AI Rain lashed against Detective Harlow Quinn's face, stinging her eyes as she pounded after the fleeing figure. Her boots slapped against wet pavement, sending up sprays of dirty water that soaked the cuffs of her trousers. The suspect, a wiry man in a hooded jacket, darted between parked cars with desperate agility. He slipped on a patch of oil-slicked tarmac but recovered instantly, scrambling over a low brick wall into a narrow alleyway.
Harlow didn't hesitate. She vaulted the same wall, her shoulder clipping the rough brickwork. Pain flared but she ignored it, pushing harder. Eighteen years on the force taught her one thing above all others: let them get away once, and they never stopped running. Three years ago, she had let DS Morris out of her sight for thirty seconds. That thirty seconds cost her a partner and left a hole in her chest that no amount of whiskey could fill. She refused to repeat history.
The alley narrowed, choking with overflowing bins and discarded furniture. The smell of rotting vegetables mixed with the sharp tang of urine. Harlow's breath came in ragged gasps, her lungs burning. The suspect reached the end of the alley, a dead end blocked by a high corrugated iron fence. He spun around, panic widening his eyes before he spotted a rusted metal door set into the brickwork beside him. He yanked a strange, curved object from his pocket—a piece of bleached bone—and slammed it against a reader hidden in the shadows.
A heavy clunk echoed through the alley. The door groaned open, revealing a staircase plunging into darkness. Warm, stale air rushed up, carrying scents of sulphur, roasted meat, and something metallic that made the hair on Harlow's arms stand up. The suspect vanished down the stairs, pulling the door shut behind him.
Harlow reached the door just as the lock engaged. She gripped the cold handle and shook it. Solid. No keyhole, no obvious mechanism. Just smooth, ancient wood reinforced with iron bands. She pounded on the surface.
"Police! Open up!"
Silence answered her. Not the silence of an empty room, but a heavy, suffocating quiet that felt watchful. She checked her watch . The worn leather strap felt damp against her skin. Time slipped away while she stood above ground like an idiot. She scanned the frame, looking for weaknesses. A faint green glow seeped from the crack beneath the door, pulsing rhythmically like a slow heartbeat.
She drew her service weapon, checked the safety, and kicked the door near the lock. The wood didn't budge. It felt like kicking a bank vault. Frustration boiled in her gut. She holstered the gun and examined the bone token slot again. The reader glowed faintly where the suspect had struck it. Residue clung to the surface—grey dust that smelled of old graves.
Harlow knew this area. She knew every pub, every corner shop, every drain cover in Soho. This door hadn't been here yesterday. Or last week. Buildings didn't just appear in alleyways without planning permission, yet here it stood, defying logic. The air around the frame shimmered slightly , distorting the raindrops falling near it.
A muffled shout drifted up from below. Then the sound of glass breaking.
Her hand hovered over the door handle again. Protocol demanded backup. Protocol dictated securing the perimeter and calling for specialized entry teams. Protocol also meant losing the suspect. If he slipped through whatever net lay beneath this street, she might never find him. The files on her desk hinted at a network operating in the shadows, dealing in things that didn't appear on standard evidence logs. Supernatural origins. The phrase haunted her since Morris died. She had dismissed it then as grief-induced paranoia. Now, standing before a door that shouldn't exist, the idea felt less like madness and more like an inevitable truth.
She took a deep breath, tasting the ozone-heavy air, and shoved the door. It swung open with surprising ease, as if inviting her in .
The stairs descended sharply , lined with rough-hewn stone that glistened with condensation. The green glow intensified with each step, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. The noise of the city above faded rapidly, replaced by a low, thrumming hum that vibrated in her teeth. The temperature dropped, but the air grew thicker, heavier with the scent of exotic spices and burning herbs.
At the bottom, the staircase opened into a vast cavernous space. Harlow stopped dead, her hand tightening on her grip.
This was no abandoned tube station. Stalls draped in tattered velvet and beaten copper lined a wide central thoroughfare. Lanterns fueled by blue flames hung from chains suspended in the darkness above, illuminating a crowd that moved with purposeful secrecy. Creatures that looked human but moved with unnatural grace browsed tables laden with jars of glowing liquids, bundles of dried roots, and weapons that seemed to shift shape when viewed from the corner of the eye .
A tall vendor with skin like polished obsidian haggled with a customer whose face was obscured by a hood made of living vines. Nearby, a cage held something small and furry that chirped in a language that hurt Harlow's ears. The sheer scale of the operation stunned her. This wasn't a few rogue elements; this was an entire society hidden beneath London's feet.
She spotted the suspect weaving through the crowd, heading toward a stall displaying intricate masks carved from bone. He moved with familiarity, nodding to a guard who wore armour stitched from what looked like dragon scales . Harlow pushed forward, shouldering past a group of figures chanting over a map spread on a barrel.
"Make way," she barked, flashing her badge. "Metropolitan Police."
Heads turned. Dozens of eyes fixed on her. Some held curiosity, others amusement, but many glinted with predatory hunger. The chatter died down, replaced by a wary silence . The vendor at the bone mask stall looked up, his eyes entirely black, devoid of whites or irises.
"We don't serve your kind here, Detective," the vendor said, his voice sounding like grinding stones . "The Veil Market has its own laws."
"I'm here for the man in the grey jacket," Harlow said, keeping her voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding her system. "He's wanted for questioning regarding the death of a police officer."
The crowd shifted, creating a path not out of respect, but to isolate her . The suspect laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. He picked up a mask from the stall and held it to his face. When he lowered it, his features had changed. His jaw was broader, his nose flattened, his skin tone darker. He was unrecognizable.
"Which man?" the suspect asked, his voice now a deep baritone. "I'm just a shopper."
Harlow stepped closer, her boots clicking on the flagstones. "Don't play games. I saw you enter."
"Saw me?" The suspect tossed the mask back onto the table. "You saw a shadow. A trick of the light. You mortals always see what you expect to see."
"I see a murderer." Harlow reached for her handcuffs.
The guard in dragon-scale armour stepped between them, drawing a sword that sparked with electricity. "No weapons drawn in the Market. That is the first law."
"Lower it," Harlow ordered, her hand resting on her holster . "Or I will shoot."
"You cannot shoot us," the obsidian-skinned vendor said calmly. "Bullets do not work here unless willed by the seller. And I do not sell to the Met."
Harlow froze. The implication settled over her like a cold shroud. If her gun was useless, she had nothing but her training and her wits. She scanned the exits. Two other staircases led up, both guarded by hulking figures with clubs wrapped in barbed wire. The crowd closed in, forming a tight circle. Escape routes vanished.
The suspect leaned against the stall, crossing his arms. "You walked right into the trap, Detective Quinn. We've been expecting you."
Harlow's mind raced . They knew her name. They knew she was coming . This wasn't a random chase; it was a lure. The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. Morris's death hadn't been an accident. It had been a setup, just like this.
"Where is he?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the tension . "What did you do to DS Morris?"
The suspect smiled, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp for a human mouth. "Morris asked too many questions. Just like you."
He gestured to the crowd. "Seize her."
Hands reached out from the shadows. Not human hands, but claws, tentacles , and grasping vines. Harlow backed up, her heel catching on a loose stone. She stumbled but regained her balance, drawing her baton instead of her gun. If bullets failed, steel would have to suffice.
The first attacker lunged, a blur of motion and snarling teeth. Harlow sidestepped, bringing the baton down hard on the creature's wrist. Bone cracked. The creature shrieked, a sound that shattered the remaining glass jars on the nearby stall. Shards of glinting liquid sprayed across the floor, hissing where they touched the stone.
Chaotic energy erupted. Stalls overturned. People screamed. The blue lanterns swung wildly, casting the scene into a strobe-light nightmare of flashing shadows and glaring light. Harlow fought with desperate precision, using the tight space to her advantage. She blocked a strike from a wooden club, countered with a jab to the throat, and ducked under a sweeping claw.
But there were too many. They herded her toward the center of the market, away from the stairs. The suspect watched from the safety of his stall, laughing as his minions closed the net.
"Give up, Quinn," he called out. "There is no way out. The Veil keeps what it takes."
Harlow spotted a gap in the line of attackers, a narrow passage between a stall selling bottled storms and another offering sealed boxes that wept black tears. It led deeper into the market, away from the exit, but it offered movement. Staying put meant capture. Moving meant survival, at least for another minute.
She feinted left, drawing three attackers toward her, then spun right and sprinted for the gap. Her lungs burned. Her muscles screamed. She dove under a hanging display of dried bats, rolling to her feet and scrambling into the darker recesses of the market.
Shouts pursued her. Footsteps thundered on the stone. She didn't look back. She couldn't. Ahead, the passage widened into a tunnel lined with pipes that pulsed with violet light. The hum grew louder, vibrating through the soles of her boots. At the end of the tunnel, a massive iron gate stood slightly ajar, revealing a cavern filled with towering stacks of crates and the distant roar of machinery.
Something massive moved in the shadows beyond the gate. Something that blocked out the violet light.
Harlow skidded to a halt, her breath hitching in her throat. The footsteps behind her grew closer. The gate ahead offered the only path forward, but the shadow waiting on the other side felt older and more terrible than anything she had faced in the tunnel.
The first attacker rounded the corner, raising his club. Harlow tightened her grip on her baton, her eyes locked on the shifting darkness beyond the gate.