Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYW2MFKS2SM8CZ8T33V3WP

The rain turned the streets of Camden into a mirror of neon. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted around the corner, her boots splashing through puddles that reflected the orange glow of streetlights. Three blocks ahead, the suspect vaulted over a railings and disappeared down the steps of an abandoned Tube station. Quinn didn't slow down. Eighteen years on the force had taught her that hesitation cost lives. She grabbed the iron railing and swung herself over, her leather watch catching on the metal as she dropped onto the slick concrete stairs. The station had been closed for years. Faded posters for concerts and films that had come and gone hung at odd angles from water-stained walls. Her flashlight cut through the darkness, but the suspect had a head start and knew these tunnels. "Police!" Her voice echoed off the tile. Useless, probably. But protocol demanded it. She heard the thud of a door somewhere ahead. The beam of her torch found a service entrance hanging open, its hinges rusted but recently disturbed. Cold air rushed up from below, carrying the smell of damp stone and something else—incense, maybe, or burning herbs. Quinn hesitated at the threshold. She'd heard rumors about this place. whispered tales in the locker room at the Met, cases that went cold because evidence vanished into thin air, suspects who slipped through fingers because they vanished into parts of the city that didn't exist on any map. Her partner, Morris, had been investigating something similar before he died. Three years later, she still didn't have answers about what had really happened to him. The darkness below called to her. Or maybe it was the echo of the chase, the need to close the distance before the suspect disappeared entirely. She descended. The stairs led to a corridor lit by strings of colored bulbs that hadn't been approved by any council. The walls were lined with stalls—impossible, there shouldn't be stalls here—but there they were. Tables covered in bottles and vials and objects she couldn't identify. People moved between them, their faces half-hidden by hoods and masks, their conversations dropping to whispers as her flashlight swept across the space. The Veil Market. The name surfaced from a case file she'd read six months ago and dismissed as superstition. A hand shot out from behind a curtain of beads and grabbed her arm. "You shouldn't be here." The man who held her was dark-skinned, curly hair, with warm brown eyes that studied her with wary intelligence. He wore a medallion around his neck that glinted in the low light. "Detective Quinn, isn't it? I've seen your picture." She pulled her arm free. "Step aside. I'm pursuing a suspect." "This isn't jurisdiction. This isn't even the same world as your streets." He gestured at the market around them. "Whatever you're chasing, let it go." "Someone ran down here. I'm bringing them in." "They came here to escape you. That's the point of this place." He blocked her path. "You walk any further in, you'll find things you can't unsee. Things that don't play by your rules." "I'm not leaving without my suspect." She pushed past him, but he fell into step beside her, matching her stride. "Tommy Herrera," he said. "Former paramedic. Lost my license when I started treating patients your doctors couldn't explain. I run medical help for people who fall through the cracks of your system." "Great. Stay out of my way." "You're not listening." He grabbed her arm again, more gently this time. "That man you're chasing—he owes money to people here. Dangerous people. If you drag him back to your world, you break agreements that keep both sides from burning. This isn't just about arrest quotas." She stopped walking. The market stretched out before her, a labyrinth ofhidden stalls and shadowed faces. Somewhere in this maze, the suspect had vanished. She could feel eyes on her, dozens of them, watching the uniform, watching the badge, watching the gun at her hip. "What kind of agreements?" she asked. Herrera exhaled. "The Veil Market exists because sometimes the world needs a middle ground. Supernatural and human. We handle trades that keep dangerous things out of ordinary hands. Weapons, information, artifacts. Every transaction keeps something worse from happening on the streets above." "And the suspect?" "He made a deal. Now he's running. That's not your concern." Quinn looked at the stalls, at the bottles glowing faintly blue, at the shelves of books with bindings made from materials she didn't want to identify. This was the world Morris had been investigating. This was what had gotten him killed. "Tell me about the man who runs this market," she said. "That's not—" "I'm not leaving. But I need to understand what I'm walking into." Herrera studied her for a long moment. Something shifted in his expression—recognition, maybe, or the memory of someone else who'd been stubborn enough to walk this far and not turn back. "Everyone calls him Silas," he said finally. "He's in the back room, behind the bookshelf. If you want to find your suspect, you'll have to go through him." Quinn moved toward the far end of the market, where a towering shelf of ancient-looking books stood against the wall. She didn't wait for Herrera to follow. The rain above was just a memory now, but the cold had settled into her bones. She'd spent three years chasing shadows, trying to understand what had happened to Morris. Now she stood in the middle of something that shouldn't exist, about to knock on a door that might swallow her whole. Her hand found the shelf. She pulled.