Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8633PHHYHVZA7CB0C2569

Rain lashed at Harlow’s face, plastering strands of salt-and-pepper hair to her forehead. Each gust off the West End felt like a slap. She angled her jaw, a reflex honed over eighteen years on the force, and kept her eyes glued to the slick black leather of Herrera’s jacket. He moved with a deceptive grace, weaving through the dwindling crowds like a phantom. She’d been tailing him for three weeks, a slow burn of surveillance fueled by something more than instinct. The whispers around Silas, the vague anxieties of informants, and the sheer unnatural neatness of the clique’s alibis had all pointed to Herrera. He was the connector, the one who smoothed things over, who made problems disappear. She hadn’t been able to pin anything concrete on him, not yet, but tonight felt different. He’d met with a known fence in a shadowed alley, a transaction too quick to fully observe, but enough to trigger the prickle of certainty at the back of her neck. He cut sharply left, disappearing into the web of streets around Soho Square. Harlow followed, the worn leather of her watch strap cold against her skin. Her boots splashed through puddles reflecting the neon glow of a strip club, the garish pink light momentarily staining her vision. She risked a glance at her comms. Static. Perfect. Herrera was good, or he had help. He turned again, and she almost lost him. He wasn’t running, not exactly, but moving with a determined, almost urgent stride. He crossed Charing Cross Road and headed for a less savoury stretch of Brewer Street, the air thickening with the scent of stale beer and desperation. Then he stopped, abruptly, in front of a bar. The Raven’s Nest. A distinctive green neon sign above the entrance pulsed weakly in the rain, casting an eerie glow on the grimy brickwork. Harlow slowed, taking a moment to scan the scene. The bar wasn’t busy, just a handful of figures hunched over drinks in the dim interior. Nothing overtly suspicious. But she knew the place. It was a known haunt for… people who preferred to stay out of the light. Herrera didn’t go inside. He paused, glanced over his shoulder—not at her, thankfully—then walked straight *past* the entrance, towards a seemingly blank section of the wall beside it. He pressed a hand against the brick, and a section of the wall swung inward, revealing a dark opening. A doorway. Harlow’s jaw tightened. That wasn’t on any architectural plans she’d ever seen. She’d pulled every favor she could to get detailed layouts of buildings in this area, and there was no record of a hidden passage. This was new. This was *interesting*. She waited, letting a full five seconds tick by before approaching the bar. Silas, the owner, was wiping down the counter, his face impassive. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, didn’t even meet her gaze. “Silas,” she said, her voice crisp and authoritative. He finally looked up, his eyes flat and unreadable. “Detective Quinn. A late night for the Met.” “Just passing through,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “See anything… unusual?” Silas shrugged, a carefully practiced gesture of indifference. "Soho's full of unusual, Detective. It's the charm." She glanced at the section of wall where Herrera had disappeared. “That wall. Always been there?” Silas’s eyes flickered towards the opening, then back to hers. “Structural. Part of the original building. Old place, this.” He resumed wiping the counter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have customers.” Harlow didn’t push it. She knew when she was hitting a wall of deliberate obfuscation. Silas wasn’t going to tell her anything he didn’t want to. She reached the hidden doorway and hesitated. The air emanating from it was cold and damp, carrying a faint smell of mildew and something else… something metallic and strangely sweet. It wasn’t a smell she recognized. Her gut twisted. She pulled out her service weapon, checking the magazine. Standard procedure. But this wasn’t a standard operation. This wasn't a drug bust or a protection racket. This felt… different. The silence from her comms was unnerving. HQ wasn’t responding. She was on her own. Taking a deep breath, she stepped through the opening. The wall swung shut behind her with a soft click, plunging her into near darkness. She flicked on her tactical flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom. She found herself in a narrow, stone-lined corridor, descending steeply into the earth. The air grew colder, the strange scent stronger. The walls were slick with moisture, and the silence was oppressive, broken only by the drip, drip, drip of water. She followed the corridor downwards, her flashlight revealing a series of turning passages. The architecture was ancient, predating anything she’d encountered in London. The stone felt wrong, cool and strangely porous. Then, she heard voices. Murmured conversations, the clinking of glass, and a low, rhythmic hum that resonated in her chest. She slowed, pressing herself against the damp stone wall. The corridor opened into a vast cavern, illuminated by a flickering array of gas lamps and strange, glowing crystals embedded in the walls. It was a marketplace, but unlike anything she’d ever imagined. Stalls were crammed with bizarre objects: intricately carved masks, antique weapons, bottles filled with luminescent liquids, and boxes overflowing with dried herbs and powders. People moved through the cavern, a motley assortment of faces and attire. Some were dressed in modern clothes, but others wore garments that seemed plucked from another era. She spotted a man with elaborate silver rings on every finger, haggling over a small, obsidian box. A woman with eyes that shimmered with an unnatural gold was examining a collection of antique daggers. This wasn't just unusual; it was impossible. And then she saw him. Herrera was at a stall near the center of the cavern, speaking with a vendor shrouded in dark robes. He was handing over a small package, accepting something in return. The vendor’s face was hidden within the folds of his hood, but Harlow could make out the glint of something metallic in his hand. A bone token. The entry requirement. She'd read about this place in a discredited occult case file. The Veil Market. A black market for the supernatural. Harlow felt a surge of adrenaline. She’d walked into a nest of vipers. A dangerous, hidden world operating beneath the streets of London. Her hand tightened around her weapon. She had a choice to make. She could turn back, report what she’d seen, and call in backup. But that would take time, and Herrera could be long gone. And something told her that the people in this market wouldn’t take kindly to a police investigation. The sweet, metallic scent hit her again, and she realized it wasn't just a smell. It was a warning. She was no longer hunting a suspect. She was an intruder. She took another deep breath, steeling her resolve. No going back now. She had to follow Herrera, to find out what he was buying, what he was involved in. She had to understand the truth, no matter how dangerous it might be. She moved forward, her flashlight beam cutting through the shadowy cavern, her boots echoing on the stone floor. She disappeared into the heart of the Veil Market, deeper into a world she wasn’t prepared for, but determined to expose.