Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYF1W6VKA3V5KYDBMH2D7Y

Rain lashed against the pavement, a relentless curtain of grey that turned the London streetlights into smeared streaks of neon. Harlow Quinn vaulted over a discarded bin, her boots skidding on the slick cobblestones before finding purchase. The suspect was ahead, a silhouette in a dark hoodie cutting through the alley behind the Raven’s Nest. That distinctive green neon sign buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the wet brickwork. "Stop! Police!" Harlow’s voice cracked through the downpour, lost in the drumming of water on metal rooftops. The runner didn't even look back. He pumped his arms, legs driving him toward the dead end that Harlow knew wasn't actually a dead end. She’d been watching this stretch of Soho for weeks, waiting for the clique to slip up. She checked her watch, the worn leather strap digging into her wrist. Time was bleeding away. The suspect hit the chain-link fence at the back of the old textile factory. He didn't slow down. He didn't climb. He simply ran through it. The metal links seemed to part like smoke, wrapping around him for a split second before he tumbled out the other side. Harlow skidded to a halt, mud splashing her trousers. She stared at the fence. It rattled in the wind, solid and unbroken. No hole. No tear. "What the hell?" She slammed a hand against the cold metal. It rang out, solid and unforgiving. He was gone. Not gone-run-away, gone-vanished. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with the sprint. She looked left, then right. An open drain? No. Too small. A ripple of distortion hung in the air where the man had passed. Like heat haze rising from tarmac, but here in the freezing rain. She reached out, fingers brushing the space. Static electricity snapped at her skin, raising the hair on her arms. It tasted like ozone. Like the air right before a lightning strike. Three years ago, DS Morris had vanished. Just gone from a locked room. Harlow had spent a thousand hours staring at the crime scene photos, looking for a trap door, a vent, anything logical. There had been nothing. Until now. She gritted her teeth, her sharp jawline set hard. Logic be damned. She drew her service weapon, the grip slippery in her hand, and stepped forward. The world folded in on itself. Gravity shifted, her stomach lurching as the alleyway twisted and stretched. The sound of rain cutting through the Soho air abruptly silenced, replaced by the low, thrumming hum of something alive underground. Harlow stumbled, catching herself against a wall of rough-hewn stone. The air here was dry, smelling of burnt sage and copper. She spun around, weapon raised. The alley was gone. She stood at the edge of a platform overlooking a vast cavern. It looked like an abandoned Tube station, but the architecture was wrong. The arches were too high, the tiles stained with ancient soot that glowed with a faint, violet luminescence. This was deep. Deeper than the Northern Line. The Veil Market. Rumours whispered in the backs of interrogation rooms. A place where the unexplainable was traded for cash. She’d thought it was a myth addicts told to scare the rookies. Below her, a sprawling bazaar had been carved out of the darkness. stalls lined the old tracks, covered in awnings made of silk and leather. Figures moved between them, hoods drawn, faces obscured. Some walked on two legs, others... didn't. A tall, slender creature with skin like polished obsidian inspected a jar of floating light, its long fingers tapering into claws. Her breathing hitched. She tightened her grip on the gun. This wasn't just criminal activity. This was a war zone she hadn't been briefed on. Movement to her left. The suspect. He was scrambling down a rusted ladder towards the main floor of the market. He had pulled off his hoodie, revealing a shock of white hair and a vest that glimmered with shifting scales. He wasn't human. Or not anymore. He dropped the last few feet, landing silently in the crowd. The vendors and shoppers didn't scream. They didn't point. They simply melted back, creating a wide circle of avoidance around him. Fear. Even down here, he was dangerous. Harlow holstered her weapon. Drawing it down here felt like bringing a knife to a nuke fight. She needed to be smarter. She needed to be close. She climbed over the railing, sliding down the support pillar until she hit the concrete floor. The impact jarred her knees. She stayed low, using the shadows of the abandoned train carriages as cover. The smell here was overwhelming. Rotting fruit mixed with the metallic tang of blood and something sickly sweet, like overripe plums. She moved past a stall stacked high with books that whispered when she walked by. The stall keeper, a woman with eyes that were entirely black, watched her pass but said nothing. Harlow focused on the runner. He was heading for the back of the station, toward a heavy iron door flanked by two hulking figures. Guards. They carried staffs topped with jagged crystals that pulsed in time with the violet lights overhead. She couldn't just walk up to him. She needed to blend in. She glanced down at her soaked trench coat and badge. She stuck the badge in her inside pocket, zipping it shut. The rain had plastered her salt-and-pepper hair to her skull, obscuring her face. That would have to do. She slipped into the flow of the crowd, keeping her head down. A being made of writhing smoke brushed past her shoulder, leaving a trail of ice on her skin. Harlow suppressed a shudder and kept moving. Every instinct screamed at her to run back to the rain-soaked alley, back to the world where the bad guys just carried guns and the worst thing that happened was a stabbing. This was the deep end. She watched the suspect reach the guards. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small disc. A bone token. It caught the violet light, casting a skull-shaped shadow on the floor. The guard nodded, the heavy door groaning open to reveal a darkness absolute. He was getting away. Harlow scanned the area. A stack of wooden crates near the guards. It would give her the height she needed. She moved, stepping carefully over a puddle of glowing green sludge. The crowd was thinner here. More dangerous. "Fresh meat," a voice rasped. Harlow ignored it. She reached the crates, crouching behind them. The guards were five yards away. They were talking in a language that sounded like stones grinding together. She checked her watch again. No signal. No radio. She was alone. The suspect was halfway through the door. If it closed, he was gone. Harlow stood up. She didn't have a token. She didn't have magic. She had eighteen years of experience and a stubborn refusal to let the monsters win. "Hey!" The guards turned. Slow, deliberate. The crystals on their staffs flared brighter. Harlow didn't wait for them to raise their weapons. She sprinted. Not away. Toward them. Toward the door. Toward the unknown.