Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7TH51BEQ8EPA3CHJYWBYM

Rain hammered against the slick pavement, each drop a tiny, insistent drumbeat. Detective Harlow Quinn’s leather boots sloshed through puddles reflecting the neon glow of Soho. Across the street, Tomás Herrera darted between overflowing bins, a blur of olive skin and dark curls. He wasn’t running from the police, not exactly. He was running *towards* them, or rather, towards the gaping maw of The Veil Market. “Damn it,” she muttered, adjusting the worn leather strap of her watch. The movement sent a tiny jolt of metal against her skin, a phantom reminder of DS Morris and the way the rain always seemed to fall heavier on nights like these. Herrera disappeared into a narrow alleyway, the scent of wet cardboard and something vaguely metallic clinging to the air. Quinn followed, her movements precise, practiced. Years of chasing shadows had honed her instincts, sharpened her reflexes. She wasn’t interested in a foot pursuit; she wanted the source. The encrypted comms chatter had pointed to this man, this medic with a past, as the key to a series of increasingly bizarre disappearances – artists, musicians, academics – all with a shared connection to a clandestine art collective known only as ‘The Clique’. The alley opened onto a dark, shadowed street, the rain intensifying. Ahead, a flickering green sign – distinctive neon – promised refuge, a sanctuary of cheap whiskey and forgotten secrets. The Raven’s Nest. Quinn pushed through the door, the sudden warmth a welcome assault on her senses. The bar was thick with smoke and the murmur of conversation. Rough-looking men in dark suits nursed pints, while a lone figure – a wiry man with a predatory gaze – dealt cards at a tucked-away table. The air vibrated with a low-level tension. Quinn spotted Herrera near the bar, arguing with the man, his hands gesturing emphatically. The predatory man’s response was a subtle, almost imperceptible tightening of his lips. “Herrera,” she announced, her voice cutting through the din. He didn’t flinch, didn’t turn. He simply continued his argument, his voice low and urgent. “I told you, Detective, I don't know what you're talking about.” “Don’t play coy,” Quinn said, stepping closer. “The disappearances. The Clique. The bone tokens.” She gestured towards the rearview mirror of the bar, where a small pile of bleached animal bones lay near the barman’s station. “A rather unusual payment method for a medical consultation, wouldn't you say?” Herrera finally turned, his brown eyes flashing with a mixture of defiance and something else – fear. He glanced nervously around the bar, then back at Quinn, a flicker of vulnerability in his expression. “I help people,” he said, his voice strained. “People who need help.” “Help involving vanishing without a trace?” Quinn countered, her hand instinctively moving towards her sidearm. “This market… it’s not exactly a reputable establishment.” She indicated a section of bookshelves at the back of the bar, partially obscured by a velvet curtain. “That’s where they hold the meetings. The secret room.” He hesitated, weighing his options. The rain hammered against the windows, a relentless, insistent rhythm. A gruff voice boomed from behind the bar. “Detective Quinn. You’re disturbing the peace.” A large man, built like a brick wall, lumbered towards them, his face an impassive mask. “The owner doesn’t appreciate guests.” Quinn ignored him, her focus entirely on Herrera. “You’re involved in something bigger than you realize. Something dangerous.” She took a step closer. “A series of magically-induced amnesia patches, delivered with a bone token. It’s a very specific clientele.” Herrera’s hand instinctively went to the Saint Christopher medallion around his neck, a silent gesture of protection. “I’m a healer,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “I use my skills to ease suffering.” “Suffering that involves erasing memories?” Quinn pressed, her eyes narrowed. “That's not healing, Herrera. That’s manipulation.” The barman stepped forward, blocking her path. "Enough," he growled, his hand resting on the handle of a heavy bottle. Suddenly, the room shifted. Not dramatically, but subtly, like a photograph developing in the dark. The rain seemed to intensify, the murmurs of conversation fading into a low, unsettling drone. The air grew colder. Quinn felt it first – a prickling sensation on the back of her neck, a sense of being watched. Then she saw it. A ripple in the shadows behind the bookshelves, a distortion in the space itself. A doorway, previously invisible, materialized, leading into the hidden back room. “Don’t,” Herrera whispered, his voice laced with urgency. “Please, don’t go in there.” Quinn hesitated. The secret room. It was a known nexus for the Veil Market, a place where illicit deals were brokered and dangerous secrets were traded. Entering felt like stepping into the heart of the storm. She considered the man behind the bar, the silent threat of the large security guard, and the frantic plea in Herrera's eyes. “Why?” she asked, her voice tight. “Why are you so afraid?” Herrera’s gaze dropped to his scarred forearm. "Years ago, I treated a patient who was... affected. A little slip of magic. I didn't understand the consequences. The memories... they don’t just fade. They get… redirected. Someone wants to rewrite history, Detective. And this market... it’s a tool.” He raised his hand, revealing a small, intricately carved bone. It was a fragment, bleached white, unmistakably part of a rabbit. "The bone tokens aren't payment. They're anchors. They draw the magic, focusing it, solidifying the erasure." A floorboard creaked behind her. Quinn spun around, her hand instinctively reaching for her weapon. A cloaked figure stood in the doorway, a shadow amidst the shadows. The predatory man from the card table. He held a small, silver pendant, pulsing with a faint, blue light. “Detective Quinn,” he said, his voice smooth and unsettling. “You’re disrupting a delicate procedure.” He offered a slight bow. “I trust you’ll respect the boundaries of this establishment.” The barman moved, attempting to block Quinn's path. A brief, brutal struggle ensued – a clash of fists and leather, punctuated by the shattering of bottles. Quinn quickly subdued him, pinning him to the ground. But as she turned back to face the cloaked figure, she realized Herrera was gone. Vanished into the shadows, swallowed by the ever-shifting space behind the bookshelves. The secret room was beckoning, promising answers and, undoubtedly, greater danger. The rain continued to fall, washing away the remnants of the fight, blurring the edges of reality. Quinn took a deep breath, the metallic scent of blood and rain filling her lungs. She adjusted her watch, the cold metal a sharp reminder of her lost partner, of the mysteries that clung to her like the damp evening air. She stepped through the doorway, into the darkness. The Veil Market awaited.