Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQKF437NA127AJ8ACWRDV9

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. And Quinn knew a thing or two about men with things to hide. The suspect—Tomás Herrera, if her sources were right—was fast, but she was faster. He had youth on his side, but she had experience. And right now, experience was winning. She could see the Saint Christopher medallion bouncing against his chest as he ran, the silver glinting under the streetlights. His dark curls were plastered to his forehead, his olive skin slick with rain. He glanced back, his warm brown eyes widening when he saw how close she was. Quinn didn’t call out. Didn’t warn him. She just ran harder. Herrera cut down a side street, his boots skidding on the wet cobblestones. Quinn followed, her own steps sure despite the slippery ground. She could hear his ragged breathing now, the way his lungs burned with effort. He wasn’t used to being the one chased. The alley opened into a wider street, the rain drumming against the pavement like a thousand tiny hammers. Herrera hesitated for half a second—just long enough for Quinn to close the distance. She lunged, her fingers brushing the fabric of his jacket before he twisted away, his scarred forearm flashing as he shoved her back. “Police!” she barked, but the word was swallowed by the storm. Herrera didn’t stop. He bolted again, this time toward the mouth of an abandoned Tube station, its entrance gaping like a wound in the earth. Quinn’s pulse spiked. That wasn’t just any station. That was the Veil Market. She knew the rumors. Knew the stories about the underground black market that moved with the full moon, where things were bought and sold that shouldn’t exist. Knew the bone tokens required for entry. And she knew, with a detective’s instinct, that Herrera was heading straight for it. For a second, she hesitated. The Veil Market was off-limits. Unsanctioned. Dangerous. But Herrera was getting away. Quinn cursed under her breath and followed. The stairs descended into darkness, the air growing thick and damp. The sound of the rain faded behind her, replaced by the low hum of voices, the clink of glass, the occasional laugh that sounded too sharp, too knowing. The walls were lined with flickering lanterns, their light casting long, shifting shadows. The scent of incense and something metallic—blood?—hung heavy in the air. Herrera was already disappearing into the crowd, his dark jacket blending into the sea of bodies. Quinn pushed forward, her hand resting on the grip of her holstered sidearm. The market was a labyrinth of stalls, each one selling things that made her skin prickle. A woman with too many teeth offered vials of glowing liquid. A man in a long coat displayed rows of teeth—human, animal, something in between. A child, no older than ten, held out a jar containing what looked like a floating, disembodied eye. Quinn’s stomach twisted. She’d seen a lot in her eighteen years on the force, but this? This was different. She spotted Herrera again, weaving through the crowd toward a stall at the far end. The vendor, a gaunt man with hollow cheeks, handed him something small and white—a bone token. Herrera didn’t hesitate. He turned and slipped behind a curtain of beads, vanishing from sight. Quinn’s jaw tightened. She didn’t have a token. Didn’t have an invitation. But she wasn’t about to let him disappear. She shouldered her way through the crowd, ignoring the muttered protests, the hissed warnings. The vendor at the stall eyed her as she approached, his gaze lingering on the badge clipped to her belt. “You don’t belong here, detective,” he said, his voice like dry leaves. Quinn didn’t answer. She just held out her hand. “Token.” The man smirked, revealing teeth that were just a little too sharp. “Not for you.” She leaned in, her voice low and dangerous. “I can make this place disappear. Every last one of you. Or you can give me the token and pretend you never saw me.” For a long moment, the man just stared at her. Then, with a sigh, he reached under the counter and tossed a token onto the surface between them. It landed with a soft *click*. Quinn snatched it up and followed Herrera through the beads. The space beyond was smaller, darker. The air smelled of old paper and something sweet, like rotting fruit. A single lantern hung from the ceiling, casting a dim glow over a table where three figures sat, their faces obscured by shadows. Herrera stood in front of them, his back rigid, his hands clenched at his sides. Quinn pressed herself against the wall, her breath shallow. She could hear the murmur of voices, but the words were indistinct, lost in the hum of the market behind her. Then Herrera spoke, his voice tight with anger. “She’s getting too close.” One of the figures leaned forward, the lantern light catching the edge of a silver mask. “Then you know what must be done.” Quinn’s blood ran cold. She’d heard enough. She stepped forward, her badge held high. “Metropolitan Police. Step away from the table. Now.” The figures didn’t move. Herrera turned slowly, his expression unreadable. The masked one chuckled, the sound like ice cracking. “Detective Quinn. We’ve been expecting you.” The lantern flickered. And then the darkness swallowed them whole.