Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7QDQM28VBANSXVS6CNQ3N

Rain lashed against Detective Harlow Quinn’s face, blurring the neon smear of Soho into streaks of color. Her worn leather watch glinted under a streetlamp as she pumped her legs, the slick pavement threatening to send her sprawling. Ahead, a figure in a dark overcoat—Herrera, Tomás Herrera—slipped between a gaggle of tourists, disappearing around a corner onto Wardour Street. She hadn't anticipated he'd run. Not like this. A quick chat, a few pointed questions about Alistair Finch’s recent…activities. That was the plan. Instead, the moment she’d shown her badge, Herrera’s warm brown eyes had iced over, and he'd bolted. Stubbornness mixed with a sharp dose of irritation tightened her jaw. “Damn it, Tomás,” she breathed, pushing off from a parked car to gain ground. She rounded the corner, the scent of stale beer and damp concrete filling her nostrils. He was gone. Lost in the maze of late-night revelers. Her gaze swept the street, landing on a distinctive green neon sign above a doorway: The Raven’s Nest. Herrera hadn’t gone inside. She’d cased the place twice already. Silas’ bar. A notorious haunt for lowlifes, art students, and generally anyone hiding from something. Something moved in the alley beside it. Quinn moved, angling toward the narrow passage between buildings. A scuffle. A muttered curse. She drew her service weapon, the metal cold against her palm, and edged forward. “Police! Freeze!” No response. Just the drumming rain and the bass throb of music escaping from the bar. She rounded the corner into the alley and found it empty. Except… a metal grate set into the pavement, usually flush with the ground, was now slightly ajar. A draft of cool, earthy air wafted up from the opening. She knelt, peering into the darkness. The stench of mildew and something else, something ancient and metallic, rose from below. A crude ladder, fashioned from rusted iron, descended into the blackness. Herrera. He’d gone underground. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, holstering her weapon. This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn't even on the map. The Raven’s Nest had a reputation, sure, but for pickpockets and overpriced pints, not subterranean tunnels. She fished out her mobile, her thumb hovering over the call button to dispatch. Backup. Protocol. But something held her back. Herrera wasn't a violent offender. A rogue paramedic, maybe, bending the rules to help people the NHS had forgotten. But running from a simple inquiry? And down *here*? “Herrera?” she called down into the darkness. Her voice sounded small, swallowed by the echoing gloom. Silence. Only the drip, drip, drip of water. She knew enough about the underbelly of London to have heard whispers of places like this. Rumors of a market. A Veil Market. Trading in things best left forgotten. Things best left *undiscovered*. “Right,” she said to herself, a grim set to her lips. "Let's see where this rabbit hole leads.” She took a breath and grabbed the cold rungs of the ladder, starting her descent. Each step echoed, amplifying in the confined space. The air grew colder, heavier, and smelled increasingly of wet stone and decay. The ladder swayed precariously with each movement. Finally, her feet touched solid ground. She found herself in a long, damp tunnel, barely wider than her shoulders. Water trickled down the walls, and the only light came from the faint glow of the grate above and the flickering of lanterns further down the passageway. A low hum vibrated through the stone. She walked cautiously, her hand brushing against the rough-hewn wall. The air was thick with a strange energy, a subtle tingling on her skin. The tunnel opened into a vast cavern, a hidden space beneath the city. It was a market. Stalls lined the cavern, illuminated by the eerie light of oil lamps and strange glowing crystals. Vendors hawked their wares in hushed tones. The clientele was…eclectic. People cloaked in shadow, their faces obscured. Individuals with pale skin and unnaturally bright eyes. There were things for sale she couldn’t begin to identify - dried herbs, strange artifacts, vials filled with viscous liquids. “Lost, Detective?” Quinn whirled around. A man with a network of intricate tattoos covering his arms leaned against a stall, watching her with amusement. He held a small bone token in his hand, seemingly absentmindedly turning it over and over. He was tall, lean, and his eyes, the color of flint, didn't blink. “Looking for someone,” she replied, her voice sharp. “Tomás Herrera. Seen him?” The man chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “Herrera? He came through a few minutes ago. Headed towards the back. Looking for Silas, I believe.” “Silas?” “The gatekeeper. Needs a new… supplier.” He gestured with the bone token. “You’ll need one of these to get past. Entry fee, you understand. Keeps the… undesirable elements out.” Quinn stared at the token. A bone. A ridiculous requirement, but she’d heard the stories. This was the Veil Market. It operated on its own rules. “Where do I get one?” “Not for sale, Detective. Not to anyone.” He pushed off the stall, straightening to his full height. His gaze lingered on her for a moment, assessing. “You’re looking for trouble. You don’t belong here.” “I just want to talk to Herrera.” “Everyone wants something in this place." He paused, then his eyes narrowed. “But trust me, Detective. Some conversations are best left unhad.” He turned and melted into the crowd, leaving Quinn standing alone in the heart of the underground market. The hum of energy pulsed around her, a discordant symphony of secrets and shadows. Ahead, a narrow passage led deeper into the cavern. A sign, barely visible in the dim light, pointed the way: ‘Silas’. She glanced back towards the ladder, towards the rain-soaked streets of London. Backup was an option. A sensible option. But Herrera was down there, entangled in something far beyond a simple medical infraction. A hard knot formed in her stomach. She had a feeling this wasn’t about a chat anymore.