Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8SABZ8BZT96S2NVZ6E1ZA

The rain hammered against Detective Harlow Quinn’s trench coat, a relentless percussion matching the thudding of her pulse. Each drop seemed to carry the grime of the city, clinging to the slick pavement as she followed Silas Moreau. He’d vanished into The Raven’s Nest, a greasy spoon in Soho with a history thicker than the clotted gravy on their breakfasts. And Silas, like DS Morris before him, was connected to something Quinn didn’t want to understand. The neon green sign above the doorway of the bar pulsed with an unnerving vitality, illuminating the rain-streaked windows. Inside, the air hung heavy with the smell of stale beer, cigarettes, and something vaguely metallic – blood, perhaps, though it could be the damp. Quinn pushed open the door, the bell above it jangling a discordant welcome. The bar was mostly empty. A scattering of figures huddled in booths, shielded by the gloom, faces obscured by the shadows. Most seemed to be regulars, the kind who’d seen too much and said too little. A grizzled man with a silver-wired hand nursing a whiskey caught her eye for a moment, then quickly averted his gaze. Quinn ignored him, her focus locked on the back of Silas’s dark coat as he moved towards a darkened corner. “Anything?” she asked, her voice low and clipped, addressing Officer Davies, who trailed a few steps behind her, notepad in hand. “Nothing concrete, Detective,” Davies replied, the rain drumming against his own uniform cap. “Security footage is… frustrating. He disappears behind a bookshelf. Doesn’t even seem to notice us.” Quinn’s jaw tightened. The military precision ingrained in her over eighteen years on the force demanded a solution, a tangible lead. She moved deeper into the bar, her eyes scanning the room, absorbing the details – the chipped Formica tables, the faded maps plastered on the walls, the photographs depicting scenes of a bygone era. The Raven’s Nest felt like a mausoleum of forgotten secrets. “Let’s check the back,” she ordered, pulling out her worn leather watch and checking the time. 1:17 am. Too late for a quiet night out, even in this part of London. The bookshelf was unremarkable, crammed with aging volumes bound in cracked leather. Quinn ran her fingers along the spines, a practiced skill honed by years of searching for clues. She felt a subtle shift in the air, a faint pressure against her skin – a trick of the damp, she told herself, but the prickle of unease remained. Pushing against the shelf, it groaned inward, revealing a narrow passage leading into darkness. “Davies, keep watch,” she instructed, stepping into the hidden room. The space was small, claustrophobic, lit only by a single, flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling. A scarred wooden table dominated the center, littered with playing cards, a half-empty bottle of Scotch, and a scattering of strange, intricately carved tokens. The air here was colder, carrying a scent of ozone and something indefinably ancient. Silas was sitting at the table, calmly pouring himself a drink. His back was to her, but Quinn recognized the posture – the slight tilt of the shoulders, the way he held himself. She moved closer, her hand instinctively reaching for the Glock holstered beneath her coat. “Silas Moreau,” she said, her voice deliberately flat. “You’re under arrest for questioning in connection with the disappearance of Daniel Finch.” He turned slowly, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. “Detective Quinn. Always a pleasure. Though I confess, I was expecting you to be… less interested in my little evenings.” “Your ‘little evenings’ involve disappearing into hidden rooms and potentially engaging in criminal activity,” Quinn replied, her eyes assessing him. The scar on his forearm was prominent in the dim light, a grim reminder of a past she’d only begun to unravel. “I prefer the term ‘facilitation,’ Detective,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “I provide a service. A discreet one, of course.” “A service that seems to involve a rather large number of stolen artifacts,” she countered, gesturing to the tokens on the table. “And a clientele that appears to operate outside the law.” “Let’s just say I have… connections,” Silas said, his smile widening slightly. “Connections that are difficult to trace, difficult to follow.” Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows – Tomás Herrera. He was kneeling beside the table, examining a small, polished stone with a practiced eye. The Saint Christopher medallion around his neck glinted in the weak light. “Detective,” Tomás said, his voice calm and measured. “Silas is involved with The Veil Market. It’s moving tonight, under the full moon. Camden Tube station. Bone tokens required for entry.” “The Veil Market?” Quinn’s mind raced. She’d heard whispers, rumors of a hidden underworld of supernatural dealings, but she’d dismissed them as folklore. “And you’re offering to help me find it?” “I’m offering information,” Tomás corrected, holding up the stone. “This is a fragment from a Key of Shadows. It indicates a specific route to the Market. Silas has been diverting funds into paying me. I was hoping to bring Finch to justice, but…” He trailed off, his eyes fixed on Silas. “But Silas isn’t interested in justice,” Quinn finished, her hand tightening around her Glock. “He’s interested in profit.” She glanced at the rain-streaked windows of The Raven’s Nest, then at the narrow passage leading deeper into the darkness, and finally at Tomás, the pragmatic medic with a shadowed past. This wasn't a simple arrest. This was a descent into something far more dangerous than she’d anticipated. The cool, precise logic of her military training suddenly felt inadequate against the unsettling pull of the supernatural. “Let’s go to the Market,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. "But we're going in together."