Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7M9XFRTW1G6Y5DB9TRD79

The rain came down in sheets, turning the streets of Soho into a slick, glistening river. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she moved with the precision of a soldier on patrol, her sharp jaw set in grim determination. The neon glow of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered weakly through the downpour, its green sign barely visible against the storm. She had been tailing the suspect for nearly an hour—ever since he’d slipped out of the back room of Silas’ bar, his movements too deliberate, too calculated. Something about him didn’t add up. And Quinn didn’t like loose ends. She adjusted the strap of her leather watch, the weight of her service revolver pressing against her hip. The suspect—some low-level dealer, maybe a fence—hadn’t given her a name, but his nervous energy had been radiating off him since the moment he’d stepped into the bar. And now, he was running. Quinn followed the trail of footprints leading away from the bar, the rain muffling her steps as she moved. The city was alive with the hum of drunken laughter, the distant wail of a siren, the occasional shriek of tires on wet pavement. She kept her head down, her dark eyes scanning the shadows. The suspect had cut through an alley, his coat flapping behind him like a flag in the wind. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She took the same path, her breath steady, her mind sharp. The alley opened into a narrow street lined with boarded-up shops, their windows dark and empty. The suspect ducked into a doorway, his silhouette vanishing into the gloom. Quinn paused, listening. The rain had softened the sound of his footsteps, but she could still hear the faint rustle of fabric, the occasional scrape of shoe against pavement. She stepped forward, her boots crunching on a discarded cigarette butt. Then—movement. A flicker of motion in the darkness. The suspect was already moving again, his path leading deeper into the labyrinth of Soho’s underbelly. Quinn followed, her pulse steady, her instincts telling her this wasn’t just another drug deal gone wrong. There was something else here. Something darker. She rounded a corner and nearly collided with a man leaning against a wall, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. For a heartbeat, she thought it was her suspect—until she saw the scar running along his left forearm, the way his dark brown eyes flickered with something unnerving. A paramedic. Or what was left of one. “You’re losing him,” the man said, his voice low, accented with the cadence of Seville. He didn’t move, didn’t reach for a weapon, but Quinn’s hand instinctively went to her revolver. “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “Tomás Herrera.” He pushed off the wall, his olive skin glistening in the dim light. “And you’re Detective Quinn. I’ve heard about you.” She didn’t like the way he said it. Like he knew things. Like he wasn’t just some random medic on the streets. “What do you want?” she asked, her eyes never leaving his. “Information,” he said simply. “And you’re the one who can give it to me.” Before she could respond, a sharp cry echoed from further down the alley. The suspect—if that’s what he was—had been spotted. Quinn didn’t wait. She moved, her body a blur of motion, her boots splashing through puddles as she took off after the sound. Tomás Herrera fell into step beside her, his presence a silent threat in the darkness. They emerged onto a street that had been swallowed by the night. The rain had let up slightly, but the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something metallic, like old blood. The suspect was ahead, his figure darting between shadows, his movements erratic. Quinn didn’t slow down. She was too close now. Too far in. Then, the ground beneath her feet gave way. She stumbled, her boot catching on something unseen, and for a heartbeat, she was falling. Tomás grabbed her arm, his grip iron, and yanked her back just in time. She landed hard on her knees, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. Around her, the street had vanished. In its place was a set of rusted metal stairs descending into darkness. A bone token lay at the bottom, its surface smooth and unnatural, pulsing faintly with an eerie glow. Tomás picked it up, his fingers brushing against the cold surface. “The Veil Market,” he said, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of the city above. Quinn didn’t need him to explain. She knew what this was. She’d heard the rumors—whispers of a hidden world beneath London, a place where the supernatural traded in secrets and sins. But she’d never thought she’d find herself standing at the edge of it. The suspect was already halfway down the stairs, his figure disappearing into the abyss. Quinn hesitated for only a second before she followed, Tomás close behind her. The air grew colder as they descended, the scent of damp stone and something older, something primal, filling her lungs. The stairs ended in a cavernous space, the walls lined with stalls selling goods she didn’t recognize—bottles of swirling liquids, jars of blackened herbs, trinkets that seemed to shift when she looked at them too long. And then she saw him. The suspect—if that’s what he was—was standing in the center of the market, his back to them, his hands raised as if in surrender. But the way he was looking around, the way his shoulders were tense, told her he wasn’t surrendering at all. He was waiting. And then the market itself seemed to shift around them. The stalls moved, the shadows deepened, and for a heartbeat, Quinn thought she saw something move in the corner of her eye—a flicker of movement, a glint of something metallic. She turned, but it was gone. Tomás Herrera stepped forward, his voice low. “You’re not alone here, Detective.” She didn’t answer. She was too busy watching the suspect, too busy wondering what the hell she was doing in a place like this. The market was alive with whispers, with the murmur of voices that weren’t quite human. And then, from the shadows, a figure emerged—a woman with eyes like polished obsidian, her smile too wide, too knowing. “Detective Quinn,” she purred, her voice like honey and poison. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Quinn’s hand went to her revolver, her finger tightening around the grip. She didn’t know who this woman was, didn’t know what she wanted. But she knew one thing for certain: she wasn’t leaving this market until she had her answers. And if that meant walking into the heart of the unknown, then so be it. The suspect turned, his face a mask of panic. “Quinn, don’t—” But it was too late. The market had closed in around them, the shadows swallowing them whole. And as the woman with the obsidian eyes stepped forward, Quinn realized the truth: she was in too deep. And she had no choice but to fight her way out.