token. Herrera, standing by a stall laden with wicked-looking blades and strange leather-bound books, spotted her. His warm brown eyes widened, alarm replacing the exhaustion. He had thought he was safe. A skeletal hand, its fingers impossibly long, reached out from a nearby stall, adorned with shimmering, unidentifiable fabrics. It gestured towards Quinn, its owner a hunched figure cloaked in shadows, a skull-like mask obscuring its face. A low, guttural growl rumbled through the market. Heads turned. Dozens of eyes, some human, some not, fixed on her. A police uniform. An outsider. Tomas spun on his heel, merging with the crowd, his olive skin disappearing amidst the swirling bodies. Quinn had a moment, a split second to decide. Her priority, Tomás Herrera, was a man she needed to question about his involvement in a string of disappearances. He possessed information, information that could lead her to answers. Answers to DS Morris and the truth behind his death. But following him further meant diving headfirst into this bizarre, dangerous world. A world she didn't understand, a world that seemed to be actively hostile. One against many. She was deep within unfamiliar territory, deep in the earth, far from backup, far from anything resembling law and order. A world without rules. Except theirs.