AI Rain hammered the pavement, turning the London streets into a slick mirror that fractured the neon glare of shop signs. Harlow Quinn sprinted, her boots slapping against wet concrete with military precision. Her breath came in sharp, controlled bursts, each inhale tasting of ozone and exhaust. Ahead, a figure darted around a corner, silhouette blurred by the downpour. The suspect moved with an unnatural grace, hips pivoting too smoothly for a human fleeing capture.
Quinn checked her watch, the worn leather strap cold against her wrist. Three minutes since the tail began. Too long. She pushed harder, muscles burning, salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her skull. The chase led away from the main thoroughfares, winding through narrow alleys where dumpsters overflowed and shadows pooled thick enough to drown in.
The suspect vanished down a rusted fire escape. Quinn didn't hesitate. She grabbed the cold metal ladder, rung by rung, descending into the darkness below. The air grew heavier here, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something metallic and old, like dried blood mixed with crushed herbs.
At the bottom, a heavy steel door stood slightly ajar. Green light spilled from the crack, pulsing rhythmically. Quinn paused, hand hovering near her holster. The green glow matched the distinctive neon sign above The Raven's Nest, but this wasn't Silas' bar. This felt deeper, older.
She pushed the door open.
The space beyond defied logic. An abandoned Tube station stretched out before her, tracks long removed, platforms repurposed into stalls draped in velvet and burlap. Lanterns floated inches above the ground, casting no shadows. People—or things that looked like people—milled about, haggling over jars of glowing liquid and bundles of dried bones. A woman with skin like polished obsidian bartered with a man whose eyes rolled independently in their sockets.
Quinn stepped onto the platform, rain dripping from her coat onto the pristine mosaic tiles. Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the crowd, words in languages that twisted her tongue just hearing them. She scanned the throng, searching for the suspect. There, near a stall selling what looked like bottled storms, the figure paused.
A bone token hung from the suspect's neck, white and carved with intricate spirals. Entry requirement met. Quinn lacked such a charm . Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, call for backup, wait for daylight. But DS Morris's face flashed in her mind, unexplained circumstances, three years gone. She couldn't stop now.
She moved through the crowd, shoulder-checking a creature made entirely of smoke. It hissed, reforming instantly. Quinn kept her gaze forward, jaw set. The suspect spotted her, eyes widening, and bolted toward a tunnel entrance marked with faded signs for Camden Town.
Quinn gave chase again, weaving between stalls. A vendor grabbed her arm, fingers cold as ice.
"No token, no entry," the vendor rasped, voice sounding like grinding stones . "Leave the surface world behind or pay the price."
Quinn yanked her arm free. "Metropolitan Police. Step aside."
The vendor laughed, a sound devoid of humor. "Law holds no sway in the Veil, Detective. Only blood and barter."
Quinn didn't break stride. She reached the tunnel mouth. Darkness swallowed the path ahead, broken only by faint, bioluminescent fungi clinging to the curved ceiling. The air here tasted of sulfur and regret. She hesitated at the threshold. Beyond lay unfamiliar territory, potentially dangerous, certainly illegal. Her radio crackled with static, useless this deep underground.
If she crossed this line, there was no going back to normal procedures. No backup would follow. She thought of Morris, of the files she'd kept hidden in her desk drawer, the ones marked 'Supernatural Origins.' This was the source. The root of everything she'd suspected about the clique.
She stepped into the tunnel.
The darkness pressed in, heavy and suffocating. Her footsteps echoed strangely, as if the sound traveled backward. Ahead, the suspect's form flickered , almost translucent. Quinn quickened her pace, hand resting on her service weapon. The tunnel widened into a cavernous chamber where stalactites hung like spear points overhead. In the center stood a circular altar, carved from black stone, surrounded by figures in hooded robes.
The suspect joined them, bowing low. Quinn crouched behind a pile of discarded rails, watching. One of the robed figures raised a hand, and the air shimmered . Images formed in the mist above the altar—scenes of London burning, skies choked with ash, people running in terror.
"The Veil thins," a voice boomed, resonating in Quinn's chest. "Soon the barrier falls. The old gods return to reclaim what is theirs."
Quinn's finger tightened on the trigger. She counted the figures. Six robed cultists, plus the suspect. Seven against one. Bad odds. But she'd faced worse. She remembered the knife scar on Tomás Herrera's forearm, the story he'd told her once about losing his license for treating things that shouldn't exist. He'd warned her about this place, about the Market moving every full moon. Tonight was the full moon.
If she acted now, she could disrupt the ritual. If she waited, she might gather more evidence, build a stronger case. But Morris hadn't waited. Morris had charged in, and now he was dead.
Quinn checked her watch again. Time meant nothing down here, yet the hands seemed to spin faster. The images in the mist shifted, showing a specific street corner, a familiar block in Soho. The Raven's Nest. They weren't just planning some vague apocalypse; they targeted specific locations, specific people.
The robed figure spoke again, words curling like smoke. "The detective watches. Let her see. Let her know fear before the end."
Heads turned toward her hiding spot. Six pairs of eyes glowed in the dark, locking onto her position. The suspect pointed, face twisting into a sneer.
Quinn stood, abandoning concealment. No point in hiding now. She drew her weapon, the metal cold and reassuring in her grip.
"London Metropolitan Police," she announced, voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding her system. "You're all under arrest for conspiracy, unlawful assembly, and whatever the hell else I can tack on once I figure out what you're doing."
The robed figures didn't scatter. They smiled, mouths stretching too wide, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth.
"Arrest?" the leader chuckled, stepping forward. robes billowing though no wind blew. "You carry tin and paper against eternity, Detective Quinn. Your badges burn here. Your laws crumble."
Quinn kept her aim steady. "Try me."
The leader raised both hands. The air crackled, static raising the hair on Quinn's arms. The floating lanterns dimmed, plunging the chamber into near-total darkness. Only the glow from the cultists' eyes remained, circling her like wolves closing in on prey.
"Morris knew," the leader whispered, voice suddenly intimate, right beside her ear . "He asked questions too. Just like you."
Quinn whipped around, firing a shot into the darkness. The bullet sparked off stone. No body fell.
"Where is he?" she demanded, voice cracking slightly . "What did you do to him?"
Laughter echoed from all directions, overlapping, disorienting. "He serves the old gods now. Part of the foundation. Part of the barrier."
Quinn's heart hammered against her ribs. She refused to believe it. Morris was dead, yes, but not like this. Not part of some twisted ritual. She gritted her teeth, forcing calm back into her limbs.
"Show me," she ordered. "Or I start shooting until there's nothing left of you to hide behind."
The leader materialized from the shadows, ten feet away. "Violence solves nothing here, Detective. But curiosity... curiosity opens doors."
He gestured to the altar. The mist cleared, revealing a new image. A man, bound in chains, hanging suspended over a pit of writhing darkness. His face was gaunt, eyes hollow, but unmistakably Morris. He mouthed a single word: *Run *.
Quinn's finger trembled on the trigger. Every protocol screamed at her to retreat, to survive, to fight another day. But seeing him there, alive in some tortured half-state, shattered her resolve .
"I'm coming, Morris," she whispered.
She charged the altar, bullets flying. The cultists scattered, shrieking as lead tore through their robes. Smoke billowed, choking the air. Quinn vaulted over the black stone, landing hard on the other side. The pit yawned before her, heat radiating from its depths .
The leader reappeared, blocking her path. "Foolish woman. You join him now."
Quinn didn't slow. She tackled the figure, driving them both toward the edge. They grappled, rolling in the dust. The leader's skin burned her hands, hot as molten iron. She gritted her teeth, refusing to let go.
"Not today," she growled.
With a surge of strength born of desperation, she shoved the leader backward. The figure teetered, arms flailing, then plunged into the darkness below. A scream echoed upward, fading quickly .
Quinn scrambled to her feet, breathing hard. The remaining cultists hesitated, uncertainty rippling through their ranks. She seized the moment, firing warning shots into the ceiling. Stalactites shattered , raining debris onto the platform.
"Next one goes in your heads," she warned.
They fled, melting into the shadows like wax in fire. Quinn stood alone in the sudden silence , chest heaving. She approached the edge of the pit, peering down. The chains still hung there, swaying gently . Morris was gone , vanished along with the leader.
She clenched her fists , nails digging into her palms. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot. She turned back toward the tunnel entrance, toward the surface, toward the rain and the city that thought itself safe.
Time to gather reinforcements. Time to burn this place to the ground if necessary. But first, she needed answers. And she knew exactly where to start looking.