Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8XBP74VFNXQ598QSKQYJT

Quinn’s boots splatter rain into a puddle of discarded fish and chip wrappers, the grease slickening the concrete under her feet. She keeps her gaze locked on the suspect’s scurrying form—hood up, hands stuffed in a tattered wool coat, a faint glint of a banned alchemical vial peeking from his pocket—as they veer off Soho’s main drag. Her sharp jaw tightens; she’s tracked this clique enforcer for three nights straight, ever since she spotted him slipping that vial to a wide-eyed teen outside a corner shop, the kid’s hands shaking so hard he nearly dropped it. The worn leather watch on her left wrist glints under a flickering streetlamp; its ticking cuts through the rain’s drumbeat, a steady pulse from her military days, a habit she’d never shaken—counting seconds, measuring distance, calculating every move. She skids around a brick wall, her knees screaming as she shifts weight to her balled feet, her salt-and-pepper hair clinging to her forehead under the downpour. The suspect bursts through the green neon sign-lit entrance of The Raven’s Nest—Silas’ bar, the one she’s had under surveillance for weeks, its exterior streaked with rain that blurs the neon’s glow. Quinn yanks open the door, the bar’s dim air hitting her in a wave of stale beer, old pipe smoke, and the faint tang of sulfur. Walls lined with frayed maps of 19th-century London supernatural hotspots and black-and-white photographs of past clique members blur past her; she ignores the barkeep’s startled squawk and zeroes in on the bookshelf tucked between two vinyl-upholstered booths, its shelves stacked with dust-covered leather-bound tomes that look never-read. The suspect’s hand slaps a weathered wooden panel carved with a raven’s head; the shelf swings inward with a low creak, revealing the hidden back room, its door framed by a curtain of tattered black silk. Quinn dives through before the shelf clicks shut, her coat catching on a splintered shelf edge. The back room reeks of sulfur and burnt parchment; a single candle guttered on a rickety oak table, its flame casting dancing shadows over a stack of smooth, yellowed bone tokens—each carved with a tiny rune that hums with faint enchantment. The suspect grabs one, shoves it into his pocket, and bolts through a narrow passageway at the room’s far end, its stone steps winding downward into darkness. Quinn snatches a token too—her fingers wrap around its cool, polished surface, the rune’s hum making her skin prickle, a sensation she can’t place but doesn’t have time to unpack. She doesn’t stop to question it; her partner’s unexplained death three years ago taught her to grab every small advantage, every loose thread, before it slipped away. The passageway twists downward, rain seeping through cracked stone walls to drip onto her neck, its cold bite sending a shiver down her spine. She emerges into an abandoned Camden Tube station—tile walls chipped to expose rusted metal girders, tracks overgrown with weeds that sway in the faint draft, the air thick with the stench of damp earth and rotting trash. This is the Veil Market’s current spot, she realizes; she’s read the scattered, redacted reports in the metropolitan police’s cold case files—a supernatural black market that moves every full moon, that demands a bone token for entry, that sells enchanted goods and information no one else can get. The suspect’s hood falls back as he skids to a halt at a curtain of tattered black cloth strung between two support beams; he holds up his bone token, the rune glowing bright for a split second, and the curtain ripples open to reveal flashes of glowing enchanted goods beyond—vials of neon blue liquid, cloaks stitched with stars that twinkle in the dark, amulets that hum with the same faint energy as the token in her pocket. Quinn presses her back to a rusted pillar, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her coat soaked through to her skin. She’s never stepped into supernatural territory before—not consciously, anyway—but her partner’s death still haunts her, the way he’d collapsed on a rainy sidewalk three years ago, his eyes turning milky white mid-sentence, his breath cut off without a wound, the coroner shrugging and labeling it natural causes when she’d known it was anything but. The worn leather watch on her left wrist ticks louder, its steady pulse a counterpoint to the chaos building in her chest, a reminder of the 18 years of decorated service that’s led her here—every case solved, every criminal put away, every lead followed until it dried up, until this clique crossed her path. A shuffle from the shadowy corner makes her reach for her sidearm. Her fingers wrap around the gun’s cold metal, but she freezes when she sees the man leaning against a neighboring pillar. Short curly dark brown hair matted with rain, olive skin streaked with grime from the passageway’s stone walls, a scar snaking along his left forearm—she recognizes him from her files: Tomás Herrera, former NHS paramedic, born in Seville, lost his license five years ago for administering unauthorized, experimental treatments to supernatural patients who’d showed up at his emergency room, now provides off-the-books care for the clique’s members when they get hurt in the market. The Saint Christopher medallion around his neck glints under a faint glow from the market’s curtain, its metal warm even in the cold damp of the Tube station. He pushes off the pillar, his boots scuffing the damp concrete, his warm brown eyes narrowing as he takes in her soaked coat, her drawn gun, the bone token peeking from her pocket. You’re out of your depth, detective. Quinn’s sharp jaw sets. She doesn’t lower her gun, her brown eyes burning with the same determination that’s kept her digging for answers about her partner’s death. I’m three nights deep in a chase that leads to banned alchemicals being peddled to teens and a clique that’s been preying on the city’s most vulnerable. I don’t back down when kids are in danger. Tomás snorts, his breath fogging in the cold air. He nods toward the market’s rippling curtain, where the suspect’s form has already vanished into the crowd of shadowy figures—some tall and cloaked, some short and scurrying, some with voices that don’t sound fully human, high-pitched trills and guttural rumbles mixing with the faint clink of vials. That’s the Veil Market. Inside, they sell enchanted goods that can melt your bones from the inside out or rewrite your memories so you forget your own name. Banned alchemicals are the least of your worries. You don’t have a clue what you’re walking into—no guide, no knowledge of the rules, no defense against the things that live in the shadows there. Quinn’s gaze flickers between Tomás and the curtain. The rain’s drumbeat echoes through the Tube station, mixing with the faint chatter from inside the market, the sounds wrapping around her like a suffocating blanket. Her worn leather watch ticks on, its steady pulse a reminder of the seconds slipping away, the suspect getting further and further from her grasp. She thinks of the teen she’d seen three nights ago, his hands shaking as he took the vial, his face gaunt with hunger. She thinks of her partner, lying on that sidewalk, his eyes milky white, his last words a whisper she’d never been able to decode. You’re here for them, too. She nods toward the market’s curtain, her voice sharp. The clique. You patch up their wounds when they get hurt in there—scratches from enchanted claws, burns from alchemical vials, whatever they pick up inside. Tomás’ scar tugs at his forearm as he crosses his arms, his olive skin stretching over the old knife wound. He doesn’t deny it, his warm brown eyes softening for a split second. I do what I have to to survive. The NHS threw me out when I tried to help people no one else would—people who couldn’t go to a regular hospital because their injuries were supernatural, because no doctor would believe them. These folks—some of them are kids, just like the one you saw. They got pulled in because they had nowhere else to go. I don’t turn them away. Quinn’s gaze flickers to the Saint Christopher medallion around his neck, a symbol of protection he’s clearly clinging to in this dangerous world. She doesn’t trust him—his files say he’s loyal to the clique—but she knows she needs every advantage she can get if she’s going to step into that market. A shadowy figure steps through the market’s curtain, tall and cloaked, holding a vial of glowing blue liquid that casts a neon hue over the damp concrete. The figure’s gaze sweeps the station, and Quinn ducks further into the pillar’s shadow, her finger tightening on her gun’s trigger. The figure’s head tilts, as if it can smell her human fear, before it turns and vanishes back into the market. Tomás steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, his breath warm against her ear. If you go in there, you don’t come out the same. They’ll smell the human fear on you—every vendor, every guard, every shadowy creature looking for a quick meal. They’ll eat you alive for your bone token, or worse—sell you to the highest bidder for information on the metropolitan police, on your cases, on the people you care about. Quinn’s jaw tightens. She glances at the bone token in her pocket, its rune humming faintly through the fabric. She thinks of her partner’s unexplained death, of the teens in danger, of the answers she’s been chasing for three years. She can’t turn back now. She shifts her weight to her balled feet, her military precision kicking in—shoulders back, core tight, every muscle ready to move. She tucks the bone token further into her pocket, her fingers brushing the worn leather watch on her left wrist. I’m not here to be eaten. I’m here to get answers. To take down the ones who are peddling those vials to kids. To find out what happened to my partner. Tomás grabs her arm before she can move. His hand is warm, his grip tight, his scar pressing into her skin, a reminder of the knife attack that had left him with that wound, a story she’d never been able to track down in his files. You don’t have a guide. You don’t know the rules. You’ll be dead before you take three steps inside. Quinn yanks her arm free, her gaze locking on his warm brown eyes. Then give me the rules. Or get out of my way. Tomás sighs, his shoulders slumping with a weariness that suggests he’s had this conversation too many times before. He nods toward the bone token in her pocket, his voice steady. First rule: never let anyone see you take your token out until you’re standing directly in front of the curtain. If they see it before that, they’ll steal it and leave you to rot down here. Second: don’t make eye contact with the cloaked vendors—they’ll trap you in a memory loop, forcing you to relive your worst nightmares until you’re catatonic. Third: if someone offers you a drink—any drink, no matter how harmless it looks—spit it out. It’s laced with a potion that makes you spill every secret you have, every lead you’re following, every person you care about. Fourth: stay away from the back corner of the market—they sell information there, and the vendors will tie you to a chair and torture you for every scrap of knowledge you have before they sell it. Quinn commits the rules to memory, repeating them silently in her head as she stares at the market’s rippling curtain. The faint chatter from the market grows louder, mixing with the rain’s drumbeat and her watch’s ticking, the sounds of a world she’s never known but is about to step into. She takes a step toward the curtain. Wait. Tomás’ voice stops her. He pulls a small vial from his coat pocket—clear glass, filled with a thick, amber liquid—and holds it out to her, his fingers wrapping around the vial’s cool surface. It’s a counteragent. For the memory loops. I keep it on me for the clique members who get caught by the cloaked vendors. Don’t use it unless you have to—it’s hard to come by, and I can’t get more for another month. It’ll burn your throat when you drink it, but it’ll break the loop before it can turn you catatonic. Quinn stares at the vial. She doesn’t trust Tomás, but she knows she needs every advantage she can get if she’s going to survive the market. She takes the vial, tucking it into her coat pocket next to the bone token, her fingers brushing the warm glass. Why are you helping me? Tomás’ scar tugs at his forearm as he looks toward the market’s curtain, his warm brown eyes darkening with a sadness that suggests he’s lost someone to the market’s dangers. Some of the clique members are kids. Kids who got pulled in because they had nowhere else to go—runaways, orphans, kids who found out they had supernatural abilities and were chased away by their families. I don’t want you to take them down with the ones who are actually dangerous—the ones peddling the alchemical vials, the ones selling information to the highest bidder. If you go in there, focus on the leaders. Leave the kids alone. Quinn’s sharp jaw softens for a split second. She nods, her gaze locking on the market’s rippling curtain, where the suspect’s taunting laughter echoes through the Tube station again, a sharp, cruel sound that makes her blood boil. She takes another step toward the curtain. The rain’s drumbeat grows louder, mixing with the market’s chatter, the sounds of a world that’s about to swallow her whole. Her worn leather watch ticks on, its steady pulse guiding her forward, a reminder of the seconds slipping away, the suspect getting further and further from her grasp. She pauses, her hand hovering over the bone token in her pocket. She has to decide—turn back, walk away from the answers she’s been chasing for three years, from the teens in danger, from the truth about her partner’s death, or step into the unfamiliar, dangerous territory of the Veil Market and face whatever waits inside.