Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ5VSAYGFX962WY71KEJHE

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 green neon sign above the bar flickered in her memory, its glow swallowed by the storm. The man was fast, but Quinn was faster. She’d spent years chasing shadows, and tonight, this one was hers. The suspect—Tomás Herrera, if her intel was right—ducked around a corner, his dark curls plastered to his forehead. The Saint Christopher medallion around his neck glinted under a streetlamp before disappearing into the gloom. Quinn’s fingers twitched near her sidearm, but she didn’t draw. Not yet. Not until she knew what he was running from. She rounded the corner just in time to see him vanish down a set of stairs leading into the underground. The Camden Tube station, abandoned and boarded up years ago. But the boards were pried loose, the entrance gaping like a wound in the city’s skin. Quinn hesitated. The rain drummed against her shoulders, soaking through her coat. She knew the stories—whispers of a black market beneath the city, one that moved with the moon, one that dealt in things the law couldn’t touch. The Veil Market. She’d heard the name in hushed tones, from informants who clammed up the second she pressed for details. But Herrera was down there. And if he was connected to the clique, to whatever had taken Morris from her three years ago, then she wasn’t letting him slip away. She descended the stairs, the air growing colder with each step. The tunnel opened up before her, dimly lit by flickering bulbs strung along the walls. The scent of damp stone and something metallic hung thick in the air. Her boots echoed against the concrete, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the abandoned station. Then she saw it—the market. Stalls lined the platform, their wares hidden beneath tarps and flickering lanterns. Figures moved in the shadows, their faces obscured by hoods and masks. The hum of low conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of glass or the rustle of fabric. A bone token, strung on a leather cord, dangled from the wrist of a vendor who eyed her with suspicion. Quinn kept her expression neutral, her hand resting near her hip. She wasn’t here to browse. She was here to find Herrera. She moved through the crowd, her eyes scanning the faces. The market was a labyrinth of secrets—vials of glowing liquid, bundles of herbs that smelled like ozone and decay, weapons that hummed with an energy she couldn’t name. A woman in a long coat offered her a silver locket, its surface etched with symbols that made Quinn’s teeth ache. “Looking for something, love?” the woman murmured. Quinn ignored her, pressing forward. She caught a glimpse of Herrera’s medallion near a stall at the far end of the platform. He was talking to a man with a scarred face, their voices too low to hear. Quinn edged closer, her pulse steady despite the adrenaline. Then Herrera turned, his warm brown eyes locking onto hers. For a heartbeat, neither moved. The market seemed to hold its breath. Then Herrera bolted. Quinn cursed and gave chase, shoving past a vendor who yelped in protest. Herrera was fast, weaving through the crowd with the ease of someone who knew the market’s twists and turns. Quinn followed, her boots pounding against the concrete. She caught sight of him ducking behind a curtain of beads, disappearing into a narrow passage. She didn’t hesitate. The passage opened into a smaller chamber, the air thick with the scent of incense and something older, something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Herrera stood at the far end, his chest heaving, his scarred forearm glistening with rainwater. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, his voice low. Quinn stepped forward, her hand still near her gun. “Neither are you.” Herrera’s fingers twitched at his side. “You don’t understand what you’re walking into.” “Then explain it to me.” He laughed, a bitter sound. “You wouldn’t believe me.” Quinn took another step. “Try me.” Herrera’s gaze flicked past her, toward the passage. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. She could feel the shift in the air, the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on her. “You should go,” Herrera said quietly. “While you still can.” Quinn’s jaw tightened. She wasn’t leaving without answers. And then the lights went out.