Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPCPVVR4EFPBGBYMVEGS70

Rain hammered the pavement, each drop exploding into tiny crowns of silver under the flickering streetlamps. Harlow Quinn didn’t flinch. Her breath came steady, measured, as she rounded the corner of Greek Street, boots splashing through puddles deep enough to soak her ankles. The suspect—tall, lanky, dressed in a hooded jacket that flapped like a crow’s wings—ducked left, then right, weaving through the late-night stragglers with the ease of a man who knew these streets better than his own reflection. She didn’t. But she knew how to hunt. Ahead, the neon glow of Soho’s signs bled into the downpour, smearing colours into the wet air. The Raven’s Nest pulsed green in the distance, its light cutting through the rain like a beacon. The suspect glanced back—just for a second—and she caught the glint of something metallic in his hand. Not a knife. Too small. A token, maybe. His fingers clenched around it as he skidded to a halt outside the bar’s entrance, then veered sharp into the alley beside it. Harlow’s pulse kicked up. She slowed, pressing her back against the cold brick of the building, rain sliding down her neck. The alley was a gullet, dark and slick, the stink of old grease and damp cardboard thick in the air. She drew her sidearm, the weight of it familiar in her grip. No backup. No comms. Just the rain, the dark, and the echo of her own breathing. A crash. Metal on concrete. She moved. The alley spat her out into a dead-end courtyard, the walls lined with dumpsters and the skeletal remains of a fire escape. The suspect was already at the far end, prying open a rusted service hatch in the ground. His shoulders tensed as he glanced back, rain plastered his hood to his face, but she couldn’t make out his features. Didn’t need to. The way he moved—too quick, too *sure*—told her enough. This wasn’t some two-bit thief. This was someone who’d done this before. The hatch groaned as it gave way, revealing a ladder descending into blackness. He dropped down, the clang of his boots on metal ringing up like a challenge. Harlow hesitated. One second. Two. Then she holstered her gun and followed. The ladder was slick under her palms, the rungs cold enough to bite through her gloves. She descended fast, boots hitting the bottom with a thud that echoed. The air changed instantly—thicker, warmer, laced with the scent of burning herbs and something metallic, like old blood. A dim, flickering light pulsed ahead, casting long shadows that twisted along the tunnel walls. She pulled her torch, sweeping the beam ahead. The suspect was already twenty feet down the tunnel, his silhouette swallowed by the gloom. The walls were lined with graffiti—symbols, not tags. Circles within circles, jagged sigils that made her skin prickle. The floor sloped downward, the sound of distant voices and clinking glass growing louder with each step. Then the tunnel opened up. Harlow froze. The Veil Market sprawled before her, a grotesque bazaar carved into the bones of the abandoned Tube station. Stalls lined the platform, their wares displayed under the sickly glow of gas lamps and enchanted lanterns. Jars of pickled things that weren’t quite animal, bundles of herbs that writhed when no wind touched them, vials of liquid that shifted colour as she watched. The air hummed with the low murmur of haggling, the occasional sharp laugh, the wet, clicking sound of something moving in the dark corners. The suspect was already halfway across the platform, shoulder-checking past a stall selling what looked like human teeth strung on wire. Harlow’s fingers twitched toward her gun again, but she didn’t draw. Not here. Not yet. A woman with too many eyes turned to stare at her from behind a table of blackened bones. Harlow met her gaze, unblinking. The woman’s lips peeled back in a smile that didn’t reach any of her irises. “Lost, love?” Harlow ignored her, scanning the crowd. The suspect had stopped at a stall draped in heavy velvet, the vendor a gaunt man with fingers like spider legs. They exchanged words, too low to hear. Then the suspect handed over the token—*bone, it was bone*—and the vendor slid a small, cloth-wrapped package across the table. Harlow’s jaw tightened. *Drugs. Had to be.* But not the kind you bought on a street corner. She took a step forward, then another, her boot heels clicking against the tile. The market’s denizens turned, one by one, their attention snagging on her like barbs. A man with a face like melted wax sidled too close, his breath reeking of copper. “You ain’t got the look of a buyer, darlin’.” She didn’t break stride. “Move.” He didn’t. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist. She twisted, driving her elbow into his ribs. Bone cracked. He gasped, stumbling back, and she kept moving, her pulse a drumbeat in her throat. The suspect was on the move again, heading for a narrow archway at the far end of the platform. Harlow broke into a jog, shoving past a stall where something in a cage hissed at her, its too-many limbs rattling the bars. Then the lights flickered. The market went still. The chatter died. Even the hissing thing in the cage fell silent. Harlow skidded to a stop as the suspect turned, finally facing her. The hood had fallen back, revealing a young man—early twenties, maybe—with hollow cheeks and eyes that gleamed like polished obsidian. He held up the package, unwrapping it just enough to show her the contents. A vial. Filled with something dark, something that *moved*. “You shouldn’t be here, detective.” His voice was smooth, too calm. The kind of calm that came from knowing you’d already won. Harlow’s fingers hovered over her gun. “Step away from the product. Hands where I can see them.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Or what? You’ll arrest me?” He glanced around, slow and deliberate. “You think your badge means anything down here?” The market’s patrons had closed in, a semicircle of bodies blocking her exit. The woman with too many eyes licked her lips. The melted-wax man cracked his knuckles, his broken ribs already knitting back together. Harlow’s watch dug into her wrist as she tightened her fist. The suspect took a step back, toward the archway. “Last chance,” she said. He laughed. Then he turned and ran. The crowd surged. Harlow lunged after him, ducking under a grasping arm, sidestepping a stall where something slithered in a jar. The archway loomed, the air beyond it colder, *wrong*. She didn’t slow down. Then the ground dropped out from under her. She hit the stairs hard, her shoulder slamming into the wall as she tumbled. Pain flared, sharp and bright, but she was up again in an instant, sprinting down the steps into the dark. The suspect’s footsteps echoed ahead, then stopped. She skidded to a halt. The tunnel ended in a dead end, the walls slick with moisture. The suspect stood in the centre, the vial clutched in his hand. He turned, slow, and smiled. “Told you you shouldn’t have followed.” Behind him, the wall *ripped* open. Not a door. Not a passage. The bricks *peeled* back like skin, revealing something black and endless and *hungry*. The air rushed toward it, howling, and the suspect’s grin widened. “See you on the other side, detective.” He stepped through. The wall sealed shut behind him.