Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQDB7JN9WWNB32VN844RCD

The rain came down like God had upended a bucket. It turned the neon glow of Soho into a smear of colours bleeding across wet pavement. Harlow Quinn didn’t slow her pace. Her boots splashed through puddles deep enough to soak her ankles, but she barely registered the cold seeping through her trousers. Three blocks back, the suspect—tall, lanky, moving like he’d been greased—had glanced over his shoulder. That was all she needed. The flicker of fear in his eyes, the way his breath hitched. He knew she was coming. He ducked left, into a narrow alley clogged with overflowing dumpsters and the stink of old fryer oil. Harlow followed, her fingers brushing the grip of her service weapon. Not yet. Too many variables in close quarters. A gunshot here would bring questions, and questions would bring delays. She wanted answers, not paperwork. The alley spat them out onto Wardour Street. The suspect didn’t hesitate. He vaulted over a low fence, his coat flaring like bat wings, and dropped into the black mouth of a service stairwell. Harlow cursed under her breath, her leather watch strap tight against her wrist as she grabbed the rusted metal railing. The descent was slick, her shoulders scraping concrete as she took the steps two at a time. At the bottom, a fire exit hung ajar, swaying on broken hinges. Beyond it, darkness. She paused. Listened. Drip. Drip. The steady plink of water hitting concrete. Then—footsteps. Not running anymore. Deliberate. He was waiting for her. Harlow exhaled through her nose. She’d faced worse than some two-bit runner in a back alley. But the hair on the back of her neck didn’t agree. It prickled, like static before a storm. She pushed through the door. The air changed instantly. Thicker. Warmer. The scent of damp earth and something metallic, like old coins or blood. Her torch flickered to life, carving a pale slash through the gloom. The beam caught brick walls slick with moisture, graffiti in languages she didn’t recognise. A tunnel. Not just any tunnel—this one sloped downward, the floor worn smooth by God knew how many boots. The suspect’s silhouette flickered at the edge of her light, just for a second, before vanishing around a bend. “Shit.” She moved forward, her free hand trailing the wall. The bricks were cold, almost clammy. Her torchlight jumped over something scrawled in chalk: a symbol, crude but intentional. Two curved lines intersecting, like a poorly drawn hourglass. Or an eye. Harlow’s thumb hovered over her radio. Backup was a button-press away. But backup meant explanations. And explanations meant someone higher up would shut this down before she got close to the truth. No. She was seeing this through. The tunnel opened into a cavern. Not a natural one—this had been dug, expanded, reinforced with rusted iron supports and wooden beams blackened by age. The air hummed, not with machinery, but with voices. A low, constant murmur, like a hive of bees. And light—flickering, uneven, casting long shadows that twisted on the walls. Lanterns. Dozens of them. Harlow killed her torch. She stepped forward, her shoulders brushing the damp stone. The market unfolded before her like a living thing. Stalls lined a central aisle, their wares displayed on rickety tables or hung from hooks. Jars of things that pulsed with dim, sickly light. Bundles of herbs that smelled like rot and lightning. A man with too many teeth grinned at her from behind a table of knives, their blades etched with sigils. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His eyes said *you don’t belong here* loud enough. She ignored him. The suspect was gone. Swallowed by the crowd. Harlow’s jaw tightened. She wasn’t losing him now. Not when she was this close. A hand clamped onto her wrist. “Lost, *guapa*?” Tomás Herrera stepped out of the shadows like he’d been waiting for her. His Saint Christopher medallion glinted in the lantern light, the only thing about him that looked polished. The rest—curly hair damp with sweat, olive skin slick with it, the scar on his forearm white against the grimy sleeve of his rolled-up shirt—spoke of a man who’d been running longer than she had. Harlow twisted free. “Herrera. You’re a long way from your usual patch.” “And you’re a long way from *anywhere* you should be.” His gaze flicked over her shoulder, then back. “This isn’t a place for cops, Quinn. Not even decorated ones.” “Funny. I didn’t see a ‘no detectives’ sign.” She scanned the crowd. “Where’d he go?” Tomás exhaled, sharp. “You don’t know what you’re chasing.” “Enlighten me.” “Not here.” He grabbed her elbow, steered her toward a stall draped in heavy velvet. The woman behind it had eyes like polished obsidian and a smile that didn’t reach them. She was arranging a row of small, irregular bones on a tray. Each one had a hole drilled through the top. Tokens. Tomás leaned in, voice low. “That kid you’re after? He’s not the prize. He’s the bait.” Harlow’s fingers twitched. “For what?” “For *you*.” He jerked his chin toward the far end of the market, where the crowd thinned into a pool of darkness. “They’ve been watching you, Quinn. Since Morris.” The name hit like a gut punch. She didn’t let it show. “Who’s *they*?” “People who don’t like loose ends.” His fingers brushed the medallion at his throat. “You’ve been poking around the Nest, asking about Silas’ operation. That’s not just drugs and protection money anymore. You know it. I know it. And *they* sure as hell know it.” Harlow’s gaze locked onto the shadows Tomás had indicated. Something moved there. Not a person. Not *just* a person. The air rippled, like heat off asphalt, but cold. Wrong. “What the hell is this place?” “The Veil Market.” Tomás’ voice dropped. “Where the desperate come to buy what they shouldn’t.” A scream cut through the murmur. High, raw. Human. The crowd barely reacted. A few heads turned. Most didn’t. Harlow was already moving. She shoved through the press of bodies, her shoulder knocking into a man wrapped in a coat of stitched-together skins. He snarled, but she didn’t slow. The scream came again, closer this time. A woman, backed against a stall, her fingers clawing at the wood. Two figures loomed over her—tall, too tall, their limbs stretched like taffy. Their faces were all sharp angles, eyes black and gleaming. Not human. Not anymore. One of them turned. Saw Harlow. Its lips peeled back in a grin, rows of needle teeth glinting. “*Detective.*” The woman sobbed. “Please—” Harlow didn’t think. She drew her gun. The market erupted. Bodies scattered. Lanterns crashed to the ground, glass shattering, flames licking at the damp air. The things—*the things*—hissed, their forms twisting, elongating. Harlow fired. The shot echoed, deafening in the confined space. One of them jerked, but it didn’t go down. Just laughed, a wet, gurgling sound. Tomás grabbed her arm, yanked her back. “You can’t kill them with *that*.” “Then what the hell do I use?” She fired again. Missed. The crowd was a writhing mass, panic and something darker, something hungry. “Run,” Tomás said. She didn’t argue. They moved, shoulder to shoulder, toward the tunnel she’d come from. The air behind them roiled, the temperature dropping like a stone. Harlow risked a glance back. The things were coming. Not running. *Flowing*. Like smoke given form. Tomás shoved her ahead of him. “Go!” She didn’t need telling twice. The tunnel was a blessing and a curse—narrow enough to slow them down, but dark enough to hide in. Harlow’s lungs burned, her boots slipping on the slick stone. Behind her, Tomás’ breath came in ragged gasps. Ahead, the fire exit. Freedom. She burst through, the rain hitting her face like a slap. The alley was empty. No suspect. No backup. Just the storm and the stink of the city. Tomás staggered out after her, pressing his back to the wall. His hands shook as he lit a cigarette, the flare of the lighter illuminating the sweat on his face. “You’re lucky you’re still breathing.” Harlow holstered her gun. “Lucky’s got nothing to do with it.” He exhaled smoke, bitter. “They’ll come for you now. You know that, right?” She wiped rain from her eyes. “Let them.” Tomás studied her for a long moment. Then, quietly: “Morris didn’t have a choice. You do.” Harlow didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. The sound was almost laughable. Too little. Too late. She turned her back on the alley, on the market, on the things that waited in the dark. But not for long. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.