Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXTZQSY1XB8AM8QQ371S14

Rain hammered the pavement, turning the gutters into rushing streams of grey sludge. Harlow Quinn pushed her legs harder, lungs burning with the cold air. Her boots slipped on the wet cobblestones, but she recovered balance without breaking stride. Water soaked through her trousers, heavy and cold against her skin. Ahead, the suspect darted into the shadow of a closed storefront. Olive skin gleamed under the streetlights. Tomás Herrera. Harlow wiped water from her eyes. Her salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her skull. She checked the time. The worn leather watch on her left wrist glowed faintly in the dark. Three minutes since he spotted her outside the Raven's Nest. Three minutes too long. Her breath came in sharp bursts. She tightened her grip on the flashlight in her left hand. The beam cut through the downpour. Herrera scrambled over a low wall, landing with a splash. He clutched his left forearm, the scar there white against the dark skin. He did not look back. He knew she followed. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the brick buildings. Puddles rippled where his boots struck. Quinn drew her weapon. The metal felt cold against her palm. She racked the slide. The sound snapped through the night. Herrera! Stop! The man ignored her. He turned down a narrow alleyway leading toward the Camden Lock. The smell of stale beer and damp rubbish hung heavy in the air. Harlow pursued, boots striking the ground with military precision. Eighteen years on the force taught her when a chase turned dangerous. This felt different. The air pressure dropped. The hair on her arms stood up. The rain seemed to avoid her shoulders. Drops curved around her form. Herrera reached the entrance of an abandoned Tube station. Rust covered the iron gates. Graffiti marked the concrete pillars. He stopped before a section of wall that looked solid. He reached into his pocket. Harlow slowed. She raised the gun. Her finger rested on the trigger. Move away from the wall. Hands where I can see them. Herrera turned. Rain dripped from his curly dark hair. A silver chain hung around his neck, the Saint Christopher medallion swinging against his chest. He held up a small object. White. Curved. Smooth. You cannot follow me here, Detective. Drop the item. Herrera pressed the object against the brickwork. A bone token. The wall shimmered. Reality bent like heat haze on a summer road. The solid bricks dissolved into a swirling mist. Light spilled out from the other side. Not the yellow glow of sodium streetlights. This light pulsed with violet and green hues. Harlow stepped closer. The rain stopped falling around the entrance. A dry circle formed around the opening. She stood on the threshold, one foot in the storm, one foot in the dry. The silence inside the mist absolute. The hum of the city vanished. What is this place? The Veil Market. Herrera stepped through the mist. The noise changed. The sound of traffic and rain vanished. Replaced by a low hum. Chattering voices. Clinking glass. The scent of sulfur and burnt sugar wafted out. Harlow holstered her weapon. She could call for backup. No one would come. Morris learned that lesson three years ago. Morris vanished on a case just like this. Unexplained circumstances. She gripped her left wrist, fingers digging into the leather strap of her watch. The leather felt rough. Herrera waited on the other side. He touched the medallion again. The silver caught the violet light. You lose your license if you cross. I lose my life if you stay. Harlow looked at the tunnel behind him. Maps hung on the walls inside. Old maps. Black-and-white photographs floated in the air without pins to hold them. People walked past wearing clothes from different centuries. A woman sold jars of glowing liquid. A man traded teeth for coins. This was not a squatters' den. This was not a drug den. This broke every law of physics she understood. She checked her watch again. The second hand ticked forward. Normal time. Outside, the rain continued to pound. Inside, the air remained still. The contrast made her stomach turn. If I step through, you talk. Herrera shook his head. His curly hair bounced. If you step through, you become part of the market. Rules change down here. Your badge holds no weight. Your gun holds less. Harlow tightened her jaw. Her sharp jawline set hard. She looked at the bone token still embedded in the wall. It pulsed with a faint rhythm. She thought of the files on her desk. The missing persons reports. The bodies found with no cause of death. All leading to this clique. To this man. To this place beneath Camden. She took a breath. The air inside smelled of ozone. It tasted metallic on her tongue. I do not care about your rules. She stepped forward. The mist brushed against her face. Cold. Static electricity crackled across her skin. Her uniform felt heavier. The weight of the city disappeared. The rain sounds cut off like a switch flipped. Herrera moved back. He did not run. He watched her with warm brown eyes. Pity filled his gaze. You think you hunt us. We hunt ourselves. Harlow ignored him. She focused on the tunnel ahead. The abandoned Tube station transformed. Tiles covered in mosaic patterns shifted color as she walked. The darkness retreated before her. The floor felt solid beneath her boots. She stopped. Her hand hovered over her holster. The leather creaked. Where does this lead? Everywhere. Nowhere. Herrera pointed deeper into the station. A distinctive green neon sign flickered above a doorway further down. It matched the sign above the Raven's Nest. The buzz of the neon filled the silence. You want answers? You walk the path. Harlow looked back at the entrance. The rain still fell outside. The real world waited. Safe. Familiar. Useless. She looked at her reflection in a puddle inside the market. Her eyes looked darker. The brown iris swallowed the light. Her salt-and-pepper hair looked greyer. She released her grip on the holster. She kept her hands visible. Palms open. Lead the way. Herrera turned. He walked past stalls selling bottled shadows and caged birds with three wings. Harlow followed. Her boots made no sound on the wet floor. The market crowded around them. A vendor offered her a vial of red smoke. She pushed past. Her shoulder brushed the stall. The wood felt warm. They reached the green neon sign. It buzzed. The light cast long shadows against the tiled walls. Herrera stopped before a door marked with symbols she did not recognize. He turned to face her. The scar on his forearm stood out white in the neon glow. Last chance to turn back. Once you enter, the Veil marks you. Harlow looked at the door. She thought of Morris. She thought of the three years of silence. She placed her hand on the door handle. The metal felt warm. Vibrating. Like a living thing. Open it. Herrera twisted the handle. The lock clicked. The door swung inward. Darkness waited inside. Not empty darkness. Solid. Heavy. Harlow stepped into the threshold. The light from the market faded behind her. The air grew cold. She heard breathing. Not hers. She waited for her eyes to adjust. Shapes formed in the gloom. Tables. Chairs. A bar. This was not a room. It was a memory. Herrera lit a match. The flame burned blue. He held it up. The light revealed walls covered in photographs. Faces she recognized. Missing persons. Victims. And one face she knew too well. Morris. Harlow froze. Her breath caught in her throat. She reached out to touch the photograph. The paper felt warm. Humming. Do not touch. Herrera blew out the match. Darkness returned. The blue smoke curled in the air. Why is he here? Herrera moved in the dark. She heard the rustle of his clothes. The sound of fabric against fabric. He broke the rules. Just like you. Harlow drew her gun again. The click of the safety echoed loud in the small space. The sound bounced off the walls. Where is he? Gone. Like the rest. Harlow stood still. The rain outside seemed a lifetime away. She stood in the heart of the supernatural black market. The Veil Market. She had her suspect. She had her location. She lacked understanding. The lack of understanding gnawed at her. She lowered the gun. The metal cooled in her hand. Show me everything. Herrera struck another match. The blue flame flickered. It cast shadows that moved independent of the light source. The shadows stretched toward her. Then keep up. He walked deeper into the room. Harlow followed. The floor changed from tile to wood. The smell of sulfur faded. Replaced by old paper and dust. The dust motes danced in the blue light. They entered a hidden back room. A bookshelf stood against the far wall. Herrera pushed a specific book. The shelf swung open. A secret room accessible through a bookshelf. Another room. Larger. Circular. The walls curved upward into darkness. Harlow stepped inside. The door closed behind her. No handle on the inside. She tested it. Solid. She turned. Herrera stood by a table covered in maps. He looked at her. His olive skin looked pale in the matchlight. You are inside the Nest now. Harlow scanned the room. Exits. Weapons. Threats. None visible. Where is the exit? There is none. Not until the moon turns. Harlow checked her watch. The hands spun backward. Then forward. Then stopped. The leather strap felt tight against her wrist. She looked at Herrera. He held up the bone token. The bone glowed faintly. You are part of the market now, Detective. Harlow holstered her weapon. She walked to the table. She placed her hands on the map. The paper felt rough. Then we start working. Herrera nodded. He pulled a chair out. The legs scraped on the wood. Sit. The night is long. Harlow sat. The leather creaked. She looked at the map. It showed London. But the streets moved. The rivers flowed uphill. The Thames twisted like a snake. She traced a line with her finger. The ink smudged. Where did Morris go? Herrera pointed to a spot on the map. A blank space. No streets. No names. Here. Harlow looked up. Her brown eyes locked on his. Show me. Herrera opened a drawer. He pulled out a file. Thick. Dusty. He slid it across the table. The wood groaned. Read. Harlow opened the file. The first page bore her partner's name. DS Morris. Case closed. The stamp was red. She turned the page. Photographs spilled out. Crime scenes. Supernatural markers. Symbols drawn in blood. She looked at Herrera. The match burned low. Who killed him? Herrera leaned back. The scar on his forearm caught the light. The skin pulled tight. No one. He chose. Harlow stood. The chair scraped against the floor. The sound echoed. Chose what? To stay. Harlow gripped the edge of the table. Her knuckles turned white. The wood dug into her palms. Why? To protect you. Harlow stepped back. She hit the wall. The maps rustled behind her. The paper whispered. Protect me from what? Herrera stood. He walked to the bookshelf. He ran his hand over the spines. The books looked old. Leather bound. From this. From us. From the truth. Harlow drew her gun again. She aimed at his chest. The sight aligned. Tell me the truth. Herrera turned. He did not flinch. He did not blink. You are already in it, Harlow. You crossed the threshold. You breathed the air. You are marked. Harlow lowered the gun. Her hand shook. Just once. She steadied it. She took a breath. Then I finish the job. Herrera smiled. A sad expression. Lines formed around his eyes. There is no job. Only the market. Harlow holstered the weapon. She walked to the door. She pushed. It did not open. The wood felt like stone. She turned back to the room. The circular walls seemed to close in. The air pressure dropped again. How do I get out? You do not. Harlow looked at her watch. The leather strap felt tight. She loosened it. The buckle clicked. Then I stay. Herrera nodded. He poured two drinks from a bottle on the table. Clear liquid. Glass clinked. Drink. It helps the transition. Harlow took the glass. She smelled it. Alcohol. Something else. Herbs. Earth. She drank. The liquid burned her throat. Warmth spread through her chest. Her muscles relaxed. The room spun. The maps on the wall began to move. The lines rearranged themselves. Cities shifted. Borders dissolved. She gripped the table. The wood felt solid. What is happening? The Veil accepts you. Harlow blinked. The room stabilized. The maps stopped moving. The ink settled. She looked at Herrera. He watched her. Waiting. His warm brown eyes unreadable. She set the glass down. The base clicked on the wood. Now what? Now we wait for the moon. Harlow looked at the ceiling. No ceiling. Just stars. Twinkling. Distant. She sat back down. She picked up the file. She opened it again. The pages crinkled. She read. The words shifted as she looked at them. The rain outside continued to fall. Unheard. Unfelt. Inside the Nest, the clock ticked. The sound loud in the silence. Harlow turned the page. The photograph of Morris stared back.