Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXXRNZDH6NFTKXD0CRE3FW

Detective Quinn's breath misted in the cold November air as she pressed her back against the brick wall of a Camden alleyway. Rain hammered the pavement, turning the narrow passage into a river of black water that soaked through her boots. Twenty meters ahead, her suspect—a gaunt man in a torn peacoat—glanced over his shoulder before ducking around the corner. She pushed off the wall and followed, her footsteps splashing through puddles that reflected the amber streetlights above. Three weeks of surveillance on the Raven's Nest had finally paid off. The man had emerged from the bar's back entrance carrying a leather satchel that reeked of something chemical, something wrong. When he'd spotted her unmarked car, he'd bolted. "Control, this is Quinn." She spoke into her radio as she ran. "In foot pursuit of IC1 male, heading east on Inverness Street toward Camden High Street." Static crackled back. The rain was interfering with the signal. The suspect vaulted over a chain-link fence into a construction site. Quinn followed, her hands scraping against the wet metal as she hauled herself over. She landed hard on the other side, mud splattering up her trousers. The man was already sprinting across the torn-up ground, weaving between excavators and concrete barriers. A flash of lightning illuminated the site, throwing skeletal shadows from the construction equipment. In that split second of brightness, Quinn saw where he was headed—a boarded-up entrance to what looked like an old Tube station, the boards recently pried loose. "Don't go down there," she muttered, but the suspect disappeared through the gap. Quinn reached the entrance and stopped. The wooden boards had been pulled back to reveal a descending staircase, its depths swallowed by darkness. A musty smell wafted up, mixed with something else—incense, herbs, and that same chemical tang from the satchel. She tried her radio again. "Control, suspect has entered abandoned Tube access at—" She checked the faded sign above the entrance. "Camden Deep Level Shelter. Requesting backup." Only static answered. Rain drummed on the corrugated metal overhang above the entrance. Quinn touched the worn leather watch on her wrist, a habit when making decisions. Morris would have charged in without hesitation. Morris would have— She cut off the thought and drew her torch, its beam cutting through the darkness below. The stairs were slick with moisture and something that might have been moss. Or mold. Graffiti covered the walls, but underneath the modern tags, she could make out older symbols carved into the tile—circles, triangles, characters from no alphabet she recognized. A distant sound echoed up from below. Voices. Many voices. Quinn descended, her free hand trailing along the wall for balance. The temperature dropped with each step, and her breath came out in visible puffs despite the exertion of the chase. After what felt like a hundred steps, the staircase opened into a wider tunnel. She swept her torch across the space. The platform of an old Tube station stretched before her, but it had been transformed. Makeshift stalls lined the tracks where trains once ran. Lanterns hung from ropes strung across the arched ceiling, casting dancing shadows. People—if they were people—moved between the stalls, examining wares spread on moth-eaten carpets and rickety tables. The Veil Market. She'd heard whispers of it during her investigation, dismissed them as criminal folklore. But here it was, a bazaar of the impossible. Her suspect was halfway across the platform, pushing through the crowd. Quinn started after him, then stopped. Without backup, without knowing the terrain or the players, pursuing him into this crowd would be suicide. But if she waited for reinforcement that might never come, she'd lose him. A woman at the nearest stall turned toward her, and Quinn's blood went cold. The woman's eyes were solid black, no whites, no pupils. She smiled, revealing teeth filed to points. "Copper in the Market," the woman called out in a sing-song voice. "Copper in the Market without a token." Heads turned. Conversations died. The cheerful chaos of commerce ground to a halt as dozens of eyes—human and otherwise—fixed on Quinn. The suspect had stopped running. He stood at the far end of the platform, watching her with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He'd led her here. This wasn't a chase—it was a trap. "You need an invitation to shop here, Detective," a man said, stepping out from behind a stall selling bottled lights. Actual lights, trapped in glass like fireflies. "A bone token, specifically." Quinn's hand moved to her ASP baton. "I'm Metropolitan Police. This is—" "This is nowhere," the man interrupted. "You have no authority in nowhere." The crowd began to close in, not threatening exactly, but curious. Like predators deciding if prey was worth the effort. Quinn's radio crackled with static, useless this far underground. Her mobile would be the same.