Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY869K48GG36J4GTSJH59C1

Quinn’s boots splashed through a puddle of rain-darkened asphalt, the sound drowning out the distant wail of a siren. The suspect— a lanky figure in a tattered wool coat, their face half-concealed by a hood—darted around a stack of overflowing bin bags, their breath a foggy burst against the frigid air. She kept her gaze locked on the coat’s flapping hem, her sharp jaw set, military precision coiling every muscle into a tight spring. Her worn leather watch glinted under a flickering streetlamp, its ticking a silent metronome against the rain’s drumbeat, a constant reminder of the 18 years she’d poured into the Metropolitan Police, 18 years that hadn’t saved her partner. She’d spotted the suspect an hour earlier, loitering outside The Raven’s Nest—Soho’s dimly lit bar with the distinctive green neon sign glowing through the rain, walls lined with yellowed old maps of London and black-and-white photographs of 1920s gangsters. She’d watched through her car’s rain-streaked window as the suspect leaned into the bar’s open window, talking to a figure with a hood pulled low, before the suspect’s eyes locked on her salt-and-pepper cropped hair and they bolted. The bar’s hidden back room, accessible through a bookshelf tucked between two maps, was a known hub for the clique’s clandestine meetings, and she’d been staking it out for three nights straight, chasing whispers of supernatural ties to her partner’s unexplained death. She lunged for the coat’s collar. Her fingers brushed frayed fabric, then slipped—rain slicked the material, and the suspect jerked away, knocking over a wooden fruit cart stacked with rotting apples. The cart’s legs crumpled with a crash, apples bouncing across the asphalt like bruised marbles. The suspect fumbled in their pocket and tossed a small cloth pouch at her feet. It burst open, releasing a cloud of smoke that smelled of burnt sage and rotting wood. Quinn coughed, waving the smoke away, her vision blurred for a split second. When the smoke cleared, the suspect was 20 feet ahead, darting toward the Camden street sign. You’re wasting your time, detective. The voice was high, strained, a crack of fear undercutting the bravado. Quinn skidded to a halt, her boots scraping the wet concrete, and watched the suspect vanish into the shadow of a Camden street sign, the rain swallowing their figure whole. She’s onto us. The clique won’t hide you forever. Quinn’s shout bounced off brick walls, each word sharpened by three years of unspoken rage, three years of staring at her partner’s cold body in the morgue, no bullet wound, no poison, no explanation beyond a vague mention of “unusual energy” from the forensics team. She sprinted after the sound of scuffling feet, her utility belt jangling with cuffs, a flashlight, and a tattered photo of her and DS Morris tucked into a pocket. The rain intensified, soaking her hair, plastering her shirt to her shoulders, her worn leather watch’s strap slipping down her left wrist. She rounded a corner and skidded to a stop. The suspect was prying open a rusted metal grate set into the sidewalk, their hands shaking as they jammed a screwdriver into the lock. The grate’s metal screeched, a sound that cut through the rain’s drumbeat. Quinn drew her service weapon, her finger hovering over the trigger, and stepped closer. Freeze. The suspect didn’t hesitate. They pried the grate open wide enough to slip through, then dropped down into the dark below, their screwdriver clattering to the asphalt. Quinn slammed a palm against the grate. It clanged, metal reverberating through her bones, and she knelt, her knees sinking into a puddle, to pry it open with a grunt. She flicked on her flashlight, its beam cutting through the rain and the dark of the abandoned Tube station below, revealing moss-covered stone walls, broken train tracks, and a narrow staircase leading down to a locked door. A glint of white caught her eye. She reached down and picked up a bone token, its surface cold, pitted with age, a raven’s head carved into one side. The codex she’d pieced together from clique whispers had mentioned the Veil Market’s entry requirement—this was it. You shouldn’t be here. The voice came from behind her. She spun, her hand tightening around her service weapon, and locked eyes with a man of olive skin, short curly dark brown hair, a scar snaking along his left forearm. A Saint Christopher medallion glinted against his rain-dampened shirt. She recognized him immediately—Tomás Herrera, former NHS paramedic, stripped of his license for unauthorized treatments to supernatural patients, now providing off-the-books care for the clique. Herrera. She nodded at his scar, then at the medallion, her sharp jaw tightening. You’re tied to the clique. Where’s the suspect going? He leaned against a brick wall, his boots crossed at the ankle, and glanced at the open grate, his warm brown eyes clouded with caution. The Veil Market. Moves every full moon, now hides in this abandoned Camden Tube. Sells enchanted goods, banned alchemical substances, information no one else will touch. You need that token to get in, but even with it, you’re walking into a den of predators. Quinn held up the bone token, its cold surface pressing into her palm. I have it. He pushed off the wall, his posture rigid, and stepped closer, his boots splashing through a puddle. It’s not that simple. The market’s patrons don’t take kindly to cops. They’ll see your badge, your service weapon, and they’ll take you down before you can blink. You’re not a detective in there—you’re prey. Quinn’s gaze darted back to the open grate, the flashlight’s beam flickering, casting dancing shadows along the station’s stone walls below. She thought of her partner, DS Morris, his laugh echoing through the squad room, his hand on her shoulder before their final case, the way his body had been found curled up in an alley, his eyes wide with terror, no cause of death. This suspect had ties to the same strange occurrences that had stolen her partner, and the Veil Market was the only lead she had. I don’t care about the risks. I need answers. Herrera stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. You don’t understand the supernatural. I lost my license because I tried to help them—people with scaled skin, people who healed too fast, people the NHS called “delusional.” Last week, I treated a girl in The Raven’s Nest’s hidden back room—she’d been shot with an enchanted bullet, her skin turning blue. The NHS would have let her die. The Veil Market’s the only place I can get the antidotes I need. Quinn’s fingers curled tighter around the bone token. She thought of her military precision, the way she’d been trained to assess threats, to make split-second decisions. She’d spent 18 years as a decorated detective, but this was uncharted territory—unfamiliar, dangerous, a world of enchanted goods and banned alchemical substances she’d never imagined existed. She glanced at the open grate, then at Herrera, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting, his scar a reminder of the risks he’d taken for the clique. She thought of the forensics report on her partner’s body—no physical trauma, but a faint residue of burnt sage on his clothes, the same scent as the smoke bomb the suspect had tossed. She thought of the clique’s meetings in The Raven’s Nest’s hidden back room, the whispers of a “veil” between the human world and something darker. The Veil Market wasn’t just a black market—it was the key to unlocking her partner’s death. But Herrera’s warning hung heavy in the rain. She had no backup. No training for supernatural threats. No idea what enchanted traps or banned substances waited below. She could call for backup, but by the time they arrived, the suspect would have vanished, the market would have shifted, and her only lead would be gone. She shifted her weight, her boots squelching in the puddle. The bone token’s raven head dug into her palm. She glanced at the staircase below, the flashlight’s beam catching a flash of movement—maybe a market patron, maybe a guard. She glanced at Herrera, who watched her with a quiet urgency, his hand brushing his medallion as if praying for her to choose wisely. She had to decide. Stay on the street, call for backup, and let the suspect vanish into the Veil Market, losing her only lead on her partner’s death. Or follow the suspect into the market, the bone token in her hand, stepping into a world she didn’t understand, a world where she was the prey.