AI Rain lashed against Detective Harlow Quinn's face, blurring the neon smear of Soho into a watercolour nightmare. Her boots slapped against the wet pavement, the rhythm frantic, a desperate staccato that matched the hammering of her heart. Ahead, the figure in the tattered grey coat vaulted over a discarded mattress, landing with a splash that sent dirty water spraying up the alley wall. Quinn did not slow. She powered through the puddle, her sharp jaw set tight, muscles coiled from eighteen years of chasing ghosts and men who thought they could outrun the law.
"Stop!" Her voice cracked, raw from the cold air and the shout she had issued three streets back.
The suspect ignored her. He scrambled toward a rusted service door beneath a flickering green neon sign that buzzed like an angry hornet. The Raven's Nest. Silas's bar. A known haunt for the weirdos and the lost, but tonight it served as a gateway to something far darker. The man fumbled with the handle, slipped on the slick metal, then yanked the door open. He vanished into the gloom inside.
Quinn reached the threshold two seconds later. The air inside smelled of stale beer, old maps, and something copper-sharp that made the hair on her arms stand up. She scanned the dim interior. Tables sat overturned. Bottles lay shattered across the floorboards, their contents pooling in iridescent slicks. No sign of the man.
"Come out," she said, hand resting on the grip of her service weapon. "I know you're here."
Silence answered her, thick and heavy. Then, a floorboard creaked behind the bar. Quinn moved, low and fast, circling the counter. She found nothing but a swinging door marked 'Private'. She kicked it open. A bookshelf stood against the far wall, slightly askew. Dust motes danced in the beam of her torch where the shelf had dragged across the floor.
She pushed. The heavy oak groaned, revealing a narrow staircase spiralling down into darkness. The air rushing up from below carried the scent of ozone, burnt sugar, and wet stone. Not London air. Something older. Something wrong.
Quinn checked her watch . The worn leather strap felt tight against her wrist. Three years ago, DS Morris had walked into a situation just like this. He had never walked out. The file claimed accidental drowning, but she knew better. She had seen the look in his eyes the night before he died. Fear. Pure, unadulterated terror of things that did not follow the rules of nature.
She holstered her torch and drew her gun. The metal felt cold, solid, real. A grounding weight in a world tilting on its axis. She descended.
The stairs ended in a cavernous space that defied the geography of Soho. High vaulted ceilings dripped with condensation. The walls, once tiled in pristine white, now bore graffiti in languages that hurt the eyes to read. This was the Veil Market. She had heard the whispers in the precinct, the jokes about goblins in the Tube, but seeing it stripped the humour away.
Stalls lined the platform. Vendors sold jars of glowing insects, bundles of dried fingers, and books bound in skin that seemed to breathe . The crowd parted as she entered. Not out of respect for the badge pinned to her chest, but out of a primal instinct to avoid the predator in their midst. Eyes followed her. Some human, some slit-pupiled, some entirely black.
"Bone token or bugger off," a voice rasped.
Quinn turned. A vendor with skin like cracked porcelain blocked her path. He held a scale in one hand and a jagged knife in the other.
"Metropolitan Police," Quinn said, keeping her voice steady. "I'm looking for a man in a grey coat. Armed and dangerous."
The vendor laughed, a sound like grinding stones. "No coppers down here, love. Not unless they pay the toll." He gestured to the scale . "Got a bone? Finger works best. Fresh is better."
"I don't have time for this." Quinn sidestepped him, pushing through the throng.
Hands reached out to grab her coat, to pick her pockets, to test the warmth of her skin. She shrugged them off, elbowing a creature with too many joints in its arms. The crowd surged, a living tide of desperation and greed. Somewhere ahead, a flash of grey fabric darted between two stalls selling vials of liquid shadow.
"There!" She sprinted, shoving a tall, emaciated figure aside. The suspect leaped onto a stall, scattering enchanted trinkets. A glass orb rolled under Quinn's boot. It exploded, releasing a cloud of purple smoke that smelled of lavender and rotting meat. She coughed, waved the fumes away, and kept running.
The suspect dropped behind a pillar and threw something. A small sphere hit the ground at Quinn's feet. It hissed, spitting sparks that burned through her trousers. She jumped back, feeling the heat singe her calf. Pain flared, sharp and immediate, but she ignored it. Adrenaline flooded her system, masking the injury.
"You can't hide forever!" she shouted.
"Not hiding," a voice called back. Young. Male. Terrified. "Just buying time."
"For what?"
"For them."
The market lights flickered . A low hum vibrated through the soles of Quinn's boots. The vendors stopped their haggling. The chatter died. Every head turned toward the far end of the platform where the tracks lay dormant, covered in decades of grime.
From the tunnel mouth, shadows detached themselves from the darkness. They moved with a fluid grace that no human could mimic. Tall, cloaked figures with antlers of bone protruding from their heads. The Reapers. Or at least, that's what the junkies called them. Quinn had no name for them. She only knew they meant death.
The suspect in the grey coat backed away from the approaching figures, his eyes wide. He looked at Quinn, then at the monsters, then back at Quinn.
"Help me," he mouthed.
Quinn raised her gun. "Drop the weapon."
"I don't have a weapon!" he screamed. "I have the ledger! They want the ledger!"
One of the antlered figures raised a long, skeletal hand. The air grew cold, so cold that Quinn's breath plumed in front of her face. Frost crept across the tiles, racing toward her boots.
"Last chance," Quinn said, her finger tightening on the trigger . "Step away from them."
"They aren't them," the boy said, tears streaming down his face . "They're the cleanup crew."
The figure lunged.
Quinn fired. The gunshot roared in the enclosed space, deafeningly loud. The bullet struck the creature in the chest, but it passed through the cloak as if hitting smoke . The creature did not slow. It closed the distance in a heartbeat, its hand sweeping out to grab the boy.
Quinn tackled the suspect, driving him to the ground just as the skeletal fingers raked the air where his head had been. They rolled, hitting a stack of crates. Wood splintered. The smell of ozone intensified, burning the back of her throat.
"Get up!" Quinn grabbed the boy by the collar, hauling him to his feet. "Run!"
"Where?" he cried. "They're everywhere!"
Quinn scanned the platform. The other vendors had fled, extinguishing their lanterns. Darkness swallowed the edges of the market, leaving only the pool of sickly green light from the central lamps. More figures emerged from the tunnels on either side. They were surrounded .
She spotted a maintenance ladder on the far wall, rusted and precarious. It led up to a ventilation shaft. Maybe it led to the street. Maybe it led to a dead end. It was the only option.
"That way!" She pointed.
They sprinted. The antlered figures gave chase, their movements disjointed yet incredibly fast. They glided over the debris, unhindered by the obstacles that slowed Quinn and the boy. The frost spread faster now, coating the rails in ice. Quinn's boots slipped. She stumbled, catching herself on a stall post. The wood crumbled under her grip, dry as dust.
"Keep moving!" she ordered.
The boy reached the ladder first. He scrambled up, his hands slipping on the rungs. Quinn covered him, turning to face the lead creature. It stopped ten feet away, tilting its head. No eyes. Just smooth bone where a face should be.
"You do not belong here, Detective," a voice echoed , not from the creature, but inside her skull . It sounded like Morris. "Go home, Harlow. Before you join him."
Quinn froze. The voice hit her like a physical blow. She gripped her gun tighter, her knuckles white. "Morris is dead."
"Is he?" The creature stepped closer. "Or is he just waiting?"
A shadow moved behind the creature. Tomás Herrera stepped out from behind a pile of crates, his olive skin pale in the dim light. He wore his Saint Christopher medallion, the silver gleaming faintly. He held a bag of medical supplies in one hand and a scalpel in the other.
"Quinn," Tomás said, his voice calm despite the chaos. "Don't listen to it. It's a mimic."
"Tomás?" She blinked, confused . "What are you doing here?"
"Saving your life, apparently." He tossed a small pouch at the creature. It burst on impact, releasing a cloud of silver dust. The creature shrieked, a sound that shattered the remaining glass in the nearby stalls. It recoiled, clutching its face.
"Up the ladder!" Tomás yelled. "Now!"
Quinn grabbed the ladder. The metal groaned under her weight . She climbed, hauling the boy up with her. Below, Tomás held his ground, the scalpel glowing with a faint blue light. More figures closed in on him.
"Tomás!" Quinn shouted.
"Go!" he yelled back. "I'll hold them!"
She reached the top of the ladder and kicked open the grate. Cold night air rushed in, smelling of rain and exhaust. Real air. She pulled the boy through the opening onto the wet streets of Camden.
"Help me pull him up," she gasped, reaching back down for Tomás.
But the ladder shook violently. A screech tore through the night. Tomás looked up, his warm brown eyes meeting hers. He shook his head.
"Close it," he said. "Seal the grate."
"No!"
"Do it, Harlow! Or they all come up!"
Another shriek, closer this time. Something grabbed Tomás's ankle. He grunted in pain, slashing at the invisible attacker with the glowing scalpel. The ladder twisted. Rivets popped.
Quinn looked at the boy, then down at Tomás. The weight of the decision crushed her chest. If she stayed, they all died. If she closed it, she might lose another partner.
She grabbed the heavy iron grate.