Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7NV5E9TAP59TMCF5274VX

Rain hammered the Soho pavements. Neon bled into gutters, green glow from the Raven's Nest sign smeared across Detective Harlow Quinn's vision. She gripped her coat collar against the downpour, breath sharp in her lungs. Across the street, Tomás Herrera shoved through the bar's door. His Saint Christopher medallion caught the light, swung wild as he bolted left into the alley. Harlow sprinted. Boots slapped puddles, splashed her calves. Salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her scalp under the hood. She glimpsed his olive skin, short curls slicked flat, the scar on his left forearm flashing as he vaulted a crate. "Stop! Police!" Her shout drowned in the roar. He didn't glance back. Ducked under a fire escape, shoulders scraping brick. Harlow followed, coat snagging wire. Pain bit her palm where it tore. Military precision kicked in—feet precise, strides measured despite the wet stone threatening slip. Streetlamps flickered. Soho's pulse throbbed: laughter from doorways, bass from clubs. Tomás emerged onto Charing Cross Road, weaved through taxis. Horns blared. He cut sharp right, into narrower lanes where rain turned cobbles treacherous. Harlow's worn leather watch ticked against her wrist. Three minutes since the Nest. She'd watched him inside earlier, hunched over drinks with shadows she pegged for the clique. DS Morris's face flickered in her mind—gone three years, that warehouse case, whispers of things that didn't add up. No time for ghosts now. He vaulted a low fence into a mews. Bike chains rattled. Harlow hurdled after, knees protesting at forty-one. Adrenaline burned it away. Alley narrowed, bins overflowed with rot. His silhouette twisted ahead, medallion bouncing. " Herrera! You're under arrest!" Footsteps echoed his denial. He burst onto Tottenham Court Road, dodged a cluster of umbrellas. Rain sheeted down, blurred faces into smears. Underground entrance yawned nearby—closed for construction, barriers askew. Harlow closed the gap. Twenty yards. Her lungs clawed air. He vaulted the barrier, vanished down stairs slick with runoff. She hit the metal hard, sparks flew from her heel. Descended three steps at a time, handrail cold under fingers. Darkness swallowed light. Phone torch pierced gloom—empty platform, graffiti claws on tiles. Footfalls ahead. Faint splash. Tomás's shadow darted toward a service tunnel, mouth black as pitch. Harlow pursued. Torch beam jittered. Pipes dripped symphony overhead. Echoes multiplied his steps into a horde. Tunnel branched. Left, right. She chose right—instinct from eighteen years chasing ghosts. Rat skittered across her boot. She stifled a curse. Glow ahead. Not electric. Phosphorescent? Faint blue haze seeped from a grate. Tomás's form crouched there, fiddled with something small. Bone token? She'd heard rumors in Vice—black market keys carved from who-knew-what. Grate screeched open. Otherworldly murmur rose: voices layered, tongues unknown. Spices? Blood? Scent clawed nostrils. He slipped through. Grate clanged shut. Harlow skidded to halt. Inches from bars. Torch swept the lock—rusted padlock, but runes etched deep, pulsing faint. "Open up, Herrera!" Silence, then market din swelled. Shouts in guttural tones. Clink of chains. Something growled low. She gripped bars. Cold seeped bone-deep. Brown eyes scanned gloom. Footsteps approached from below—multiple. Shadows twisted unnatural, elongated claws on walls. Veil Market. Whispers from informants: abandoned Tube beneath Camden, shifts every full moon. Enchanted wares, alchemists peddling bans. Clique's haunt. Her radio crackled static. No signal this deep. Backup miles away, chasing ghosts. Torch caught movement. Tomás melted into crowd below. Stalls flickered into view: vials glowing emerald, blades etched sigils, cages with eyes that blinked. Figures turned. Hooded faces, skin mottled scales. One snarled, fangs glinting. Harlow's pulse thundered. Morris's end—warehouse shadows that moved wrong. Supernatural, the reports buried. She pressed palm to watch, leather creased from years. Duty pulled her forward. Finger hooked grate wire. Tested strength. Bent slight. Growl rose closer. Claws scraped stone. She weighed it. Unknown depths. No warrant for this hell. But Herrera—link to the clique, their off-books doc stitching supernaturals. Key to cracking it. Rain drummed above, distant thunder. World topside waited: reports, brass breathing down neck. Below, Tomás's medallion flashed once more, vanished stall-ward. Decision hung. Follow, or seal the grate and call the cavalry blind. Harlow drew breath. Hand reached for baton. Market voices swelled, beckoned. She twisted the wire harder. Shadows surged. Boots echoed her resolve. She forced the grate. It gave with a groan. She dropped through. Platform shuddered. Dust rained. Torch swept chaos: stall awnings tattered silk, merchants with eyes too wide, too black. Air thick, ozone bite laced with rot. Tomás twenty paces ahead, shouldered through press. Scarred forearm shoved a hag aside. She cackled, teeth filed points. Harlow advanced. Crowd parted grudging—cop stink clung, even here. Fingers brushed holster. No draw yet; rules blurred underground. "Police! Clear the way!" Mutter rippled. A trollish brute blocked path, breath fish-stink. She dodged left, elbowed ribs. Grunt followed. Tunnel mouth ahead, Tomás dove in. Deeper market bowels. She sprinted. Stalls blurred: potions bubbling crimson, amulets humming. Buyer haggled over heart-jar, pulse visible. Footsteps dogged hers now. Pursuit reversed. Glance back: scale-face and brute lumbered. Fangs bared. Torch bobbed. Sweat mixed rain on brow. Sharp jaw set. Tunnel narrowed. Bioluminescent fungi clung walls, cast sickly green. Tomás's shadow flickered end. "Herrera! End of the line!" He spun, breath ragged. Warm brown eyes locked hers. Medallion swung, saint's image mocking. "Detective Quinn. Bad place for badges." "Hands up. You're nicked for aiding fugitives." Laughter barked. "Fugitives? Or friends?" Boots thundered closer. Scale-face roared. Tomás bolted right, into chamber vast. Ceiling dripped stalactites. Harlow charged. Lunged for his collar. Fingers grazed curls. He twisted free, scar flashing. Chamber opened: auction pit. Circle of freaks ringed platform. Gavel cracked bone. Lot: chained imp, wings shredded. Crowd surged. Tomás vaulted barrier. She followed, vaulted. Landed rough, ankle twinged. Imp hissed. Bidder ogle-eyed bid fangs. Tomás climbed scaffold, medallion tucked shirt. Harlow scaled. Metal groaned. Rain forgotten; market pulse owned her veins. Hand clamped his ankle. Scarred flesh under grip. He kicked. Boot heel glanced temple. Stars burst. She held. Pulled. They tumbled platform. Crowd bayed. Gavel silenced. Auctioneer leered: "Fresh meat! Bidding starts—" Chaos. Bids flew. Scale-face shoved through. Tomás rolled free. Staggered up. "Quinn, get out. This ain't your war." "My war started three years back." Morris's blood, unexplained. He paled. Knew. Brute fist swung. Harlow ducked. Baton cracked knee. Crack echoed. Troll dropped. Scale-face lunged claws. Raked coat. Fabric shredded. She countered, baton to throat. Gurgle. Tomás hesitated. Grabbed vial from stall—blue fizz. "Drink this. Fade out." Poison? Cure? Crowd closed. Hammers ready. Her watch ticked. Backup? No. Decision forked again. Trust the suspect. Or fight alone. She snatched vial. Shattered on stone. Blue smoke curled. "Wrong choice." He bolted anew. Toward exit grate, bone archway pulsing. Harlow pursued. Crowd clawed. Nails drew blood cheek. They burst tunnel. Back toward entry. Panting echoed. Rain roar swelled topside. He reached grate first. Token flashed. Portal yawned. She slammed shoulder. Pinned him wall. "Done running?" Eyes met. Regret? Defiance? "Never for them." Them. Clique. Hands cuffed. Cold steel bit. But portal hummed. Unstable. Whispers pulled. Her radio sparked life. Faint: "Quinn? Location?" Backup crested stairs. Too late? Or— Portal spat shadow. Grasped Tomás's leg. Not human. She yanked. Shadow recoiled. They tumbled topside. Rain lashed. Cuffs held. But choice lingered: dive back? Seal it? Sirens wailed distant. Harlow hauled him up. Brown eyes locked grate. Danger waited below. Answers too. She shoved him toward lights. Hesitated. Grate pulsed. Called. Decision teetered. Follow truth into abyss? Or surface, play safe cop. Fingers twitched baton. Torch beam pierced dark. One step back. Then— (Word count: 1247)