Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYG7EZGTCJE9VZVMEPCZMB

Rain lashed against the pavement of Camden High Street. Quinn sprinted. Her boots slapped against the wet concrete. The sound echoed off the red brickwork. Shadows stretched long under the orange glow of sodium streetlights. Ahead, the figure ducked into an alleyway between a kebab shop and a closed boutique. Quinn tightened her grip on her torch. The beam cut through the downpour. Dust motes danced in the light before the rain swallowed them. She checked her wrist. The worn leather watch ticked. The second hand swept past the twelve. Three years since Morris vanished. Three years since the file went cold. She pushed the memory down. Focus on the present. Focus on the target. The suspect wore a dark hoodie. Olive skin flashed under the streetlamp as he glanced back. Tomás Herrera. She recognised the curl of his dark brown hair. She recognised the limp favouring his left leg. Quinn increased her pace. Her breath came in sharp bursts. The air tasted of ozone and wet rubbish. Her jacket soaked through at once. The cold bit into her shoulders. Herrera scrambled over a chain-link fence surrounding a construction site. Quinn vaulted it. Her hips cleared the top wire. She landed hard. Pain shot up her shins. She ignored it. Herrera disappeared into the mouth of a sealed tunnel entrance. Graffiti covered the corrugated metal sheets. A faded sign read Camden Town. Underground. Quinn slowed. She approached the gap in the fencing. Darkness yawned inside. The smell changed. Damp earth replaced the city smog. Something else lingered beneath the rot. Sulphur. Burnt sugar. Old blood. She stepped onto the tracks. Gravel crunched underfoot. The tunnel widened into a cavernous space. Lights flickered to life ahead. Not electric bulbs. Torches. Lanterns. Stalls lined the platform. Herrera stood near a turnstile. He turned. The Saint Christopher medallion glinted against his throat. He reached into his pocket. You should not be here. Quinn raised her torch. The light caught the scar running along his left forearm. White tissue against olive skin. A knife attack. She remembered the report. Move away from the entrance. Herrera held up an object. Bone. Carved. Rough edges. A token. He slid it into a slot on the turnstile mechanism. The metal groaned. The bars spun freely. This stops now. Quinn drew her service weapon. The steel felt cold in her wet hand. She aimed at his centre mass. Her stance widened. Military precision. You do not understand what this place is. I understand you are obstructing a police investigation. Herrera stepped back. The medallion disappeared under his collar. He gestured to the space behind him. The market hummed with activity. Figures in cloaks bartered over jars containing glowing liquids. A woman sold bundles of dried herbs that smoked without burning. A cage held a creature with too many limbs. It clicked its beak. Look around you, Detective. Quinn kept the gun steady. Her finger rested on the trigger guard. She scanned the perimeter. Exits. Threats. Weapons. The crowd noticed her. Heads turned. Eyes glowed in the dim light. Some pupils slit like cats. Others entirely black. Put the weapon down. Drop the token. Herrera shook his head. He placed his hand on the turnstile bar. Once you cross, there is no going back. The Veil does not forgive trespassers. Quinn stepped forward. Water dripped from the brim of her hair onto her cheek. She wiped it away. Her sharp jaw set hard. She thought of Morris. The empty chair in the briefing room. The unanswered questions. The supernatural origins she could not prove. I am not here to trade. Then you are here to die. Herrera pushed the bar. He vanished into the crowd. Quinn moved to follow. The air pressure dropped. Her ears popped. The sounds of the city above faded. No traffic. No rain. Only the murmur of the market. She stood at the threshold. The bone token slot glowed faintly blue. Beyond lay rows of stalls selling things that defied logic. A man sold vials of memory extracted in swirling grey smoke. Another peddled banned alchemical substances in crystal vials. The liquid pulsed. Quinn holstered her weapon. She needed answers. The file on Morris pointed to this underworld. Rumours of unauthorized treatments. This was the source. A figure blocked her path. Tall. Cloaked. No face visible beneath the hood. Entry requires payment. I am police. The figure laughed. A dry, rattling sound. Authority holds no weight beneath the earth. Quinn reached for her badge. The leather wallet felt heavy. She flipped it open. The Metropolitan Police crest shone dull in the lantern light. The figure did not move. That piece of plastic protects you up there. Down here, it marks you as prey. Quinn lowered the badge. She looked past the figure. Herrera moved deeper into the market. He stopped at a stall covered in surgical tools. Rusty scalpels. Bonesaws. He spoke to the vendor. She had seconds. If she retreated, the trail went cold. If she advanced, she entered a jurisdiction where her gun would not fire. Where the laws of physics bent to the will of the sellers. Her hand hovered over her watch. The leather strap felt rough against her thumb. She twisted the bezel. A habit. A grounding mechanism. What is the price? The figure extended a hand. Pale. Long fingers. A memory. One you cherish. Quinn stiffened. The rain still soaked her clothes. The cold seeped into her bones. She thought of Morris again. The last case they worked together. The night he disappeared. The blood on the pavement that vanished by morning. That is not currency I can spend. It is the only currency accepted. Quinn looked at the turnstile. The bars stood still. The market waited. The silence stretched between them. The creature in the cage clicked its beak. Louder this time. She stepped up to the figure. Her height matched his. She looked into the shadow of the hood. Nothing stared back. I have nothing to give you. Then you cannot pass. Quinn glanced at Herrera. He looked back. He shook his head. A warning. Or a plea. He turned away. He picked up a jar containing a floating eye. Quinn tightened her fist. Her knuckles turned white. She could arrest him later. She could bring backup. Swat. Armed response. But they would not believe what lay beneath Camden. They would call it mass hysteria. A hallucination. She looked at the bone token slot. It waited for an offering. The figure waited. Quinn reached into her pocket. Her fingers brushed against a lighter. Morris's lighter. Zippo. Engraved with his initials. She pulled it out. The metal was cold. She held it over the figure's palm. This is all I have. The figure took the lighter. He flipped the lid. The spark caught. The flame burned blue. He closed the lid. The sound echoed like a gunshot. Pass. Quinn stepped toward the turnstile. The air grew thicker. Harder to breathe. The lights dimmed. She placed her hand on the bar. It felt warm. Like skin. She pushed.