Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYP01MY5DXBTVGYSDXQPRJ

Rain hammered the cobblestones of Camden High Street, carving rivulets through the grime and turning the gaslights into smoky, drowning orbs. Harlow Quinn sprinted, her heavy soles scuffing the wet pavement, her breath hitching in her chest. The air tasted of iron and stagnant water, a sharp contrast to the stinging cold wind. Ahead, a figure in a heavy, oil-stained coat scrambled over a dumpster, vaulting onto the rusted railing of a shopfront. He didn't look back until he reached the roof edge, turning only long enough to glare over his shoulder. His face was obscured by the brim of a wool cap, but the olive hue of his skin gleamed slick in the streetlamp glare. "End of the line, Detective." Harlow slammed into the brick wall, her shoulder absorbing the impact. She shook out her arms, checking the grip on her service weapon. The rain plastered her salt-and-pepper cropped hair to her skull, cold and tight. She looked up at the rooftop. He was already moving, a silhouette against the grey sky. She didn't chase him up the ladder immediately. Instead, she unholstered the .38, aiming at the rain-slicked tiles above. "Morris didn't check the roof. There are too many variables up there." "Morris didn't have the merchandise." She gritted her teeth. "Get down here." He laughed, a harsh, jagged sound that bounced off the brickwork. He threw something—a heavy object that clattered against the pavement and skidded to a halt at her boots. A silver vial, half-buried in the puddle, its contents swirling dark and viscous. "I've got the goods. You've got the badge. Someone's losing tonight." He turned and vaulted off the building, vanishing into the labyrinth of alleys that hugged the back of the market district. Harlow stared at the vial. Her jaw tightened. She didn't pick it up. She holstered her gun and broke into a sprint, following the faint, scraping sound of footsteps leading away from the main thoroughfare and down into the shadowed mouth of an unmarked service alley. The rain here was heavier, driven by the canyon walls of brick and wood. The footsteps didn't pause. They led toward an old, boarded-up Tube station entrance, the 'A' in Underground faded and peeling. A flicker of movement in the gloom caught her eye—a shadow detaching itself from the brickwork. Harlow slowed, putting a hand on the wall to steady herself. She knew this area. It was supposed to be cleared out months ago. The station had been closed after the structural failure, deemed unsafe, then abandoned. The speculation on the gossip forums was different. They said the concrete had healed, that the doors no longer needed keys, only a trade. She spotted him ahead, cutting through the maintenance hatch wedged into the concrete embankment. The door hissed as it disengaged from the frame, revealing a dark, vertical shaft. "Quinn, you really shouldn't come." She didn't respond, just vaulted the low wall and dropped into the shaft, landing hard on the concrete stairs. The air down here was still, stagnant, smelling of ozone and something sweet, like rotting fruit. The descent seemed endless. The walls were damp, slick with condensation. Her boots made rhythmic thuds, bouncing off the concrete walls. Down she went, deeper than the Tube ever went, past the subterranean rivers and the dormant tracks. When she finally hit the bottom, she found herself in a massive, cavernous space. It was a disused platform, lined with rusted tracks that curved away into absolute blackness. The ceiling was a web of exposed pipes and cables. He was waiting at the end of the platform, back to her, examining a small, brass door set into the far wall. "The Veil Market," she said, her voice echoing. He turned. He took a slow step toward her, wiping his hands on his coat. The scar on his left forearm, pale and raised, glistened in the dim, flickering light of a gas lantern he’d lit. "Talk fast." "You're investigating the disappearances. The ones that didn't end up in morgue bags." "The clique," she said, keeping her distance, her eyes scanning the perimeter for traps. "You work for them now, don't you?" "I deliver packages. Sometimes medicine, sometimes poison. Depends on the customer." He reached into his pocket. Harlow raised the .38. He froze. "Just the stuff inside the vial," she said. "The map." She lowered the gun an inch. "What?" "The drug isn't the map. It's the key to find the cache." He smiled, a crooked, desperate thing. "You want to find what killed Morris, don't you? You want justice." "I want the truth." "And this is the only place you get close to it." Harlow looked at the brass door. To someone without the proper token, it looked like solid metal. She knew the rumors: bone from the recently departed, cut from the knuckles, used to bypass the wards. She looked at the man's hands, at the slight callous on his index finger. He had the file. He tossed the vial to her. She caught it, the glass cold and firm in her grip. "Now go. Before the moon shifts." She caught the vial, slipped it into her inner pocket. She looked at the dark tunnel leading away from the door, deep into the earth, where the neon signs of an underground city would bloom if the doors opened. It was the heart of the city's rot, a place where standard police procedure vanished, where forensic evidence turned to ash. A sound from the darkness—a clink of metal against metal, a low whisper—sent a chill down her spine. This wasn't just a black market; it was a portal. He pushed the brass door with both hands. It groaned, grinding against a seal that hadn't been broken in years. A slit of light, stark and unnatural, appeared across the threshold. Outside of it, a green neon sign flickered to life: *The Veil Market*. Harlow stood her ground, her boots planted on the damp concrete, her eyes narrowing. She could turn around. She could go back up those stairs, back to the rain, back to the safety of the daylight and the departmental bureaucracy. She could file a report claiming she lost the suspect in a flooded tunnel and leave the rest to the bureaucracy. But if she did, the truth about Morris died down here with it. "I'm coming with you," she said, keeping her hand on her weapon but taking a deliberate step forward. He stepped back, the light from the neon wash washing over his face, turning his olive skin pale. "You don't know what you're walking into." "I know exactly what I'm doing." She stepped across the threshold, the air instantly shifting from cold damp to the heavy, suffocating heat of a thousand people moving in the dark.