Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXV0G0YBKHG1W03DT3BSR5

Rain lashed against the asphalt, turning the London street into a slick obsidian mirror. Harlow Quinn pumped her arms, her boots hammering the pavement with a rhythm that belonged on a drill field, not a midnight pursuit. The suspect—a hooded figure clutching a heavy canvas satchel—vaulted a bollard and scrambled over the bonnet of a parked taxi. "Police! Stop running!" Harlow didn't shout. She didn't have the breath. The words barely left her throat before she was moving again, muscles coiling and releasing. The hood slipped between two buildings, heading away from the bright lights of the West End. Harlow checked her wrist. The worn leather of her watch strap was dark with water. 02:14. The city was asleep, but the streets were awake with the hunt. She followed the splashing echoes into an alleyway choked with refuse bags. The smell of rot and stale beer assaulted her nose. The suspect was fast, unnaturally so, gaining distance with every turn. Harlow grit her teeth, jawline tightening. She wouldn't lose this one. Not like Morris. The hooded figure skidded around a corner, slipping on wet cobblestones but recovering instantly. Harlow pushed harder, ignoring the burn in her calves. They were heading north, toward the sprawl of Camden. The ambient noise of the city faded, replaced by the howl of wind and the relentless drumming of the storm. The suspect ducked through a gap in a construction fence, disappearing into the shadows of the old railway arches. Harlow blasted through the tarpaulin a second later. The air down here tasted different. Ozone and wet iron. "End of the line!" The alley dead-ended against a rusted metal door that looked like it hadn't opened since the Blitz. The suspect spun around, chest heaving, eyes wide and darting. He held the satchel against his chest like a shield. Harlow slowed, her hand drifting to the grip of her service weapon. She kept it holstered, but the threat was clear. Rain dripped from the end of her nose. "Hand it over." "You don't know what you're doing, Quinn." The voice was distorted, wet. Not the kid she expected. Someone older. Someone who knew her name. She took a step forward. "I know you're fleeing a crime scene. I know you're covered in blood that isn't yours. Put the bag on the ground." The suspect smiled. A crooked, broken thing. "I'm not the one bleeding." He reached into his pocket. Harlow drew her weapon, aiming center mass. "Hand out. Slow." The suspect pulled his hand out. A white disc sat in his palm. A coin. No, a token. Carved from bone. He slammed it against the rusted door. A sound like a cracking whip echoed through the archway. The metal door didn't swing open; it dissolved. The rust flaked away into ash, the iron turning translucent as mist. Beyond it lay not a storage room, but a set of concrete stairs spiralling down into darkness. Harlow froze. Her finger tightened on the trigger. This wasn't right. This wasn't physics. "See you on the other side, Detective." The suspect stepped through the mist and vanished. Harlow stood there, the rain soaking her salt-and-pepper hair, plastering it to her skull. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her mind was cold, sharp. She looked at the space where the door used to be. The opening shimmered, a violet haze hanging in the air. From the depths below, sounds drifted up. Not the noise of a train station. Chanting. The hiss of steam. The low murmur of a hundred voices in a language she couldn't place. She holstered her weapon. If she called this in, they'd send a mental health team. They'd suspend her. They'd bury the file. She looked at her watch again. 02:16. "Damn it." She stepped through the haze. The chill hit her instantly, cutting through her clothes like she was naked. The stairs were steep, lit by flickering bulbs that buzzed with an angry electric hum. The air was thick with the scent of sulfur, burning sage, and copper. Harlow descended, hand hovering over her holster. The concrete walls gave way to rough-hewn brick. This was deep. Deeper than the Tube. The stairs opened into a cavernous space. An abandoned station platform, but repurposed. Harlow pressed her back against a brick pillar and scanned the area. It was a market. Stalls carved out of scrap metal and old shipping containers lined the platform. Strange glowing fungi hung from the ceiling in wire baskets, casting long, dancing shadows. Figures moved between the stalls—some human, others... not. A man with the head of a bull inspected a jar of floating eyeballs. A woman with skin like polished obsidian haggled over a knife that seemed to absorb the light around it. Harlow swallowed hard. Her brain scrambled for a rational explanation. Gas leak. Hallucination. Mass hysteria. Then she saw him. The suspect was fifty yards away, exchanging the bone token for a small vial of glowing blue liquid from a stall vendor. And standing next to him, looking bored and unbothered by the nightmare unfolding around him, was Tomás Herrera. Harlow knew Tomás. Everyone in the precinct knew the dropout paramedic who ran with the bad crowds. She had arrested him twice for possession, both times charges dropped for lack of evidence. He was leaning against a tent pole, picking at his fingernails. The Saint Christopher medallion around his neck caught the purple light, glinting gold. Tomás looked up. His warm brown eyes locked onto Harlow's position across the platform. He didn't panic. He didn't run. He just raised an eyebrow and nudged the suspect. The suspect stiffened, grabbing the vial and bolting toward a tunnel on the far side. Tomás pushed off the pole, moving with a loose, easy grace that Harlow had never seen in the interrogation room. He didn't chase the suspect. He walked straight toward her. Harlow stepped out from the pillar, weapon drawn but held low. "Stay where you are, Herrera." He stopped five feet away. Up close, he looked different. Tired. But the scar running down his left forearm seemed to pulse. "Detective Quinn." His voice was calm. Casual. "You're a long way from Soho." "You're under arrest. Accessory to..." She waved the gun vaguely at the bull-headed man. "...whatever the hell this is." Tomás glanced at the bull-man, then back at her. He smiled sadly. "This isn't a jurisdiction you want to claim, Harlow." "Don't call me Harlow." She advanced, cuffs in her left hand. "Turn around. Hands behind your back." "If I do that, you won't make it back up the stairs." He gestured to the market around them. "The Veil doesn't like uniforms. It doesn't like laws." "The Veil?" "This place. The Market." He looked at the tunnel where the suspect had fled. "Your runner bought something he shouldn't have. Something that burns." "I don't care what he bought. I care about the body I found two hours ago. The one that was drained of blood." Tomás’s expression flickered. A crack in the armor. "That wasn't us." "Then who?" "The collectors. And if you go down that tunnel after him, you'll become inventory." He stepped closer, ignoring the gun barrel pressed against his chest. "Go back, Quinn. Walk up the stairs. Forget the door." Harlow looked at the tunnel. The suspect was getting away. The killer was getting away. She looked at Tomás. She saw the medic he used to be, buried under layers of secrets. "I can't do that." Tomás sighed. He reached into his jacket pocket. Harlow tensed, finger tightening on the trigger. He pulled out a card. A playing card. The Queen of Swords, but the queen had three eyes. He tucked it into her breast pocket. "For luck." He shoved her. Hard. Harlow stumbled back, boots scuffing the dirty platform. "Go!" She regained her balance, but Tomás was already gone. He melted into the crowd, disappearing behind a stall selling cursed teeth. Harlow stood alone in the swirling chaos of the Veil Market. The card in her pocket felt like it was burning a hole through her shirt. The suspect was vanishing into the dark tunnel ahead. The entrance behind her was the only way back to the real world. She checked her watch. 02:18. Harlow looked at the tunnel. She looked at the stairs. She holstered her weapon, turned her back on the exit, and walked into the dark.