AI Rain hammered the pavement, turning the Soho streets into slick mirrors that fractured the neon glare. Harlow Quinn pounded after the fleeing figure, her boots splashing through puddles that reflected the distorted red and blue of distant police lights she'd left blocks behind. Her breath came in sharp, controlled bursts, a rhythm drilled into her during years of service. The suspect, a blur of tattered denim and panic, vaulted over a discarded shopping cart. Quinn didn't slow. She planted a hand on the wet metal and launched herself over, landing with a heavy thud that sent shockwaves up her shins.
"Stop!" she shouted, though the rain swallowed the command before it traveled ten feet.
The suspect darted into an alleyway choked with overflowing bins. Quinn followed, her hand brushing the grip of her service weapon. The air here smelled of rotting vegetables and stale urine. The figure scrambled toward a rusted service door at the alley's end, fumbling with a key. Quinn closed the distance, her fingers inches from the suspect's jacket collar. The door groaned open, revealing not a basement or a storage room, but a steep, concrete staircase descending into absolute darkness. A draft billowed up from below, carrying scents that didn't belong in London: sulfur, dried herbs, and something metallic like old blood.
The suspect disappeared down the stairs.
Quinn halted at the threshold. Her training screamed at her to call for backup, to secure the perimeter, to wait for uniformed officers to sweep the area. But three years ago, waiting had gotten DS Morris killed. Waiting had left her with a cold case file and a ghost haunting her sleep. She checked her wrist. The worn leather of her watch felt rough against her skin. Time to think was time the suspect used to vanish.
She stepped onto the first stair.
The descent plunged her into a world devoid of streetlights. The only illumination came from bioluminescent fungi clinging to the damp brickwork, casting a sickly green glow that made the shadows stretch and writhe. The sound of the rain faded, replaced by a low, humming vibration that resonated in her teeth. The staircase ended at a heavy iron gate. Beyond it lay a cavernous space that hummed with activity.
This was no abandoned Tube station. Stalls constructed from salvaged train carriages and driftwood lined the platform. Lanterns fueled by unknown substances cast flickering light over wares that defied logic. Jars containing swirling mist sat next to bundles of dried organs. A vendor with skin like polished obsidian haggled with a customer whose face shifted constantly, never settling on a single feature.
Quinn pressed herself against the cold tile wall near the entrance. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. Every instinct told her this place existed outside the law, outside reality itself. The suspect, a slight man with a hood pulled low, weaved through the crowd, heading deeper into the market.
She needed to move. Standing still made her a target.
Quinn adjusted her jacket, hiding the badge on her belt, and stepped onto the platform. The crowd parted around her, not out of politeness, but as if her very presence repelled them . Eyes, some human, some entirely black, tracked her movement. She kept her gaze forward, mimicking the purposeful stride of someone who belonged.
"Fresh eyes," a voice rasped from a stall to her left. "See things others miss. Pay in memories or bone."
Quinn ignored the speaker, a woman with fingers too long and too many joints. She focused on the suspect. He stopped at a stall draped in crimson velvet . The vendor, a massive man with tattoos that seemed to crawl across his skin, leaned forward .
"You brought the token?" the vendor asked. His voice sounded like grinding stones.
The suspect fumbled in his pocket and produced a small, white object. A knuckle. Human, by the look of it. The vendor took it, inspected it under a magnifying glass that glowed with inner fire, and nodded. He reached beneath the counter and produced a vial of liquid that seemed to boil without heat .
As the transaction completed, the suspect turned. His eyes locked onto Quinn. Panic flared in his posture. He dropped the vial. It shattered on the floor, releasing a cloud of violet smoke that hissed as it touched the ground.
Chaos erupted.
Patrons scattered, knocking over displays. Glass shattered . The violet smoke expanded rapidly, eating away at the wooden stalls where it touched. Quinn drew her weapon, the familiar weight of the Glock grounding her in the madness.
"Police! Don't move!" she barked, her voice cutting through the din.
No one listened. The crowd surged, a river of fleeing bodies. The suspect bolted toward a tunnel at the far end of the platform, shoving a terrified family aside. Quinn gave chase, shouldering through the panic. A creature with wings like a bat swooped low, its talons grazing her shoulder. She ducked, rolled, and came up running.
The suspect reached the tunnel entrance. A barrier of shimmering energy blocked the path. He slammed against it, bouncing back. He spun around, backing away as Quinn advanced.
"Nowhere left to run," Quinn said, leveling her gun. "Hands where I can see them."
The suspect raised his hands, trembling. "You don't understand. They'll kill us both if you bring me out of here."
"Try me."
Behind Quinn, the violet smoke coalesced into a shape. A wolf, but made of shadow and fire, emerged from the cloud. It let out a silent howl that vibrated in Quinn's skull. The crowd screamed, pressing further away from the beast.
The suspect's eyes widened . "It's a Reaver. You triggered a ward."
Quinn didn't take her eyes off the suspect. "Put your hands behind your head. Now."
"If you arrest me, the bond breaks. The Reaver feeds on the broken bond."
The shadow-wolf lunged. Quinn fired. The bullet passed through the creature's chest, dissipating the shadow for a split second before it reformed. It wasn't physical. Bullets wouldn't work.
She holstered her weapon and grabbed a heavy iron candlestick from a nearby overturned stall. The wolf charged again. Quinn swung, connecting with the creature's snout. The impact jarred her arm, but the iron left a glowing scar on the shadow-flesh. The beast recoiled, snarling.
"Move!" Quinn shouted at the suspect.
They ran together toward the tunnel, the Reaver in hot pursuit. The barrier at the tunnel entrance pulsed . The suspect pulled a second token from his pocket, this one carved from dark wood. He slapped it against the energy field. The shimmer dissolved.
They tumbled through the opening just as the wolf's jaws snapped shut on empty air. The barrier reformed behind them, sealing the market away.
Silence returned, heavy and thick. They stood in a narrow maintenance corridor, the air stale and dusty. Emergency lights flickered overhead, casting long, erratic shadows. The sounds of the market were gone , replaced by the distant drip of water.
Quinn spun around, pressing the suspect against the cold concrete wall. She pinned his wrists above his head, her forearm across his throat.
"Who are you?" she demanded. "And what is that place?"
The suspect gasped, struggling for breath. "Tomás. Tomás Herrera. And that... that was the Veil Market."
"Why were you there?"
"I needed supplies. For the clinic. Off-the-books stuff." Tomás's eyes darted to the side, avoiding her gaze. "People who can't go to hospitals. People like..."
"Like what?" Quinn tightened her grip. "Speak clearly."
"Like the ones the Market serves," Tomás whispered. "The ones your world refuses to acknowledge."
Quinn studied his face. Olive skin, warm brown eyes filled with genuine fear, a scar running along his left forearm. He looked like a man pushed to the edge, not a hardened criminal. But he had led her into a nightmare.
"You compromised a crime scene," Quinn said, her voice low and dangerous . "You led me into a den of... whatever that was. You're coming with me."
"You can't take me back up there," Tomás said, his voice trembling . "Not yet. The Reaver marked you. If you go back into the normal streets, it will track the scent. It will find you. It will find everyone near you."
Quinn hesitated. The logic sounded insane, yet she had just fought a shadow wolf with an iron candlestick. Rationality had left the building hours ago.
"What do you suggest?" she asked, not releasing her hold .
"There's a safe place. Nearby. A bar in Soho. The Raven's Nest. They have wards. Protection."
Quinn narrowed her eyes. "Lead the way. One wrong move, Herrera, and I shoot."
Tomás nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Understood."
They moved through the maintenance corridor, the drip of water echoing like gunshots in the silence . Quinn kept her hand near her holster, her senses hyper-alert. The city above felt miles away, a different planet entirely. She had crossed a line tonight, stepping from the known into the abyss. There was no going back to how things were.
The corridor opened into a service elevator. Tomás punched a combination into the keypad. The doors groaned open, revealing a cramped cage smelling of oil and rust.
"After you," Tomás said, stepping aside.
Quinn entered first, backing into the corner, keeping him in her sights. The doors slid shut, enclosing them in metal. The elevator lurched upward, the cables singing a high-pitched whine.
"If this is a trap," Quinn said, her voice echoing in the small space, "I promise you won't like the outcome."
"It's not a trap," Tomás replied, leaning against the railing. He touched the Saint Christopher medallion around his neck. "It's survival. For both of us."
The elevator dinged. The doors opened onto a dimly lit alley in Soho. Rain still fell, washing the grime from the bricks. The green neon sign of The Raven's Nest buzzed overhead, casting an eerie glow on the wet pavement.
Tomás stepped out. Quinn followed, scanning the rooftops, the shadows, the empty street. Nothing moved. Yet.
"Inside," Tomás urged, pushing open the heavy wooden door of the bar.
Quinn crossed the threshold, the bell above the door chiming softly . The interior was warm, smelling of old wood and beer. Maps covered the walls, and black-and-white photographs watched from the dark corners. It looked like a normal pub, but the air felt charged , static clinging to her skin.
A man behind the bar looked up. His eyes met Quinn's, and he froze. He knew. He saw the mark of the Reaver on her, the exhaustion in her posture, the gun at her hip.
"We need the back room," Tomás said, his voice urgent . "Now."
The bartender nodded slowly , his expression grim. He reached under the counter and pulled a specific book from a shelf. The bookcase swung inward, revealing a hidden passage.
"Quickly," the bartender said. "The wards won't hold them off forever."
Quinn followed Tomás into the secret room, her mind racing . The chase had ended, but the real danger had just begun. She stood in the center of the clandestine meeting space, rain dripping from her hair onto the rug, and waited for the world to make sense again. It didn't.