Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTY1TCB5REWGX3DSDFKFCE3

Rain didn’t just fall; it hammered against the pavement of Soho, blurring the neon signs into smeary streaks of pink and green. Harlow Quinn adjusted the grip on her service weapon, the leather strap of her watch rubbing a sore spot on her wrist. She checked the time. 2:14 AM. Two minutes past her self-imposed curfew, and the case file sitting on her desk hadn't gotten any lighter. Behind her, the heavy, rhythmic thud of running boots cut through the drumming deluge. "Get back here! Police!" A shout from the night shift hadn't stopped a man running like he had a demon on his heels. He turned the corner two blocks down, slipping on a patch of oil-slicked water. Quinn didn't slip. She’d spent fifteen years in uniform, moving with a military precision that had somehow survived the desk job and the bureaucracy. She vaulted the low brick wall, boots connecting solidly with the cobblestones below. She caught sight of him just as he ducked into an alley between a closed tailor shop and a derelict laundromat. The air here was different. Thicker. Colder. The rain vanished almost instantly as the alley narrowed into a choke point between towering brick walls, black ivy clinging to the mortar like veins. "Show your hands, Herrera!" The footsteps didn't stop. A fraction of a second later, a glint of metal flashed in the dark. A heavy-duty bolt cutter flew past her ear, clattering against the brickwork. Quinn dove behind a rusted dumpster, the heavy metal denting the lid where her head had been an instant before. The sound of retreating steps grew faint, then abruptly ceased. Silence, save for the dripping of water from the gutter. She pushed off the dumpster, crouching low. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. The adrenaline spiked, washing away the lethargy of the evening. She peered around the corner. No Herrera. Just a hatch in the brickwork, the metal flaking away to reveal greased hinges. It sat open, swallowing the darkness. It was an access point to the Underground, she knew that much. Maintenance shafts. But this wasn't the Camden High Street station she was familiar with. The architecture was wrong, the layout askew. And the smell hit her first—a rotting mix of ozone, stale urine, and something metallic, like copper coins left in a damp pocket. She holstered her weapon and moved. The hatch led down a rusted ladder into the belly of the city. Quinn descended, her boots finding purchase on the rungs despite the slick moss covering them. When she reached the bottom, the air grew stagnant. The hatch had sealed itself with a heavy thud behind her. She was alone. And then the shadows stirred. The walls of the tunnel opened up into a vast chamber, a subterranean cavern that had once been a station, or so the graffiti suggested. Torches flickered on iron pillars, casting long, dancing shadows across faces that looked out from the gloom. The Veil Market. It was a patchwork of poverty and occultism. Tables were crowded with bottles of bubbling liquid, pouches of dried herbs that smelled of lavender and necrosis, and strange artifacts—clocks with hands that spun backward, pocket watches that played no sound but a low humming. Women in veiled cloaks haggled over stolen birth certificates; masked figures traded stashes of something that looked like crushed glass. Quinn took a step forward. Boots scuffed against the concrete floor. "Looking for a friend of yours, Detective?" The voice came from the gloom to her left. A tall figure emerged, leaning against a pole wrapped in flashing red tape that read *OUT OF ORDER*. He wore a long coat, collar turned up against the damp chill, and a medallion around his neck—a Saint Christopher, bright against the grimy fabric. He smiled, revealing teeth too white for this lighting. "You’re far from the Yard, Harlow. Or did they let you run loose after hours?" She didn't recognize him, but the disdain was familiar. "Let you go, you mean. Where's the man I chased?" The figure tilted his head. "The man who runs bone tokens into these parts? He didn't make it, not unless he knows the secret handshake. And you..." He pushed off the pole, circling her, "you don't smell like a sheep. You smell like burnt iron and trouble." "You're Herrera." The name landed in the silence like a stone in a pond. The man’s posture stiffened. "How do you know him?" He took a step closer, hand drifting toward the inside of his coat. Quinn kept her hands visible at her sides, but her body remained coiled. "Tomás Herrera. Former paramedic. Unlicensed. Current fence for a certain clique of yours. The medallion suggests he's trying to buy his way out of a past he buried in Seville." The man laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "So you know the paperwork. You know the danger. This isn't a homicide, Quinn. It's a breach of the Treaty. If you shoot him, or even cuff him, you cause a scene. You break the rules that keep us all from being locked in concrete boxes." He pointed a gloved finger at her chest. "And you don't want to be in a cage with things that drink light for breakfast." Quinn glanced around the perimeter. The market was waking up. Two men in trench coats were watching her from a stall selling jars of eyeballs. Someone in the back was sharpening a knife on a stone wheel. The crowd pressed in, hungry, smelling fear and blood. This was the Veil Market. A place that moved locations every full moon, where magic and malice sold by the gram. A place where a detective’s reputation meant nothing and her life was worth pocket change. She could pull her weapon and demand he surrender, but the noise would trigger an alarm, or worse, a magical one. The crowd would part, forming a circle of indifference, and she’d be alone with a supernatural predator. Or she could walk away. Walk back up the rusty ladder, pretend the rain had made her lose the trail, and hope she didn't run into him again before she gathered more backup. More backup meant more red tape, more paperwork, and the paperwork was what kept her partner dead. It was what kept her from understanding. She looked at the man holding the stolen watch and unregistered alchemy, then at the shadows stretching across the concession tables. To go up now was to surrender. To go forward was to step into a shark tank with a limp leg. "You cut him out of his coat last night," Quinn said, her voice steady despite the noise of the bazaar. "He wasn't carrying a bone token." "He was carrying a debt." "A debt paid in bone," Quinn corrected, stepping into the dark. "Don't step in front of me, or I won't ask who you work for." The man watched her, his eyes narrowing. Then he moved, not toward her, but toward the wooden stalls in the back. "Go then. But remember what I said. The Veil doesn't like visitors who wear badges." Quinn moved faster, her boots crunching on the gritty floor. She spotted a flash of red fabric disappearing between two barrels of bubbling potions. She ignored the calls of the vendors, the hissing of the snakes in the cages, and the feeling of being dissected by a hundred unseen eyes. She pushed through the crowd, shoulder knocking into a veiled figure, the scent of jasmine and sulfur filling her nose. She needed the lead. She needed to know what the clique was moving tonight, and she needed to know why the underground was trembling.