Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYAZKMPN5CH0VH7KQQT5KV

Rain lashed against the grimy brickwork of the Soho alleyway. Detective Harlow Quinn’s breath plumed in the frigid night air, her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her scalp. Water streamed down her face, mingling with the sweat that pricked her eyebrows. The silhouette of Tomás Herrera, a fleeting shadow against the flickering neon glow of distant streetlights, disappeared around a corner. “Hold it, Herrera!” Her voice, a ragged bellow, fought against the roar of traffic and the hammering rain. He didn't slow. The rhythmic slap of his trainers on the wet pavement, a faint drumbeat, drew her forward. Her worn leather watch, a dark band on her left wrist, pressed against her skin. Eighteen years on the force, and the thrill of the chase still coiled a tight knot in her gut. She pushed past overflowing bins, their stench of stale ale and rotten food momentarily lost in the downpour. A discarded umbrella, its ribs splayed like a broken wing, snagged at her ankle. She kicked it aside, her sharp jaw setting with grim determination. The alley opened onto a wider street, a shimmering black ribbon under the streetlights. Herrera, a dark blur, wove through the handful of late-night pedestrians, his short, curly dark-brown hair catching the light as he glanced back. His olive skin, usually warm, now looked pale under the relentless rain. His strides were long, powerful. He moved with a practised agility, the kind she knew came from years of navigating unpredictable environments. A familiar glint caught her eye, the Saint Christopher medallion around his neck, a small anchor in the chaos. Harlow accelerated, her military precision bearing pushing her legs harder. The slick pavement offered little purchase. A taxi, its yellow paint dull in the rain, blared its horn as she darted in front of it. The driver, a dark shape behind the misted window, shouted an obscenity. She ignored him. All that mattered was Herrera. He veered left, into a labyrinth of narrow lanes, their historical names carved into crumbling stone. The ambient light of the city thinned, swallowed by the close-set buildings. Rain continued its relentless assault, turning the cobblestones into treacherous, polished obsidian. She slid, a gasp catching in her throat, catching herself on a cold, damp wall. Her palm smarted. A flash of movement ahead. Herrera ducked into a shadowed archway, the entrance to what looked like a derelict building. The air grew heavy, smelling of damp earth and decay. Her brown eyes narrowed. A flicker of doubt, cold and unwelcome, brushed against her resolve. This was not a familiar path. This was the kind of place where things went missing and never resurfaced. She pushed past the threshold, the world plunging into near darkness. A faint, metallic clang echoed from deeper within, followed by the distant rumble of a train. An abandoned Tube station. Her mind clicked. The Veil Market. Her hand went to the grip of her service pistol, a reassuring weight. The air grew colder, thick with a strange, cloying scent she couldn’t place – like ozone and old incense. The walls, she could just make them out, were rough-hewn stone, patched with crumbling concrete. Water dripped from unseen cracks, splashing into puddles that reflected the barest slivers of light from above. “Herrera!” Her voice echoed, swallowed by the cavernous space. Silence. Only the faint thrum of the underground. She moved cautiously, her boots crunching on loose gravel. The scar on his left forearm, a thin white line from a knife attack she’d read in his file, played across her mind. He was a medic. A good one, by all accounts. So why was he running? And what connection did he have to this hidden, supernatural underbelly of London? Morris’s ghost, never far, whispered at the back of her mind. Unexplained circumstances. Supernatural origins. He lost his partner under them. A faint light, a sickly green glow, pulsed ahead. It beckoned, an unnatural beacon in the gloom. The air grew warmer, carrying with it a cacophony of sounds: hushed murmurs, strange chimes, the crackle of unknown energies. The scent intensified, becoming a dizzying mix of roasted spices, something floral and sweet, and an acrid tang that made her nose twitch. This was not a normal place. This was the Veil. She reached an opening, an archway carved roughly into the stone. Beyond it, a world of impossible vibrancy exploded into view. Stalls, draped with shimmering fabrics and flickering lanterns, lined a wide underground platform. Figures, shadowed and indistinct, moved through the throng. Some were human, others… less so. Horns, extra limbs, eyes that glittered with unnatural light. It was a carnival of the arcane, pulsing with an unsettling energy. Her breath hitched. The bone token, she remembered the briefing. The entry requirement. She didn't have one. Stepping in meant a direct violation of protocol, a dive into an unknown that could swallow her whole. The uniform, the shield, the law – all of it meant nothing here. Here, a different kind of order reigned. But Herrera was in there. The small glimpse she’d had of him, a flash of his dark hair, a flicker of his familiar medallion, just before the crowd swallowed him. He was a familiar face in a landscape of nightmares. To let him go now, to turn back… it felt like a betrayal. A cold certainty settled in her gut. She had to follow.