Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPC7MHNYD4STW2ZF845D01

Rain lashed the pavement in silver sheets, turning the neon glow of Soho into a smeared watercolor. Detective Harlow Quinn didn’t slow her pace. The suspect—lean, dark-clad, moving like a shadow with purpose—ducked around the corner of Old Compton Street, his boots splashing through puddles that reflected the sickly yellow of streetlamps. She followed, her own breath steady despite the burn in her thighs. Eighteen years on the force had taught her how to move: efficient, controlled, every step a calculation. The green neon of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered ahead, its light bleeding into the downpour. The suspect hesitated for half a second—just long enough for Harlow to see the tension in his shoulders—before shoving through the bar’s heavy oak door. She cursed under her breath. Silas’ place. Of course. The Nest was a haven for the kind of people who didn’t want to be found, and Silas had a knack for forgetting he’d ever seen a face once the door swung shut. Harlow didn’t break stride. She burst into the bar, the warmth of it hitting her like a wall—smoke, whiskey, the low hum of hushed conversations. The usual crowd: a mix of off-duty cops who didn’t ask questions, journalists chasing leads that didn’t exist on paper, and the occasional suit who looked like they’d be more at home in a boardroom than a dive bar. Heads turned. A few regulars nodded at her. She ignored them, scanning the room. No sign of him. Her gaze locked onto the bookshelf at the back—the one with the *Complete Works of Poe* that was always slightly askew. The hidden door. *Damn it.* She strode forward, her leather watch strap damp against her wrist, the second hand ticking like a metronome counting down. The bartender, a wiry man with a scar through his eyebrow, wiped a glass with deliberate slowness. “Evening, Detective. Rough night?” “Cut the shit, Danny.” Harlow didn’t stop. “Where’d he go?” Danny exhaled through his nose, a sound that might’ve been a laugh. “You know Silas’ rules. This ain’t your jurisdiction.” “Last chance.” She palmed her warrant card, flashing it just long enough for the lamplight to glint off the badge. “Or I start asking why half your patrons have priors longer than my arm.” A muscle in Danny’s jaw twitched. He jerked his chin toward the bookshelf. Harlow didn’t thank him. She shoved the *Poe* collection aside and stepped through, the hidden door swinging shut behind her with a soft *click*. The back room was smaller than she remembered, the air thick with the scent of old paper and something metallic—copper, maybe, or blood. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting long shadows over the stacked crates and the narrow staircase descending into darkness. A *bone token* lay on the top step, white and smooth as river stone, etched with symbols that made her fingers itch to touch them. She knew what it was. Everyone in the know did. The Veil Market’s calling card. *He went down there.* Harlow’s pulse kicked up, but not from the chase. The Market wasn’t just off-limits; it was a goddamn fairy tale, the kind of place rookies whispered about after too many pints. A black market for things that didn’t exist. Or shouldn’t. She’d heard the stories—cops who’d gone in after a lead and come back… wrong. Twitchy. Seeing things. DS Morris had been chasing a rumor about the Market the night he vanished. Three years, and she still woke up some nights hearing his last radio call, static-eaten and desperate: *“Quinn, it’s not—”* She crouched, running her fingers over the token. Cold. Too smooth. Like polished ivory. Footsteps echoed from below, distant but hurried. He was still running. Harlow stood, her jaw tight. She could call it in. Let uniformed response scour the streets, put out an APB. Play this by the book. Or she could follow. She tucked the token into her pocket and descended. The stairs spiraled down, the air growing colder, damper, the scent of wet stone and something older, something *alive*, curling into her nostrils. The last step dropped her into a tunnel lined with flickering gas lamps, their flames blue-tinged, casting shifting patterns on the curved walls. The sound of the city above faded, replaced by the murmur of voices, the clink of glass, the low, rhythmic *thump* of music that wasn’t quite music—more like a heartbeat, slow and deliberate. The Veil Market. Harlow’s hand hovered over her sidearm. Drawing it here would be a mistake. She knew that instinctively, the way she knew not to turn her back on a cornered rat. The Market had rules. And rules, in places like this, were the only thing keeping the darkness at bay. She moved forward, her boots silent on the packed earth. Stalls lined the tunnel, their wares displayed on rickety tables or hung from hooks: vials of liquid that shifted color when she blinked, bundles of herbs that smelled like grave dirt and summer storms, a jarred thing with too many eyes floating in brackish fluid. A woman with skin like cracked porcelain offered her a silver ring set with a black gem. “For seeing what shouldn’t be seen,” she murmured. Harlow ignored her. Her target was twenty feet ahead, hunched over a stall where a man in a long coat was sliding a small wooden box across the counter. The suspect—tall, dark hair slicked back from the rain—counted out coins that gleamed dull gold in the lamplight. Harlow’s fingers twitched. *Close enough.* She stepped forward, shoulder checking a man in a moth-eaten overcoat. He hissed, revealing teeth filed to points. She didn’t apologize. “Police.” Her voice cut through the hum of the Market like a blade. “Step away from the stall. Hands where I can see them.” The suspect stiffened. Slowly, he turned. Harlow’s breath caught. Not because she recognized him—she didn’t. But because his left forearm bore a jagged scar, pale against olive skin, and around his neck hung a Saint Christopher medallion, the chain glinting as he moved. *Tomás Herrera.* The name slotted into place like a puzzle piece. Former paramedic. Lost his license after treating patients who didn’t *exist*. At least, according to the files she’d dug up. Files that had been buried deep, like someone didn’t want him found. His warm brown eyes flicked to hers, assessing. “Detective Quinn,” he said, voice low, accented. Sevillian, if the files were right. “You’re a long way from your beat.” “Funny.” She didn’t lower her guard. “You’re under arrest for possession of controlled substances. Maybe obstruction, depending on how cooperative you feel like being.” A smile ghosted across his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t want to do that.” “Try me.” Herrera exhaled, then did something she didn’t expect. He reached into his jacket—slow, deliberate—and pulled out a syringe. Not the kind you’d find in a hospital. The liquid inside pulsed, a deep, unnatural crimson. Harlow’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Drop it.” “This?” He held it up, the light catching the needle. “This is for a patient. A *friend*. And if you take me in, she dies. Tonight.” The certainty in his voice sent a chill down her spine. She’d heard that tone before—in hostage negotiators, in doctors delivering bad news. The kind of certainty that came from knowing things you shouldn’t. “Bullshit.” Herrera’s gaze didn’t waver. “You really think this is about drugs, Detective? Look around.” He gestured to the Market, the stalls, the *things* being traded in the shadows. “This isn’t your world. But it’s mine. And right now, someone’s bleeding out because of what’s in this syringe.” Harlow’s mind raced. The files on Herrera had been incomplete, redacts covering half the pages. And Morris—*always* Morris, lurking at the edges of her thoughts. He’d been chasing something like this when he disappeared. Something that didn’t make sense. She lowered her gun. Just an inch. Herrera saw it. His shoulders relaxed fractionally. “Smart choice.” “Don’t push me, Herrera.” “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He pocketed the syringe, then reached into the wooden box the vendor had given him. He tossed something at her. Harlow caught it on reflex. A bone token. Fresh. Still warm. “For the way back,” he said. “You’ll need it.” She clenched her fist around it. “Why help me?” Herrera’s smile was grim. “Because you’re the first cop who’s ever made it this far without losing her mind. And because” —he glanced over her shoulder, his expression darkening— “you’re about to need all the help you can get.” The hair on the back of Harlow’s neck stood up. She turned. The Market was no longer empty. Figures emerged from the shadows, their movements too smooth, too *wrong*. A woman with eyes like polished obsidian. A man whose skin rippled, scales flickering beneath the surface. And behind them, something taller, its limbs too long, its face a shifting blur, like a reflection in disturbed water. Herrera grabbed her arm. “Run.”