Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTY76813SMHNJ8QKZ7EWN2C

The rain fell on Soho in a relentless, grey sheet, blurring the neon signs into watercolour smears across the windscreen of her unmarked saloon. Detective Harlow Quinn sat behind the wheel, engine off, the rhythmic thump of the wipers counting out a slow, patient beat. For two hours, the only change in the view had been the shifting reflections in the puddles swelling along the kerb. Her gaze remained fixed on the pub opposite, The Raven's Nest, its distinctive green sign casting an sickly pallor on the wet pavement. Her target was inside. The pub door swung open, spilling a wave of boozy laughter and warm light onto the street. A figure emerged, pulling the collar of a long, black coat high against the downpour. Quinn’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. That was him. He paused under the awning, a shadow against the light, and turned his head. For a fraction of a second, his eyes met hers through the rain-streaked glass. There was no recognition, no alarm, just a cold, flat assessment. Then he bolted. Quinn was out of the car before the door finished slamming shut, her feet pounding the slick tarmac. The air was cold and sharp in her lungs. He had a head start, a dark shape darting down a narrow alleyway choked with overflowing bins and discarded kitchen refuse. The smell of grease and wet cardboard filled her nostrils. She hurdled a stack of sodden newspapers, her worn leather watch catching the faint glow of a distant streetlamp. Her movements were economical, honed by years of drills and chases that ended in less forgiving places than this. He was fast. He vaulted a low wall at the end of the alley, and she followed, her palms scraping against the rough, mossy brick. She landed with a jolt that shot up her shins, ignoring the sting. She was on a wider thoroughfare now, Camden-bound. The suspect weaved through the sparse late-night crowd, a wraith slipping between umbrellas and hunched shoulders. Quinn pushed past a couple, a clipped "Police" her only apology as they stumbled aside. The distance between them was closing. She could see the frantic, jerky turn of his head as he looked back. He was losing steam. He cut sharply left, across four lanes of traffic. A horn blared, a screech of tyres on wet asphalt. Quinn didn't hesitate. She saw the gap between a double-decker bus and a black cab, a fleeting window of opportunity. She sprinted, the world a blur of red taillights and white headlights. The bus's horn sounded like a ship's bellow in her ear as its metal flank rushed past inches from her shoulder. She made it, her heart hammering against her ribs, a hot knot of adrenaline in her stomach. The suspect was scrambling towards the skeletal remains of an old, decommissioned Tube station, a relic swallowed by modern high-rises. Its arched entrance was a black mouth, covered by a heavy, ornate iron gate that should have been rusted shut for decades. He fumbled at his pocket, produced something small, and pressed it against the lock. With a low groan of protesting metal, a section of the gate slid inwards just enough for a person to squeeze through. He was gone. Quinn reached the gate seconds later, her breath rasping. She shoved against the heavy iron, but it was already grinding shut. Solid. Immovable. Panic, cold and unwelcome, pricked at her. She wasn't losing him. Not after this. Her eyes scanned the grimy stonework, the street, anywhere. A glint of white on the dark, wet ground caught her eye. She bent and snatched it up. It was a token, carved from bone, smooth and cool to the touch. A strange symbol, like a coiled serpent, was etched into its surface. The gap in the gate was almost closed. Without thinking, she found a small, recessed slot near the lock and jammed the bone token inside. It clicked. The grinding stopped, then reversed. The gate groaned open a few inches. It was enough. She wrenched it wider and slipped through into the darkness, the gate sliding shut behind her with a final, echoing clang that sealed her in. A wave of cold, stagnant air washed over her. It smelled of deep earth, of damp rot and ozone, and something else, a faintly sweet scent like night-blooming flowers and decay. She stood at the top of a spiral staircase that descended into profound blackness. Her hand went to the grip of her service weapon beneath her jacket, the familiar weight a small comfort in the suffocating dark. She took the stairs one at a time, her footsteps the only sound, each one a deliberate choice to go deeper. The staircase opened onto a long, wide platform, cavernous and vast. And it was anything but abandoned. The space throbbed with life and a riot of impossible light. The vaulted tile ceilings, stained and cracked, were lit by glowing fungi that pulsed with soft blues and purples. Stalls constructed from scrap metal and petrified wood lined the platform, their wares illuminated by captured sparks of light buzzing in glass jars. A crowd, thick and clamorous, moved through the cavern. Some looked human, dressed in fashions from a dozen different eras, but many did not. A man with skin like polished obsidian bargained with a vendor whose face was a swirling vortex of shadow. A woman with iridescent scales on her arms examined ablade that seemed to drink the light around it. The air was thick with the chatter of unknown languages and the scent of exotic spices, scorched metal, and that same sweet, cloying smell of rot. Quinn stood frozen at the edge of the platform, a ghost from another world. Her police-issue boots felt clumsy and loud on the ancient tiles. Her practical coat was a drab anomaly in a sea of silks, leathers, and materials she couldn't name. She scanned the impossible crowd, her eyes searching for a familiar long, black coat. He was here somewhere, swallowed by this menagerie. Her badge meant nothing here. Her authority was a joke. Every instinct screamed at her to retreat, to claw her way back to the rain and the familiar, dirty streets of London. Back to a world that made sense. But the image of her partner, Morris, flashed in her mind—his face pale and confused in the moments before he was taken by something she still couldn't explain. This place… it felt like the edge of that same abyss. The suspect she'd chased was part of it. He had answers. Her sharp jaw tightened. She took a breath, the strange, thick air flooding her lungs. Pulling her collar up, Quinn lowered her chin and stepped off the stairs, melting into the throng of the Veil Market.