AI Quinn's boots slapped against the slick pavement as she vaulted over a low barrier, her quarry just a shadow darting through the alley ahead. The suspect—Tomás Herrera, if her intel held—cut left, his silhouette briefly haloed by a stuttering streetlamp before he vanished into the gloom .
She pressed on, lungs burning from the sprint that had started three blocks back outside that dingy Soho bar. Herrera had bolted the moment her badge flashed, confirming every suspicion she'd nursed these past weeks. The clique he patched up, those whispers of underground dealings—they tied back to her old case, to Morris's death. She wouldn't let this lead slip.
Herrera glanced over his shoulder, his warm brown eyes wide in the fleeting light, and picked up speed. He wove through a cluster of overflowing bins, knocking one over with a metallic crash that echoed off the brick walls. Rubbish spilled out, slick with the downpour that had turned the streets into mirrors of reflected neon. Quinn leaped the mess, her sharp jaw set, military precision in every stride. Her worn leather watch ticked against her wrist, a reminder of rhythms unbroken, cases unsolved.
"Stop! Police!" she shouted, voice cutting through the rain's relentless drum. No response, just the splash of his footsteps accelerating. He hooked right onto a busier thoroughfare, Camden's night crowd parting like startled pigeons. Tourists clutched umbrellas, vendors hawked glowing trinkets from stalls, but Herrera melted through them, his short curly hair plastered dark against his olive skin.
Quinn shoved past a knot of revellers, her salt-and-pepper crop dripping into her brown eyes. She blinked it away, focusing on the scar she'd memorised from his file—the one slashing his left forearm, visible now as his sleeve rode up in the run. Knife attack, the records said. Unofficial medical aid for types who avoided hospitals. Types like the ones who'd left Morris gutted in that warehouse, with wounds that defied autopsy.
He darted across the road, tyres screeching as a black cab swerved to avoid him. Horns blared. Quinn followed, ignoring the driver's curses, her height giving her leverage to scan the throng. There—Herrera bolted towards an arched entrance, what looked like a disused service door half-hidden by scaffolding. Camden's underbelly, full of forgotten nooks. She quickened her pace, hand brushing the holster at her hip. No gun drawn yet; this was pursuit, not confrontation. But the weight reassured her.
Herrera slammed into the door, fumbling something from his pocket—a small, pale object that glinted like bone. He pressed it to a seam in the metal, and with a groan, the door swung inward. He slipped through, the gap swallowing him whole.
Quinn reached it seconds later, skidding to a halt on the wet flagstones. The door hung ajar, revealing a steep staircase descending into dimness. No markings, no signs, just the faint hum of voices drifting up from below. Her instincts screamed trap. Eighteen years on the force, and she'd learned to trust that gut punch. Morris hadn't, and now he haunted her files, unexplained.
She touched her watch again, thumb tracing the leather band. Time. Always running out. Herrera knew something—about the clique, about the shadows that had claimed her partner. But this? Descending into who-knew-what, alone, no backup? The rain pelted her shoulders, cold fingers seeping through her coat.
A shout echoed from below, muffled but urgent. Then silence, broken only by the drip of water from overhead pipes. She drew her weapon, the grip steady in her hand. Decision made. She stepped through.
The stairs spiralled down, narrow and uneven, the air thickening with each step. Moisture clung to the walls, moss slick underfoot. Faint lights flickered ahead—torches? Lanterns? Not the harsh fluorescents of a standard basement. The scent hit her next: incense, herbs, something metallic and sharp, like overheated copper. Her boots echoed softly, and she forced her breathing even, military bearing keeping her steps precise.
At the bottom, the passage widened into a cavernous space, an abandoned Tube station by the look of it—vaulted ceilings arched high, old tracks visible through rusted grates. But this was no relic. Stalls lined the platforms, draped in heavy fabrics that muffled sound. Figures moved between them, hooded and cloaked, bartering goods that gleamed unnaturally in the low light. Crystals pulsing with inner fire. Vials of liquid that swirled without agitation. Books bound in hides that seemed to shift patterns .
The Veil Market. Whispers from informants had mentioned it—a black market for the occult, shifting locations like a ghost. Entry by bone token, they'd said. Herrera had one. She didn't. Yet here she stood, unchallenged so far.
She holstered her weapon but kept her hand near it, scanning for her suspect. The crowd parted around her, eyes flickering with curiosity or wariness. A vendor with tattooed hands offered her a tray of amulets, murmuring in a language she didn't recognise. She waved him off, pressing forward.
There—Herrera's back, slipping between two stalls. He clutched his side, perhaps winded from the chase, his Saint Christopher medallion swinging free from his neck. Protection for travellers, she recalled from his file. Born in Seville, moved to London, lost his paramedic licence for "unauthorised treatments." Supernatural patients, the rumours went. Like the ones in her cold case.
Quinn wove after him, her presence drawing stares. A woman with eyes like polished obsidian tracked her movement, lips curling in a knowing smile. The air buzzed with energy, as if the market itself pulsed with hidden currents. She caught snippets of conversation—trades for "essence of shadow," bargains sealed with drops of blood.
Herrera ducked into a narrower aisle, lined with cages of fluttering creatures that weren't quite birds . Their eyes glowed, following her. She quickened her step, closing the gap. Twenty metres. Fifteen.
He spun suddenly , spotting her. Panic flashed across his face, warm brown eyes narrowing. "You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice carrying a lilting Spanish edge, sentences clipped but fluid, like a man used to giving orders in emergencies.
Quinn halted, hand on her hip. "Tomás Herrera. You're under arrest for suspicion of aiding criminal activity. Hands where I can see them."
He backed up a step, olive skin paling under the eerie lights. His scar gleamed white against his forearm as he raised his hands halfway. "Detective Quinn, right? I've heard about you. Chasing ghosts."
"Ghosts that leave bodies. Like my partner."
A flicker crossed his face—regret? Recognition? "Morris. Tragic. But you don't understand this place. Or what's in it."
"Enlighten me." She advanced, voice steady, bearing unyielding . The market's hum grew louder, vendors pausing their trades to watch .
Herrera glanced around, his short curly hair dishevelled from the rain. "This market... it's not for people like you. No token, no entry. How'd you even—"
"The door was open. Convenience."
He shook his head, a verbal tic slipping in—his words tumbling faster, Seville roots colouring his urgency. "Mierda. They let you in. That's worse."
"Who's 'they'?" She closed to ten metres, the stalls pressing in like conspirators.
"The ones who run this. Veil Market moves on the full moon. Tonight's the shift. You picked a bad time to play hero."
A low rumble echoed through the station, the ground vibrating faintly. Dust sifted from the ceiling. The crowd stirred, murmurs rising. Herrera's eyes darted to a far archway, where shadows thickened unnaturally.
Quinn's watch seemed to tick louder, a countdown. "You're coming with me. Now."
He lowered his hands slightly , medallion catching the light. "Can't. Patients need me. And you... you need to leave before—"
The rumble intensified, the air charging like before a storm. Stalls began to pack up in haste, goods vanishing into hidden compartments. A vendor nearby slammed a crate shut, hissing, "Shift's coming. Outsiders out."
Herrera bolted again, dashing towards the archway. Quinn lunged after him, shoving past a cluster of cloaked figures. One grabbed her arm—cold fingers, unnaturally strong. She twisted free, sharp jaw clenching , and kept moving.
The market warped around her, stalls folding into themselves like origami. Lights dimmed, replaced by glowing runes on the walls. Herrera reached the archway, pausing to look back. "Last chance, Detective. This isn't your world."
She didn't stop. Morris's face flashed in her mind—pale, eyes vacant, wounds that had healed wrong, like something had clawed from inside. Supernatural origins. She understood nothing yet, but Herrera did.
The ground bucked, a seismic groan filling the air. Cracks spidered across the platform. Herrera vanished into the shadows beyond the arch.
Quinn reached the threshold, heart pounding . Unfamiliar territory stretched ahead—twisting tunnels, flickering with unnatural fire. Dangerous, her instincts screamed. But the lead was there, slipping away.
She stepped through, just as the market behind her began to dissolve in a whirl of mist and shadow. The archway sealed with a resonant thud, trapping her in the unknown. Ahead, Herrera's footsteps echoed , leading deeper. And something else stirred in the darkness—a presence, watchful, hungry.