Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPYYCFP4AN4EPZ52Z9GEBT

The rain came down in sheets, turning the London streets into a slick, shimmering maze. Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she rounded the corner, her breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. The neon glow of Soho’s signs blurred through the downpour, casting long, wavering reflections on the wet pavement. There. A figure darted ahead, weaving between the late-night stragglers huddled under awnings. Tomás Herrera—his dark curls plastered to his forehead, the Saint Christopher medallion bouncing against his chest with each stride. He glanced back, eyes wide, before ducking into a narrow alley. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She broke into a sprint, her leather jacket slick with rain, the weight of her service weapon pressing against her ribs. The alley reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke, the walls lined with overflowing bins. Herrera vaulted over a stack of crates, his scarred forearm flashing as he steadied himself against the brick. "Police! Stop!" Quinn’s voice cut through the rain, sharp as a blade. Herrera didn’t stop. He skidded around another corner, his boots slipping on the wet cobblestones. Quinn followed, her pulse hammering in her throat. She knew these streets, but Herrera knew them better. He’d been running them for years—off the books, under the radar, patching up the kind of people who didn’t exist in official reports. The alley spilled into a wider street, the green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickering in the distance. Herrera didn’t head for the bar. Instead, he veered left, toward a boarded-up storefront with peeling paint. Quinn’s jaw tightened. That wasn’t just any abandoned shop. It was a known entry point—one of many scattered across the city. She slowed, her fingers brushing the grip of her gun. The rain drummed against the pavement, drowning out the distant hum of traffic. Herrera paused at the door, his chest heaving. He looked back at her, water streaming down his face, and for a second, she thought he might surrender. Then he smirked. The door creaked open. A gust of stale, damp air rushed out, carrying the scent of old stone and something else—something metallic, like rust and copper. Herrera slipped inside, the door slamming shut behind him. Quinn exhaled through her nose. She knew what lay beyond that door. Or at least, she knew enough to be wary. The Veil Market wasn’t on any map. It wasn’t a place you stumbled into by accident. You needed a token. You needed an invitation. She didn’t have either. Her boots splashed through a puddle as she approached the door. The wood was warped, the paint chipped. A single word was scrawled in faded chalk: *Down.* Quinn’s fingers curled into a fist. She could call it in. Wait for backup. But backup wouldn’t know what they were walking into. Backup wouldn’t understand why Herrera had run—or why he’d led her here. She pushed the door open. The stairs descended into darkness, the air growing colder with each step. The walls were damp, the stone slick under her palms as she steadied herself. A faint, flickering light pulsed at the bottom, casting long, shifting shadows. Then she heard it—the murmur of voices, the clink of glass, the low hum of something that wasn’t quite music. The scent of incense and burning herbs curled through the air, thick and cloying. Quinn reached the bottom. The tunnel opened into a cavernous space, the ceiling lost in the gloom. Stalls lined the walls, their wares hidden beneath tattered cloths and flickering lanterns. Figures moved in the dim light—some human, some not. A woman with too many eyes turned her head to watch Quinn pass. A man with skin like polished obsidian offered her a vial of swirling liquid. Herrera was already gone, swallowed by the crowd. Quinn’s hand twitched toward her gun, but she didn’t draw it. Not yet. She stepped forward, her boots silent on the packed earth. The market pulsed around her, alive with whispers and secrets. A child—no, not a child, something wearing the shape of one—held out a small bone token. "Lost, are you?" it asked, its voice too old, too knowing. Quinn ignored it. She scanned the crowd, her sharp eyes picking out details—the way the shadows pooled unnaturally in the corners, the way the air shimmered near certain stalls. She wasn’t just looking for Herrera. She was looking for answers. And she wasn’t leaving without them.