Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8HQWR4QM3X6MYS2RA7KEN

The rain fell in gray sheets, stitching the city together into a sodden blanket. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she sprinted down Frith Street, her breath ragged but controlled—18 years of police training had turned panicky inhales into steady, rhythmical ones. The suspect was twenty paces ahead, a shadow in a black trench coat, their hood pulled low. Rain soaked her salt-and-pepper cropped hair, plastering it to her neck, and ran off the edges of her sharp jaw like a curtain of tears. Her leather watch, scuffed at the edges, ticked against her wrist, a metronome for the chase. “You can’t outrun the file, Ortega!” she called, though she knew the man wouldn’t stop. Not this time. Ortega was a runner, a middleman for the clique—the shadowy group of supernaturals she’d been chasing for six months, ever since the body of a bank manager washed up in the Thames, drained of blood but with no visible wounds, no marks. The ME had called it *the same as Morris*. Quinn’s chest tightened. Three years ago, DS Morris had vanished into a warehouse in Bermondsey, his radio static sputtering just before a flash of light that wasn’t a lightning strike. The case remained cold, but the photos of his bloodied uniform haunted her. *Supernatural origins she doesn’t yet understand*—the report from the coroner, scrawled in shaky handwriting. She’d never believed in ghosts or ghouls until Morris had been taken. Until Ortega had slipped a tiny, blackened bone into her evidence bag, marked *clique cache*. The suspect turned into an alley, ducking between crates stacked outside a closed market. Quinn skidded to a halt, skidding on a patch of oil, and barely caught herself. The alley was narrow, lit only by a flickering neon sign from the bar at the far end—*The Raven’s Nest*. She’d been there once, with Morris, during a tip about a missing witch. The walls had been covered in old maps and black-and-white photos, the air thick with whiskey and pipe smoke. But now, it looked like a mouth waiting to swallow. Ortega was gone. Quinn’s pulse quickened. She scanned the walls—graffiti in scrawled Spanish, a handprint of black paint that smelled of iron—and spotted a loose brick near the dumpster. A secret entrance? She pressed her palm to the brick, heard a low *click*, and pulled. The wall shifted inward, revealing a staircase wound tight, its stone steps slick with rain and age. Her flashlight beam trembled as she descended, the beam cutting through the dark. The air smelled of damp stone and something sharper—brine, like the sea, or maybe salt. At the bottom, she found a metal door, its surface pockmarked, a latch shaped like a serpent’s head. She ran a finger over the latch; it was warm, as if someone had just touched it. A whisper carried up the stairs—the sound of Ortega’s voice, too low to make out, but angry. *Fear*, Quinn thought. He wasn’t just running from the police—he was running from something else. From the clique. She pressed her ear to the door. Beyond it, a murmur of voices, strange and guttural. Then a laugh, high and thin, like wind through a keyhole. Quinn gripped the flashlight tighter. *The Veil Market*, she thought. The whispers of the force had called it that—an underground market for supernaturals, banned goods, and secrets. Morris had mentioned it once, in a half-drunk ramble after a wild night at a Séance club. *“They say it’s in an old Tube station,”* he’d said, *“under Camden. You show up with a bone token, and they let you in. But don’t ask questions.”* She’d dismissed it as paranoia. Now, as Ortega’s voice grew closer, she realized Morris had been right. The serpent’s head latch turned under her fingers. The door swung open, and a wave of heat hit her—warm air, thick with incense and the smell of charred meat. Beyond it, a vast cavern stretched out, the abandoned Platform 12 of Camden Town Tube station. The walls were lined with stalls, their awnings made of tattered velvet and animal hides. Firelight flickered from braziers, casting shadows that danced across the walls—some human, some not: a gargoyle with a tail of smoke, a woman with antlers sprouting from her skull, a man with scales covering his hands. Vendors called out in languages Quinn didn’t recognize, their stalls heaped with strange goods: vials of glowing liquid labeled *“moonwater,”* skulls with eyes that followed her movement, bundles of herbs that smelled like honey and rot. A boy with no eyes sat cross-legged on a pile of coins, his hands moving in a rhythm as he chanted. A vampire in a tailored suit leaned against a stall, his lips stretched into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, his fingers tracing a dagger made of bone. Ortega had melted into the crowd. Quinn adjusted her coat—she’d left her badge in her car, hoping to blend in—and scanned the stalls. A woman with a fox’s tail flicked over her shoulder stood selling enchanted locks of hair, her voice a purr. *“Need permanence? My locks last seven years. Better than any man.”* “Excuse me,” Quinn said, her voice steady, so different from the girl’s. The woman turned, her eyes slitted, and Quinn met her gaze. *Don’t flinch*, she told herself. *You’re a detective. You belong here.* “Lost?” the woman asked, tilting her head. Her teeth were sharper than human. “Looking for a friend,” Quinn said, nodding at Ortega’s direction. “He said he’d meet someone here. Carlos.” The woman’s tail stilled. “Carlos doesn’t meet anyone. He’s… gone.” “Was he?” Quinn said, leaning in. “He had a bone token. A black one, etched with runes.” She described it, her eyes never leaving the woman’s face. The woman’s fingers tightened around the hair she was holding. “Bone tokens are for traders,” the woman said finally. “Not for runners. You’re not a trader.” Quinn smiled, slow and tight. “No. But I’m the police. And Ortega stole something from us. Something that belongs to the living.” The woman’s eyes widened. For a moment, she looked afraid—not of Quinn, but of something behind her. “Get out,” she said, her voice a growl. “Before the Warden finds you.” Quinn turned. A man stood in the shadows, his frame broad, his face hidden by a hood. He wore a long coat, its hem stained with what looked like blood. In his hand, a staff topped with a crystal that glowed red, like a dying embers. “The Warden,” the woman whispered, backing away. “He comes for liars.” The Warden took a step forward. His hood fell away, revealing a scalp lined with black, crackling veins, his eyes two pools of ice. “You seek the Veil Market,” he said, his voice a rumble. “You do not belong here.” Quinn reached into her coat, her hand closing around her gun. *Too slow*, she thought. The Warden raised his staff, and a jolt of pain lanced through her temples, like someone had stuck a hot needle in her brain. She dropped the gun, gasping. “Leave,” the Warden said, and this time, his voice was a command. “Or I will feed you to the Veil.” A scream echoed through the cavern. Ortega stood at the far end, his trench coat torn, a gash on his arm. Blood seeped through the fabric, black and sticky. Behind him, a shadowy creature with too many teeth and a snout like a boar lunged. Quinn didn’t think. She lunged for her gun, grabbed it, and fired. The creature staggered, its shoulder seared black. Ortega ran past her, heading for a metal exit labeled *STAFF ONLY*. “Ortega!” Quinn yelled, following. The Warden raised his staff, but a vendor—an old man with a beard made of snakes—threw a bucket of water at him. The crystal flared, and the Warden cursed, stepping back. Quinn reached the exit. It was locked, but she kicked it hard. The metal bent, and she pushed through, into a narrow service tunnel. Water dripped from the ceiling, pooling at her feet. Ortega was ten paces ahead, his breath ragged, his hand clutching his side. “Stop!” Quinn shouted. “You can’t run from this!” Ortega turned, his eyes wild. “It’s not the clique! It’s *him*—the one in the dark! He’s hungry, and he’s coming for all of us!” A crash echoed behind them. They both froze. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, echoed through the tunnel. Ortega grabbed a loose pipe, his hands shaking. “You don’t understand. He’s not just a supernatural. He’s *ancient*. He feeds on the veil between worlds, and the clique… they think they can control him. But they’re wrong. He’s already here. And he’s *woken up*.” The footsteps grew closer. Quinn shone her flashlight forward. The tunnel ended at a ladder, leading up to a manhole. Beyond the ladder, a figure stood in the dark—tall, cloaked, their face hidden by a hood. Their hand was raised, and Ortega let out a shriek, falling to his knees, his body convulsing. Quinn raised her gun, but the figure wasn’t looking at her. It was looking at Ortega, its lips curled in a smile. “You should have stayed behind the veil,” the figure said, its voice a low purr, like a cat toying with a mouse. The convulsions stopped. Ortega lay still, his eyes wide open, white as marbles. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She ran for the manhole, climbed up, and burst into the night. The rain hit her face, cold and sharp, and she stumbled into the street. Her watch read 2:17 AM. She pulled out her phone, dialing 911. “Unit 5, Frith Street. We need backup. And get a forensics team to Camden Tube Station, Platform 12. There’s something down there. Something alive.” She hung up, her eyes fixed on the dark mouth of the tunnel. The figure was nowhere to be seen, but she could still feel it—the weight of its gaze, the cold hand on her shoulder that wasn’t there. Three years ago, Morris had vanished into a warehouse with a flash of light. Tonight, Ortega had died in a tunnel with a figure that wasn’t human. Quinn gripped her watch, the leather warm under her fingers. She thought of Morris, of his laugh, of the way he’d always called her *Harlow*, like it was a secret. She thought of the bone token in her evidence bag, its runes glowing faintly even in the daylight. She wasn’t going to let them take anyone else. She turned and walked into the rain, her boots splashing through puddles, her mind made up. The Veil Market might be a place of shadows, but she was going to chase the light into the dark. The rain continued to fall, dyeing the city gray, but Harlow Quinn didn’t flinch. She was a detective, and the truth was always worth the chase.