Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPQ04DWD85387MSVVHK7E0

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 *hunting*. The neon glow of Soho’s signs bled into the wet air, smearing colours across the slick cobblestones. A laugh spilled from a pub as its door swung open, the warm yellow light cutting a rectangle into the downpour. The suspect glanced back. Just for a second. Long enough for Harlow to catch the glint of something metallic in his hand—a token, maybe, or a key—before he vanished down a set of stone steps half-hidden behind a dumpster. Her radio crackled. *"Quinn, where the hell are you? Backup’s two minutes out."* She didn’t answer. Two minutes was a lifetime. The steps were narrow, the rail rusted under her grip. The air changed as she descended, the stench of damp concrete and something older, something *wrong*, creeping into her nostrils. The rain’s drumming faded, replaced by the distant hum of voices, the clink of glass, the low throb of music with a rhythm that didn’t quite sync with her pulse. At the bottom, a tunnel stretched ahead, lit by flickering bulbs strung along the ceiling like a trail of dying fireflies. The suspect was already a shadow at the far end, slipping through a curtain of beaded chains that chimed as he passed. Harlow hesitated. This wasn’t the city she knew. This wasn’t *police work*. A hand shot out from the darkness beside her. She twisted, fist raised, but the man attached to it didn’t flinch. Olive skin, warm brown eyes, a Saint Christopher medallion glinting against his throat. “You don’t want to go in there, *detective*.” Tomás Herrera. Former paramedic. Current pain in her arse. She didn’t lower her guard. “That piece of shit just lifted a wallet with enough black-market charms in it to start a riot. So yeah. I *do*.” Tomás exhaled through his nose, a sound that might’ve been a laugh if the situation weren’t so far past funny. “That ‘piece of shit’ is Silvanus. He’s not a pickpocket. He’s a *courier*. And that”—he nodded toward the beaded curtain—“is the Veil Market. No cops allowed. Not even ones who don’t know when to quit.” The curtain swayed, the beads clicking like bones. Harlow’s fingers twitched toward her cuffs. “Try me.” Tomás stepped closer, close enough that she caught the scent of antiseptic under the damp, the faint metallic tang of old blood. His left forearm bore a jagged scar, pale against his skin. “You go in there, you won’t come out. Not as *you*.” His voice dropped. “Not after what happened to Morris.” The name hit like a gut punch. Her partner’s face flashed behind her eyes—his smirk, the way he’d toss her a coffee when she was running on fumes, the *scream* that had cut through the radio three years ago, the one that still woke her in the dark. She shoved past Tomás, shoulder checking him into the wall. The beads rattled as she pushed through, the cold metal biting her palms. The market unfolded before her like a living thing. Stalls lined the curved walls of the abandoned Tube station, their wares glowing under the sickly light of gas lamps. Jars of things that pulsed. Bottles of liquid that shifted colour when she blinked. A man with too many teeth grinned at her from behind a table of *eyes*—some glass, some not. The air smelled of burnt sugar and copper, of something sweet and rotten all at once. And then there was *him*. Silvanus. The courier. He stood at the far end, handing the stolen wallet—not a wallet, a *pouch*, she saw now, stitched with symbols that made her temples ache—to a woman draped in a cloak of what looked like *feathers*. Her fingers were too long. Her smile too wide. Harlow reached for her badge. Found her holster instead. A hand clamped around her wrist. Tomás, breath ragged, pulled her back into the shadows between two stalls. “You *idiot*.” His voice was a growl, low and urgent. “They *smell* cops here. You might as well have walked in wearing a neon sign.” She yanked free. “Then what the hell are *you* doing here?” His jaw tightened. The medallion at his throat caught the light as he shifted, the saint’s face blurred with time. “I *work* here. Off the books. For people who can’t exactly walk into A&E with a *cursed* knife wound.” He grabbed her arm again, this time above the elbow, his grip bruising. “Silvanus is small fry. But the woman he’s talking to? That’s *Madam Vex*. She trades in *souls*, Harlow. Not drugs. Not guns. *Souls*.” Harlow’s gaze flicked back to the transaction. The pouch had disappeared into Vex’s cloak. Silvanus was already melting into the crowd, but the woman’s eyes—black, pupil-less—locked onto Harlow’s hiding spot. Tomás cursed under his breath. “We’re out of time.” A whistle cut through the murmur of the market. High. Sharp. *Unnatural*. The crowd parted. Madam Vex glided toward them, her feathered cloak whispering against the ground. The gas lamps dimmed as she passed, as if drawing power from her presence. Tomás muttered something in Spanish, his fingers digging into Harlow’s arm. “Run?” Harlow didn’t move. Her pulse hammered in her throat, but her voice was steady. “Not without that pouch.” Vex stopped three paces away. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Detective Quinn.” Her voice was silk over broken glass. “I was *wondering* when you’d find us.” Tomás made a choked sound. “You *know* her?” Vex’s laugh was a wet, clicking thing. “Oh, *Tomás*. Always the last to see what’s right in front of him.” She tilted her head, the feathers of her cloak rustling. “Your partner’s death wasn’t an accident, Detective. And that little pouch?” A long, bony finger pointed toward the curtained entrance. “It holds the *key* to what really happened to DS Morris.” The air left Harlow’s lungs. Vex’s smile widened. “Come. Let’s discuss *terms*.” Tomás’s grip on her arm turned vise-like. “Harlow, *don’t*—” But she was already stepping forward, the weight of her service weapon a cold comfort at her hip. The market swallowed them whole.