Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8EYWSQT96MT9N8C2Z4FWK

The rain lashed Harlow’s closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair to her sharp jaw, each drop a tiny whip against her brown eyes as she leaned into the chase. Her scuffed steel-toe boots splashed through a puddle of rainwater and discarded fish-and-chips grease, the impact sending a spray that dotted the cuffs of her navy trench coat. The suspect—a man in a frayed charcoal wool coat, his gloved left hand clamped around a bulging leather satchel—darted around a corner of Soho’s Dean Street, his steps faltering as he skidded on a slick patch of asphalt. Harlow’s military precision kicked in: she calculated his stride length, noted the way he favored his right leg (an old injury, maybe from a prior run-in with the clique), and closed the gap by three feet before he vanished beneath the glow of a distinctive green neon sign. The Raven’s Nest. She’d staked out the dim Soho bar for three weeks, its walls of old maps and black-and-white photographs a known hub for the clique she’d been investigating since DS Morris’s death. She paused for half a second, her worn leather watch (a 38th birthday gift from Morris, its strap cracked at the lugs) digging into her left wrist as she flexed her fingers. The door jingled as the suspect ducked inside, and Harlow followed, her hand hovering over the baton at her hip. The air hit her like a fist: stale ale, cigar smoke aged ten years, and the sharp tang of antiseptic. She scanned the room—old maps of the Thames estuary tacked to plaster walls, black-and-white shots of 1950s Soho jazz clubs lining the bar—and spotted him immediately: Tomás Herrera, his short curly dark brown hair matted at the temples, his olive skin flushed from the heat of a kerosene lamp. He was kneeling beside a teen slumped in a booth, the Saint Christopher medallion around his neck glinting as he adjusted a bandage on the teen’s forearm. The scar running along Tomás’s own left forearm (a knife attack from a supernatural patient, she’d learned in her research) was visible beneath the cuff of his frayed flannel shirt, and he squirted a dollop of unlabeled ointment onto the teen’s wound—unauthorized treatment, the kind that cost him his NHS license after he’d tended to clique members with glowing, unclassifiable injuries. The suspect slipped past the bar, his satchel knocking against a stack of whiskey bottles, and made for a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf tucked in the back corner. Harlow moved to intercept, but Tomás stood abruptly, stepping between her and the shelves. “Out of my way, Herrera,” she said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the murmur of the bar’s few patrons. “That man’s tied to the clique responsible for three missing persons—and to whatever happened to Morris.” Tomás’s warm brown eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what you’re chasing, Detective. This place isn’t for your kind of law. The badges on your chest don’t mean a thing to the things that hide here.” “My kind?” She stepped closer, her trench coat dripping rain onto the wooden floor. “The kind that knelt beside her partner as he died with glowing blue marks on his throat, marks no forensics team could identify? The kind that’s spent three years chasing ghosts because the Met wrote it off as a drug overdose?” The name Morris hung in the air between them, thick as the cigar smoke curling from a patron’s pipe. Tomás’s jaw tightened. He’d heard about Morris’s death—everyone in the clique’s orbit had, the unsolved supernatural edge a warning to stay quiet. “That’s why you should leave. The Veil Market moves every full moon—you’ll never find it again if you walk away now. It doesn’t care about your badges or your grudges.” “The Veil Market?” Harlow’s ears pricked. She’d heard whispers of an underground supernatural black market in her late-night digs through Morris’s case file, but never a concrete name or location. Before she could press him further, the suspect pushed a leather-bound map of 18th-century London on the bookshelf, and the entire unit swung inward with a low creak— the hidden back room she’d suspected existed but never confirmed, the one for clandestine clique meetings. Harlow shoved Tomás aside, his shoulder slamming into a wall of maps and sending a framed black-and-white photo clattering to the floor, and darted for the shelf. She slipped into the back room—small, windowless, the smell of damp earth clinging to the walls—and spotted a trapdoor in the floor, its hinges still swinging. The suspect was gone, down the stairs. She knelt, lifted the trapdoor, and was hit by the cold, damp breath of the underground. Stone stairs spiraled downward, their steps slick with moss and rainwater that had seeped through the Raven’s Nest’s foundation. She descended, her boots scraping against the stone, until she reached a landing that opened into an abandoned Tube station—Camden, by the look of the faded “Camden Town” sign peeling from a concrete pillar. The air was thick with the smell of mildew and ozone, and the distant hum of a normal night train vibrated through the walls, a faint reminder of the world she’d left above. At the far end of the platform, the suspect stood before a hooded figure clad in black, his satchel open as he handed over a small, bleached bone token. The hooded figure nodded, and the suspect stepped through a shimmering curtain of blue light— the entrance to the Veil Market, Harlow realized, the hidden supernatural black market that sold enchanted goods and banned alchemical substances. The hooded figure turned to her, his face hidden in shadow, and held out a gloved hand. “Bone token,” he said, his voice a gurgle like water through a clogged pipe. “No token, no entry.” Harlow’s heart hammered against her ribs. She’d come this far—chased the suspect through rain-soaked streets, confronted Herrera, descended into a forgotten Tube station— but this was the threshold. The supernatural was no longer a whisper in Morris’s case file; it was a shimmering curtain of light, a hooded guardian demanding a bone token. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the pocket of her trench coat, where she’d carried a small bone fragment for three years. She’d found it clutched in Morris’s hand when she’d found his body, a tiny, smooth shard that forensics had labeled “animal bone, no forensic value.” She’d kept it, a talisman of her failure to save him, to explain his death. She pulled it out, the fragment cool against her palm. Memories flooded her: Morris laughing as he gave her the leather watch, his voice cracking as he told her he was scared of the case they’d stumbled on (a clique member with wings, he’d mumbled before his comms cut out), the way his eyes had glazed over as the glowing blue marks spread across his throat. She checked her watch—its hands ticking steadily, the leather strap worn thin from three years of constant wear—and thought of the clique’s missing victims, of the answers she’d been chasing for so long that they’d become a part of her. The hooded figure shifted, his hand still outstretched, and a low growl rumbled from his chest. Harlow’s military training kicked in—she didn’t run from fights, didn’t back down from the unknown. She thought of Tomás’s warning, of the full moon’s impending turn that would move the market, and knew this was her only chance. She held out the bone fragment, her fingers steady despite the way her heart raced. The hooded figure took it, turning it over in his gloved hand. For a long moment, he said nothing, and Harlow tensed, her hand again hovering over her baton. Then he nodded, a slow, jerky movement, and stepped aside, gesturing toward the shimmering blue curtain. Harlow took a deep breath, the smell of mildew and ozone filling her lungs, and stepped forward. Beyond the curtain, the air hummed with magic— the scent of alchemical herbs (sage mixed with something acrid and unknown), the clink of enchanted glass vials, the murmur of voices speaking in languages she didn’t recognize. She spotted the suspect’s frayed charcoal coat vanishing into a crowd of figures: some with horns curling from their heads, some with wings folded against their backs, some with skin that shimmered like fish scales. She adjusted her leather watch, squared her shoulders (her military bearing a shield against the unknown), and followed, her boots clicking against the cold stone floor of the Veil Market. She didn’t know what she’d find inside—enchanted weapons, banned potions, answers about Morris’s death—but she knew one thing: she wasn’t leaving without the truth, even if it cost her her badge, her sanity, or her life.