Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7T1W7KEW5MVJCD7T7FE1A

Rain lashed against Detective Harlow Quinn’s face, plastering strands of salt-and-pepper hair to her forehead. The slick pavement reflected the garish neon glow of Soho, each colour smeared into a blurred streak. She hadn’t anticipated Herrera being this quick, hadn’t accounted for the practiced ease with which he moved through the late-night crowds. Three years on the force taught her people always had another gear. This one clearly did. He’d bolted from The Raven's Nest the moment she’d asked about Alistair Finch. One question. That’s all it took. The green neon sign buzzed a fractured hum above the bar’s entrance, casting an eerie glow on the emptying street. He’d shoved past a couple leaving the pub, scattering their apologies along with his wake. “Herrera!” she barked, her voice lost in the rhythm of the downpour. Her worn leather watch, a relic from her training days, felt cold against her wrist. Each tick was a beat lost, a chance for him to vanish. She pushed harder, legs burning with the strain, ignoring the protesting ache in her left knee, a souvenir from a collar back in ‘08. He darted into a narrow alley, a black gash between a music shop and an adult bookstore. The smell of stale beer and damp cardboard filled her nostrils. She followed, drawing her service weapon, the cold steel a familiar comfort in her grip. The alley opened into a small square, dominated by a rusted fire escape and a boarded-up doorway. He was gone. “Damn it.” Her gaze swept across the brickwork, searching for any sign of movement. The square felt…wrong. Too quiet, even for a night like this. Her instincts, honed by years of investigation, screamed caution. Then she saw it. A barely perceptible indentation in the pavement, a section of cobblestone slightly askew. She knelt, running a gloved hand over the rough surface. A seam. A hidden access point. “Showtime.” She strained, leveraging her weight against the stone. It groaned, then shifted inward with a rasp of metal on concrete. A dark, descending staircase yawned before her. A current of cold, earthy air rushed out, carrying with it a faint scent of ozone and something else…something metallic and ancient. She paused. This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t even on the map. Finch’s disappearance, the whispers about the clique's involvement, the strange energy readings she’d been picking up—everything led back to these people, to this network of shadows. But this…this felt different. “Herrera?” she called out, her voice echoing in the darkness. No response. Just the relentless drumming of rain against the pavement above. A small, tarnished bone, almost lost amongst the damp concrete, lay near the opening of the stairwell – almost deliberately placed. She understood what it was, immediately. She’d read the reports, the archived files dismissed as urban legends. The Veil Market. An underground black market dealing in the strange and the forbidden. “Figures.” She hesitated for a fraction of a second longer. Protocol demanded she call for backup. Reinforcements. A full-scale operation. But backup took time. And Herrera clearly didn't want to be found. Her jaw tightened. She'd learned long ago that the best way to catch a rat was to follow it into its hole. She took a deep breath and started down the stairs. The air grew colder, heavier with each step. The concrete walls were slick with moisture, covered in a patchwork of moss and grime. The light from the street dwindled, replaced by a flickering, otherworldly glow emanating from below. The scent of ozone intensified, mingling with the coppery tang of blood and a cloying sweetness she couldn't place. The staircase opened into a vast chamber. A cavernous space carved out beneath the city, lit by hundreds of phosphorescent bulbs strung haphazardly across the ceiling. Stalls lined the walls, overflowing with bizarre objects: crystal skulls, dried herbs, antique weapons, vials filled with bubbling liquids. The crowd was…varied. Humans brushed shoulders with beings she couldn’t readily identify. Pale figures with elongated limbs. Creatures with scales shimmering beneath their clothes. They bartered in hushed tones, their faces obscured by shadows and elaborate masks. It was like stepping into a fever dream. She scanned the throng, her hand still resting on her weapon. Herrera was nowhere in sight. But she noticed a Saint Christopher medallion glinting beneath the collar of a man haggling over a tarnished silver locket. The same medallion Herrera always wore. He was moving quickly, weaving through the crowd toward the far end of the market. She started after him, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. “Looking for someone, Detective?” a voice rasped beside her. She turned to face the speaker. A woman, tall and gaunt, with eyes like chips of obsidian. She wore a dark velvet coat and a silver ring shaped like a serpent. “That’s none of your concern.” The woman chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. “Everything is my concern here. This is my district. And trust me, you don’t want to go any further.” “I’m looking for a man named Tomás Herrera.” The woman’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Herrera. The paramedic. He’s a regular. Headed toward Old Man Tiber’s stall. But I wouldn't recommend following him.” “Why not?" “Tiber deals in…sensitive wares. Things best left undisturbed. And Herrera…he’s buying protection.” “Protection from what?” “From the consequences of his choices. From the things he’s seen. From the things he's *done*.” The woman’s gaze measured her, assessing her resolve. “The Market has a way of changing people, Detective. You start digging around, you might find yourself changed too.” “I’m a police officer. I don’t get ‘changed’.” The woman laughed again, a harsh, unsettling sound that echoed through the market. “Oh, you'd be surprised.” She pushed past the woman and continued toward the far end of the market. Old Man Tiber’s stall was easy to find. It was the one surrounded by a pulsating, violet haze. The air crackled with energy. Herrera was there, handing a stack of notes to a wizened old man with eyes like a reptile. The man, Tiber, was examining a small, intricately carved box, turning it over in his gnarled hands. “What’s in the box, Tomás?” Tiber croaked, his voice like sandpaper. “Just…insurance,” Herrera replied, his voice tight with anxiety. His scar, normally hidden beneath his shirt cuff, was exposed, gleaming wetly in the violet light. “Insurance against what?” Herrera hesitated, glancing nervously around the market. “Against anyone asking too many questions.” Quinn stopped a few feet away, observing the exchange. She could have moved in, made the arrest. But something held her back. The energy surrounding Tiber’s stall. The desperation in Herrera’s eyes. She had a feeling this was about more than just Alistair Finch. More than just a missing person. “Looks like you found what you needed,” she said, her voice cutting through the market’s hum. “Now, come quietly, Tomás.”