Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7MTFQ5V5JYR8XR0GA93A9

Rain plastered Harlow’s hair to her forehead, blurring the neon glow of Leicester Square. Each breath caught in her throat, a ragged rasp against the city’s symphony of sirens and rushing water. Ahead, the figure of Silas, the bar owner, moved with a surprising agility for a man pushing fifty, weaving through the late-night crowds. Harlow surged forward, the soles of her boots slapping against the slick pavement. Years on the force solidified her stride – economical, relentless. Silas disappeared down a narrow alleyway, the stench of damp garbage and stale beer thick in the air. She didn’t hesitate, ducking under a low-hanging fire escape. The alley opened onto Berwick Street. Silas was already halfway down, his shoulders hunched against the downpour. Harlow activated the collar mic, the static crackling in her ear. “Quinn to dispatch, suspect heading east on Berwick Street. Requesting backup.” A brief pause, then Miller’s voice, clipped and professional. “Backup en route, Quinn. ETA five minutes. Exercise caution.” Five minutes. A lifetime in this game. Silas could vanish in five minutes. He glanced back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before disappearing into a nondescript doorway. Harlow reached the entrance, noticing a faded sign barely visible beneath layers of grime: “The Raven’s Nest.” She shoved the door open, the smell of stale beer and something acrid, like burnt sugar, hitting her. The bar was dimly lit, a warren of worn leather booths and shadowy corners. Old maps of London clung to the walls, interspersed with black-and-white photographs of people Harlow didn’t recognize. Silas stood at the far end of the room, near a towering bookshelf. He didn't bother looking back. “Silas,” Harlow called, her voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. “Metropolitan Police. I need to ask you some questions." He didn't answer, instead running a hand along the spines of the books. One, seemingly at random, swung inwards, revealing a dark, narrow passage. No sign marked the entrance, no indication of a secret room. He slipped inside and the bookshelf swung shut behind him. Harlow strode toward the bookshelf, her hand instinctively reaching for her holster. She pushed, pulled, examined every inch of the paneling. Solid. A pressure plate, maybe. Or a complex locking mechanism. She needed eyes on him—now. Her radio crackled again. “Quinn, what’s your status? Backup’s almost there.” “Suspect’s gone to ground, Miller. Possible hidden room. Requesting specialist assistance.” “Negative, Quinn. Specialist unit's tied up. You’re on your own. Proceed with caution. Over.” On her own. Of course. Harlow ran her fingers over the worn leather of her watch, a familiar comfort in the growing tension. Three years. Three years since Morris, and she still chased shadows. Still felt the chill of the unexplained. She hesitated. This room… this entire bar… felt wrong. Beyond the predictable seediness of a Soho dive. It oozed something ancient, something she couldn't quite grasp. Following Silas into that hidden passage felt like stepping off the edge of the world. She could wait for backup. Let them breach the room. Let them handle whatever lay beyond. But Silas wouldn't wait. He wouldn't be an easy catch. A glint of metal caught her eye. A small, almost invisible, slot cut into the bookshelf's frame. She pressed her fingers into it, feeling a faint click. The bookshelf groaned, sliding silently to reveal a descending spiral staircase carved from stone. A damp, earthy smell wafted upwards. Harlow drew her weapon, the cold steel a reassuring weight in her hand. She checked her radio one last time. “Quinn entering concealed passage. No response expected.” She started down the stairs, each step echoing in the claustrophobic space. The air grew colder, heavier. The scent of earth intensified, mixing with the faint, metallic tang of something…else. The staircase opened into a vast, cavernous space. Harlow stopped, momentarily blinded by the sudden shift in light. It wasn’t natural light. It pulsed with an eerie luminescence, cast by hundreds of flickering lanterns strung across the ceiling. She’d stepped into a market. But not like any market she’d ever seen. Stalls lined the cavern walls, overflowing with strange and unsettling goods. Petrified eyes stared from glass jars. Dried herbs and powders lay displayed in intricately carved wooden boxes. Skulls, both human and animal, adorned shelves alongside vials filled with viscous, iridescent liquids. A cacophony of voices rose from the crowd – a bizarre mix of languages, some familiar, some utterly alien. People – or things resembling people – bartered and haggled. Some were human, gaunt and pale, their eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity. Others were…not. Creatures with scales and feathers, horns and claws, moved amongst the crowd with unsettling ease. This wasn’t a shop. This was something else entirely. Silas was already disappearing into the throng, heading towards a stall piled high with shimmering crystals. He blended seamlessly with the bizarre clientele. Harlow scanned the market, her senses overwhelmed. Miller would never believe this. No one would. A black market, operating beneath the streets of London, catering to…what? What kind of people bought petrified eyes and iridescent potions? She spotted a man with an olive skin tone and short, curly dark hair tending a stall filled with medical supplies. A thin, white scar ran along his left forearm. A Saint Christopher medallion hung around his neck. Tomás. She’d seen his file. Former paramedic, lost his license for administering unauthorized treatments. Useful. She moved towards him, pushing through the crowd. “Herrera,” she said, her voice low and urgent. Tomás looked up, his warm brown eyes widening slightly. “Detective Quinn. What a…surprise.” His voice was laced with nervous energy. “I need information. This place…what is it?” He glanced around, his eyes darting from face to face. “This is the Veil Market. It moves every full moon.” “Who runs it?” “No one. And everyone. It's…self-regulating. You need a bone token to enter.” He pointed to a small, carved piece of bone hanging from a cord around his neck. “Like this.” Harlow’s gaze followed his gesture. "And Silas? What’s his connection to this?" “Silas? He’s…a vendor. He sells rare artifacts. Antiquities, mostly.” Tomás hesitated, then added softly, “He knows more than he lets on." “I’m chasing him,” Harlow said, her eyes fixed on Silas’ retreating back. "He’s involved in something. Something dangerous.” Tomás’ face tightened. “Dangerous is a relative term here, Detective. Everything here has a price. And everything has a consequence.” He paused, studying her face. “Are you sure you want to go down this rabbit hole, Detective? There’s no coming back.” Harlow didn’t reply, she already knew that. She focused on Silas, dodging a towering figure with feathers woven into its hair. “Tell me,” she said, her voice low, “How do I find him?”