Run: 2026-02-19-01KHVPQGC6R3PR3YYYCZW8ED81

Rain slashed against the London asphalt in thick, horizontal sheets. Harlow hammered her boots against the slick pavement. Water whipped into her brown eyes and plastered her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair against her scalp. Ahead of her, a shadow darted down a narrow Camden alleyway. Tomás Herrera. The pursuit had started an hour ago. Harlow had staked out a dive bar off Greek Street. The Raven's Nest. She’d spent half the shift watching the distinctive green neon sign above the entrance, waiting for the disgraced medic to emerge from the hidden back room accessible through a bookshelf, used for clandestine meetings by his click of suspects. When he finally showed, he spotted her unmarked vehicle, bolted for Leicester Square, and rode the Northern line to Camden. Now on foot, the chase pushed Harlow to her unyielding limits. Harlow wiped the freezing rain from her sharp jaw. Eighteen years wearing the badge taught her endurance. She let her military precision dictate her stride—measured, rhythmic, relentless. Herrera lacked her discipline. He sprinted with the chaotic energy of the hunted, his boots slipping and sliding over the treacherous cobblestones. "Herrera! Metropolitan Police! Stop running!" "Get lost, Quinn!" Herrera vaulted a rusted dumpster blocking the alley. A loose piece of metal snagged his sleeve, tearing the heavy wool. Sodium streetlights bathed the brickwork in an ugly, sickly orange glow, illuminating an old, jagged scar running along his left forearm from a knife attack long before Harlow had his name in her files. Harlow leaped onto overturned wooden crates beside the dumpster and pushed off. She cleared the obstacle, landing square on her feet without breaking pace. She glanced at the worn leather watch on her left wrist. Midnight approaching. Backup wouldn't reach this part of Camden for another ten minutes. The storm had paralyzed the city. She had to take him alone. Herrera rounded a corner onto a crowded thoroughfare. Harlow pushed her legs harder, ignoring the lactic acid burning her calves. She burst onto the main street. Pedestrians with umbrellas scattered. "Move! Police!" Harlow shoved past a slow-moving group of tourists. Herrera weaved through the crowd with striking agility. His short curly dark brown hair flattened against his forehead. A silver chain swung wildly against his chest. A Saint Christopher medallion around his neck bounced over his olive skin, catching the neon glow of a late-night kebab shop. Herrera looked over his shoulder. His warm brown eyes widened in panic. "I didn't kill anyone!" "Then stop running and let's talk about the clique!" "You wouldn't understand a damn thing of what I have to tell you!" A string of native Spanish curses, remnants of his childhood in Seville, Spain, cut through the sounds of the downpour. Herrera broke right, ducking down an access path adjacent to Regent's Canal. Harlow checked her corners, drawing the telescopic baton from her belt. A flick of her wrist extended the solid steel. The lockbox at the station held her firearm; department policy dictated no guns on routine surveillance. Surveillance that had shattered the moment Herrera made her in Soho. The canal path offered zero cover. Wind whipped off the dark water, driving the rain sideways into her skin. Herrera gained ground, utilizing his lighter frame on the waterlogged dirt path. He scrambled up a steep, muddy bank toward an abandoned industrial estate, his bare hands digging into the sludge for traction. Harlow followed his path, her boots sinking ankle-deep in the muck. She grabbed onto exposed roots, hauling herself up the sharp incline. Mud splattered her trench coat. "You can't outrun a radio, Tommy!" Herrera reached the top and scrambled over an oxidized chainlink fence. "You don't have a radio out here, Quinn! You're solo!" He threw himself over the top, landing with a heavy splash on the other side. Harlow hit the fence seconds later. The metal groaned and rattled under her weight. She scaled the links rapidly, the wire biting through her leather gloves, and threw her leg over. Dropping down, she caught her balance and assessed the ruined yard. Hollowed-out warehouses stared back at her with shattered glass eyes. Herrera’s footprints marked the thick sludge, leading straight toward an old, decaying structure. The rusted sign above the archway read 'Camden Town'—an old Tube station entrance sealed off to the surface world decades ago. A massive iron grate covering the stairs lay forced open, a heavy padlock sitting uselessly on the concrete. Harlow stood at the top of the stairs. The smell of ozone, damp earth, and something sick and sweet hit her, instantly burying the scent of rain and wet asphalt. The precise smell that clung to her clothes three years ago. The smell of the warehouse where DS Morris bled out from wounds that no coroner could explain. The descent plunged them into darkness, broken by flickering halide bulbs strung along the tiled ceiling with heavy-duty cables. Water trickled down the Victorian brickwork, staining the white ceramic with brown streaks of rust. Harlow took the stairs two at a time. The echoes of Herrera’s frantic descent bounced off the curved walls. "Tommy! There's no way out down here!" "Shows what you know, Detective!" His voice echoed, distorted and distant. Harlow kept her breathing steady, gripping her baton tighter. Tap. Tap. Tap. Her boots beat a relentless rhythm on the grimy tiles. The temperature plummeted. Each exhale plumed in front of her face in a white cloud. The tunnel leveled out, stretching deep into the belly of London. The sound of running water masked her approach. But under the rushing water, a new sound swelled. Voices. A low, continuous roar of a massive crowd. Harlow slowed her pace, pressing her back against the damp tiles. She unclipped her flashlight but kept her thumb off the switch. The hallway curved sharply. She slid toward the bend and peered around the edge. The tunnel opened into a cavernous platform area. An impossible metropolis thrived beneath the city streets. Makeshift stalls lined the platform edge and spilled over onto the dry train tracks. Braziers burned with blue and green flames, casting shifting, towering shadows against the brickwork. Vendors shouted in harsh, clicking languages Harlow couldn’t identify. The air shimmered, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of copper. Figures haggled over ancient manuscripts and jagged weapons that absorbed the unnatural light. Glass jars filled with glowing liquids, polished stones, alongside bizarre fungal growths clutched in terrariums covered the wooden tables. The Veil Market. An informant had whispered the name during an interrogation last week. The underground black market only materialized to those who knew exactly where to look. It shifted locations every full moon. Tonight, the lunar cycle dictated it took root right here, transforming an abandoned Tube station beneath Camden into a bustling bazaar for banned alchemical substances and stolen information. Harlow pressed tighter against the wall. The volume of illicit activity down here eclipsed anything she had witnessed in eighteen years of service. This wasn't a London street gang moving stolen electronics. This was an entire supernatural ecosystem, heavily guarded and completely blind to the laws of the surface. Herrera walked toward a barricaded archway at the far end of the platform. Two massive figures guarded the entrance, both wearing heavy leather coats over polished chainmail. Their faces remained obscured beneath deep cowls. Herrera wasn't running anymore. He moved with practiced ease, wiping the mud from his coat, tucking his medallion back beneath his collar. Harlow tracked him, moving from the cover of a fractured tile pillar to a stack of rotting wooden crates. "Payment," one of the guards rumbled, his voice like blocks of granite grinding together. Herrera didn't speak. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, jagged piece of white material. A bone token. He handed it to the guard. The massive figure rotated the bone in his thick fingers, feeling the grooves and etched runes. The guard grunted and stepped aside, tossing the bone into a brass bowl perched on a pedestal. Herrera slipped past the barricade, vanishing into the denser, darker section of the market where the true contraband changed hands. Harlow stepped out from behind the crates, standing exactly at the edge of the sprawling bazaar's light. The sweeping threshold loomed fifty yards away. Crossing the expanse meant exposing herself to an army of entities trading in items she couldn't comprehend. She lacked backup. She lacked a firearm. She held absolutely no jurisdiction in a hidden subterranean world. She lifted her left wrist. The watch ticked steadily against her pulse. Every second she waited, Herrera slipped further out of reach, taking his off-the-books medical expertise and the answers about Morris's supernatural murder with him. A figure beside her brushed past, entirely concealed in a sweeping grey cloak. The stranger held out a similar bone token toward the entrance, joining the steady stream of creatures flowing into the depths of the underground market. Harlow stared at the dark archway where Herrera had disappeared.