Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPQVEGCE59M3AFP5XZGN4V

The rain came down in sheets, turning the London streets into a slick, reflective maze. Detective Harlow Quinn moved with the precision of a soldier, her boots splashing through puddles that pooled in the cracks of the pavement. The neon glow of Soho’s signs bled into the wet darkness, casting everything in an eerie, watery light. Her breath came in controlled bursts, fogging the air in front of her as she scanned the alleyways, her sharp jaw set in determination. She’d been tailing the suspect for blocks—ever since he’d bolted from *The Raven’s Nest* like a man with something to hide. The kid—Tomás Herrera, if her sources were right—was fast, but Quinn had spent years chasing men who didn’t want to be caught. She knew the rhythm of a chase: the way a runner’s shoulders tensed before a turn, the way their breath hitched when they thought they’d lost you. Herrera was good. He ducked into a narrow passage between two buildings, his dark curls plastered to his forehead, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting under the flicker of a streetlamp. Quinn followed, her leather watch strap damp against her wrist. The alley opened into a wider street, the rain drumming against the cobblestones, but Herrera was already gone. Then she saw it—the manhole cover, slightly ajar. Quinn slowed, her pulse steady despite the adrenaline. She crouched, brushing her fingers over the cold metal. The edges were worn, but not from age. Someone had been using this route recently. She hesitated. Going underground was a risk. She had no backup, no idea what waited below. But Herrera was her only lead to whatever the hell was going on in that bar, to the things she’d seen but couldn’t explain. She pried the cover open with a grunt, the metal groaning in protest. The ladder descended into darkness, the air rising from below thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something metallic, like old coins. Quinn swung herself onto the rungs, pulling the cover back into place behind her. The descent was longer than she expected. Her boots hit packed dirt, and she paused, letting her eyes adjust. The tunnel stretched ahead, dimly lit by flickering bulbs strung along the walls. The sound of distant voices, the clink of glass, the murmur of a crowd—this wasn’t just a sewer. It was something else. She moved forward, her hand resting on the grip of her sidearm. The tunnel opened into a cavernous space, the ceiling arched like an old Tube station, but the tracks were gone, replaced by stalls and tables draped in velvet. The air hummed with energy, the kind that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. *The Veil Market.* Quinn had heard whispers of it—places where the rules of the world bent, where people traded in things that shouldn’t exist. She’d never believed it. Until now. Herrera was ahead, weaving through the crowd. She kept her distance, her gaze locked on the scar along his forearm, the way it caught the light when he moved. The market was a labyrinth of stalls selling everything from glowing vials of liquid to bundles of herbs that smelled like ozone. A woman with too many teeth offered her a charm that would "ward off the unseen." Quinn ignored her, her focus unwavering. Herrera turned down a side passage, disappearing behind a curtain of beads. Quinn followed, pushing through the strands, her breath catching as she stepped into a smaller chamber. The walls were lined with shelves of jars, each one containing something that writhed or pulsed. Herrera stood at the far end, speaking in low, urgent tones to a man with a face like cracked leather. Quinn stepped forward, her boot scuffing against the stone. Herrera’s head snapped up, his warm brown eyes widening. "You’re not supposed to be here," he said, his voice tight. Quinn didn’t answer. She closed the distance between them, her hand still resting on her gun. "You ran. That makes you look guilty." Herrera’s fingers twitched at his sides. "You don’t understand what you’re walking into." "Then explain it to me." The man with the leathery face let out a dry chuckle. "She’s got you there, boy." Quinn ignored him, her gaze never leaving Herrera. "Three years ago, my partner died. Unexplained circumstances. I’ve been chasing ghosts ever since. Then I see you, running from a bar that doesn’t exist on any map, into a market that shouldn’t exist at all." She took another step forward. "What are you hiding?" Herrera’s jaw tightened. For a moment, she thought he might bolt again. But then he exhaled, his shoulders slumping. "You want answers? Fine. But not here." He turned to the leathery man, exchanging a few words in a language Quinn didn’t recognize. The man nodded, then melted into the shadows. Herrera gestured for her to follow. Quinn hesitated. Every instinct told her this was a bad idea. But the alternative was walking away with nothing. She followed.