Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8D8A0ANSJ02BA4NF9MN6W

The rain fell in sheets, turning the neon glow of Soho’s streets into a smeared, watercolor blur. Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles that reflected the sickly green of *The Raven’s Nest* sign above her, its light flickering like a dying pulse. She kept her head down, collar pulled tight against the downpour, but the wind still whipped at her salt-and-pepper hair, plastering it to her sharp jawline. Eighteen years on the force, and she’d never hated the city’s damp more than she did now. The suspect—a wiry man in a long coat, his face half-hidden beneath the brim of a hat—ducked into an alley between two brick buildings. Harlow didn’t hesitate. She pushed off the wall, her leather watch glinting dully under the streetlight as she sprinted after him. The alley reeked of damp concrete and something older, something metallic. Her pulse thrummed in her throat. *Too easy.* He wasn’t running. Not really. Just a leisurely stroll, like he knew exactly where he was going. Like he’d planned this. The alley opened into a narrow passage, the walls slick with moisture. Harlow’s breath fogged in front of her. She slowed, pressing her back against the cold stone. The suspect paused at the end of the passage, turning slightly as if he could sense her presence. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he pressed his palm against the wall. A bookshelf groaned, swinging inward on silent hinges. Harlow’s fingers twitched toward her sidearm. She didn’t draw it. Not yet. The suspect vanished into the darkness beyond, and the bookshelf sealed shut behind him. She exhaled through her nose. *The Raven’s Nest.* Silas’ place. She’d been here before—officially, unofficially, in between. The bar was a front, a smokescreen for something uglier. But this? This was different. This was an invitation. Harlow stepped forward, her boots silent on the wet stone. She reached out, fingers brushing the spines of the books—*The Complete Works of Shakespeare, A History of Alchemy, a dog-eared copy of *Dracula***. She pressed her palm to the wall where the suspect had touched it. Nothing. No mechanism, no hidden latch. Just smooth brick. Then she saw it. A faint line of dust, almost invisible in the dim light, running along the bottom of the shelf. She crouched, tracing it with her fingertip. The books shifted slightly when she pressed the right one—*The Occult in Everyday Life*—and the shelf swung open with a whisper. Beyond it, a narrow staircase descended into blackness. Harlow’s stomach tightened. She didn’t like stairs. Not when she couldn’t see the bottom. Not when the air smelled like ozone and something sweet, like rotting fruit. She took a deep breath, then stepped into the dark. The stairs twisted downward, the walls closing in around her. Her free hand found the cold metal of the railing, her knuckles white. The air grew thicker, heavier, like the city’s breath had followed her underground. At the bottom, a single flickering bulb cast long shadows over a corridor lined with doors—each one marked with a symbol she didn’t recognize. A crescent moon. A coiled serpent. A hand with too many fingers. She moved forward, her steps echoing. The suspect was ahead of her, she could feel it. But the deeper she went, the more the corridor seemed to shift, the doors rearranging themselves like a living thing. Her instincts screamed at her to turn back. This wasn’t police business. This was a rabbit hole, and she was the one chasing the carrot. Then she heard it. A voice. Not the suspect’s. Deeper. Rougher. A man’s voice, speaking in a language she didn’t know, but the tone was unmistakable—commanding. Harlow pressed herself against the wall, her pulse hammering in her ears. She reached for her radio, then remembered. No signal down here. Never had been. A door creaked open ahead of her. She ducked back into the shadows just as a figure emerged—a man in a long coat, his face obscured by a hood. He moved with purpose, his steps sure, like he owned this place. Harlow’s breath hitched. *The Veil Market.* She’d heard the rumors. A black market for things that weren’t supposed to exist. And now she was standing in the middle of it. The man paused, tilting his head as if he could smell her fear. Harlow’s fingers tightened around her baton. She didn’t have time to think. Didn’t have time to second-guess. She lunged. Her baton cracked against his wrist, sending whatever he was holding clattering to the ground. He grunted, stumbling back, and Harlow drove her knee into his gut. He doubled over, but before she could press the advantage, he twisted, grabbing her arm and yanking her off balance. She hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of her. The man loomed over her, his hood falling back to reveal a face that was all sharp angles and cold eyes. “You’re not supposed to be here, Detective,” he said, his voice smooth, almost amused. Harlow rolled onto her side, her hand going for her cuffs. “Then you shouldn’t have led me down here.” He chuckled, low and dark. “Fair point.” He reached down, grabbing her wrist and hauling her to her feet. “But you’re not leaving. Not yet.” She twisted, driving her elbow into his ribs. He hissed but didn’t let go. Instead, he spun her around, pressing her against the wall. His breath was hot against her ear. “You want to know what’s really going on here? Fine. But you’re going to have to earn it.” Harlow’s mind raced. She could fight. She could run. But something in his tone—something almost *hungry*—made her hesitate. This wasn’t just a suspect. This was a player. And she was way out of her depth. Then she heard footsteps. Not the suspect’s. Not the man’s. Someone else. Someone lighter. Harlow’s eyes flicked to the end of the corridor just as a figure stepped into view—a man in a white coat, a saint’s medallion glinting around his neck. His dark eyes locked onto hers, and for a second, she saw something in them that made her blood run cold. Recognition. “Tomás,” the man holding her growled. “You’re early.” Tomás didn’t take his eyes off Harlow. “She’s not supposed to be here.” “No,” the man said. “But she is.” Harlow’s mind reeled. *Tomás Herrera.* The ex-paramedic. The one who’d been treating the clique’s “special” patients. The one who’d lost his license for it. Tomás stepped forward, his voice low. “Detective Quinn. You need to leave. Now.” She shook her head, trying to dislodge the fog of confusion. “I’m not leaving until I know what’s going on.” The man holding her tightened his grip. “That’s the problem, Detective. You don’t get to know.” Tomás’s jaw clenched. “Let her go.” “Or what?” the man sneered. “You’ll stitch me up? You’re not even licensed anymore, *doctor*.” Tomás’s hand twitched toward the medallion at his throat. “I don’t need a license to know when someone’s in over their head.” Harlow’s pulse pounded in her ears. She could see it now—the way the air seemed to hum, the way the shadows moved like living things. This wasn’t just a case. This was something else. Something *older.* And she was standing in the middle of it. The man holding her smirked. “You’re welcome to try.” Tomás didn’t flinch. “Let. Her. Go.” For a long moment, the only sound was the distant drip of water. Then, with a sharp exhale, the man released Harlow. She stumbled back, rubbing her wrist where his fingers had dug in. Tomás grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the stairs. “We’re getting out of here.” Harlow hesitated, glancing back at the man. He was already turning away, his voice lost in the dark. But not before she saw it—the way his shadow stretched unnaturally long, like it wasn’t his at all. Tomás’s grip tightened. “Now, Detective.” She let him lead her up the stairs, her mind racing. She should’ve turned back at the bookshelf. She should’ve called for backup. But she hadn’t. And now she was here. At the top of the stairs, Tomás paused, pressing his ear against the door. “Coast is clear,” he muttered. He pushed it open just enough for them to slip through, then sealed it shut behind them. Harlow exhaled, her breath ragged. The alley was empty, the rain still falling. But the air smelled different now. Thicker. Like the city itself had been holding its breath. Tomás turned to her, his dark eyes serious. “You need to forget about this.” Harlow’s jaw set. “I don’t forget.” He studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Then you’re going to need more than just your badge down here.” She looked down at her hands, still trembling. “What is this place?” Tomás’s voice was barely a whisper. “The Veil Market. And you just walked into the lion’s den.” Harlow swallowed hard. She could walk away. She could pretend she’d never seen any of this. But the memory of that shadow—the way it had moved—burned in her mind. She wasn’t walking away. Not this time. Tomás must’ve seen the determination in her eyes because he sighed, running a hand through his dark curls. “Fine. But you listen to me, *Detective*. You don’t go charging in blind. You don’t trust anyone. And you *certainly* don’t go looking for answers on your own.” Harlow met his gaze. “I don’t take orders.” “No,” he said. “But you’re going to need help if you’re going to survive this.” She thought of Morris. Of the case that had taken him from her. Of the things she’d seen in the last few minutes that she couldn’t unsee. She nodded. “Then I guess we’re partners.” Tomás’s expression darkened. “I’m not a cop.” “Good,” she said. “Because I’m not asking you to be.” The rain fell harder, washing the neon signs into streaks of color. Harlow Quinn adjusted her collar, her sharp jawline set in resolve. She was done playing by the rules. And the game had just gotten a lot more interesting.