Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTY25G7S30C00CE8ZSCZPX8

The rain fell in silver sheets, slicking the cobblestones of Soho with an oily sheen. Detective Harlow Quinn’s breath came in sharp, controlled bursts, a plume of steam in the frigid air. Her worn leather watch, strapped tight to her left wrist, was a damp weight against her skin. She ignored it, her entire world narrowed to the figure thirty yards ahead, a dark shape slipping between the glowing halos of streetlights. Tomás Herrera moved with a panicked grace, his shoulders hunched against the downpour. He glanced back, his warm brown eyes wide, and for a second, Harlow saw the glint of the Saint Christopher medallion at his throat. Then he was running again, his trainers slapping against the wet pavement. “Herrera! Stop!” Her voice was a hard crack, swallowed by the city’s nocturnal roar. It was an order, not a request, delivered with the military precision that still defined her bearing. He didn’t even break stride. He cut a hard left into a narrow service alley, and Harlow followed, her sharp jaw set. The alley was a canyon of dripping fire escapes and overflowing bins, the air thick with the smell of rotting produce and wet brick. Herrera was faster, lighter, but she was relentless. She’d chased down worse in her eighteen years. The memory of another chase, three years past, flickered at the edge of her consciousness—a different alley, a different suspect, the inexplicable silence after the gunshot that took Morris. She shoved the thought down, locking it away. This was now. He burst out of the alley’s far end onto a broader street, skidding on the wet tarmac. Harlow gained ground, her coat heavy with water. He was heading for Camden, away from the bright lights and crowds. The sensible part of her mind, the part that wrote reports and followed procedure, told her to call it in, to set up a perimeter. But procedure hadn’t found answers for Morris. Procedure didn’t explain the things she’d started to see in the corners of cases, the inconsistencies that smelled of something other than human corruption. Herrera vanished down a set of grimy steps leading to an abandoned Tube station entrance, a black mouth yawning open in the sidewalk. A sign, rusted and crooked, read ‘Camden Town’ but the station had been closed for years. Harlow slowed, her hand going to the service weapon holstered at her hip. This was it. His bolt-hole. She descended the steps cautiously, the sound of the rain fading behind her, replaced by the drip of water and the hum of something else, something low and electrical. The air changed, losing the chill of the night and gaining a cloying, spicy warmth. At the bottom of the steps, a figure emerged from the shadows—a tall, gaunt man with skin the colour of old parchment, blocking a heavy iron door. “Market’s not for your kind, detective.” His voice was a dry rustle, like pages turning. Harlow’s posture straightened, her right hand resting lightly on her hip, inches from her gun. “My kind?” “The daylight kind. The kind that asks for warrants.” A thin smile played on his lips. “You’re lost.” From beyond the door, she heard a burst of strange, melodic laughter and the clatter of something ceramic. Herrera was in there. She could feel it. This was the place her informants had whispered about, the place that never appeared on any official map. The Veil Market. “The man who just came down here. Tomás Herrera. I need to speak with him.” The gaunt man’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Many people come and go. I see no one.” Harlow took a step forward. The man didn’t move, but the air around him seemed to thicken. “Step aside.” “Do you have a token?” he asked, his gaze dropping to her empty hands. “A bone for passage? No? Then you have no business here.” Her fingers tightened. She could arrest this man for obstruction. She could radio for backup and have a dozen uniforms flood this forgotten hole in the ground in ten minutes. They’d tear the place apart. But what would they find? A damp tunnel? Some stray cats? She knew, with a cold certainty that had grown since Morris died, that they wouldn’t find the market. They wouldn’t see what she was seeing. This door, this guardian, it would vanish, and she’d be left with another dead end, another unexplained blank spot in her report. Morris had followed a lead into the unexplained. He’d never walked out. The choice was a physical weight on her shoulders. Procedure demanded she hold the line, wait for a world that made sense. But the truth—the truth about Herrera’s off-the-books patients, the truth about what really happened three years ago—was behind that door. It was in that warm, strange air and that alien laughter. She made a decision. Her hand moved away from her gun. She met the man’s gaze, her own brown eyes hard and unwavering. “What does it cost? To look around?” The rustle became a low chuckle. “For you? More than you have. But curiosity… curiosity has its own currency.” He studied her, his head tilted like a bird’s. “You have the look of someone who has already paid a price. You may enter. But remember, detective, you are a guest here. The rules are not your rules. The laws are not your laws. Cause a disturbance, and the market itself will expel you. Permanently.” He didn’t move, but the iron door swung inward without a sound, revealing not a dank tunnel, but a sprawling, impossible space. The abandoned Tube station had been transformed. stalls made of polished brass and dark wood lined the curved platforms, lit by floating orbs of gentle green light that cast long, dancing shadows. The air was thick with the scent of exotic spices, ozone, and something metallic. Creatures—some almost human, others decidedly not—moved through the crowd, bartering in a dozen languages. A vendor held up a vial of swirling silver liquid next to a cage containing something with too many eyes. And there, weaving through the crowd with the familiarity of a regular, was the back of Tomás Herrera’s jacket. Harlow Quinn took a deep breath of the strange, spicy air, and crossed the threshold. The door closed behind her with a soft, final click, sealing her inside. The sound of the London rain was gone, replaced by the murmur of the market. She was in his world now.