Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8XKSFP2X8H4B6ZSYSRT1P

The rain plastered Detective Quinn’s hair to her forehead, a cold, insistent weight. It tasted of soot and something vaguely metallic, a flavor she’d grown accustomed to these last few weeks. Her worn leather watch, a relic from her partner, Morris, ticked with a steady, unsettling rhythm against her wrist. Eight-ten. She needed to close this. Tomás Herrera. The name had been whispered in hushed tones at a few of the right, and decidedly unfriendly, contacts. A paramedic with a penchant for the esoteric, a man who tended to the strange and the broken outside the rigid structure of the NHS. And, according to a particularly agitated informant, a supplier to the clique. She’d tracked him to The Raven’s Nest, Silas’s bar in Soho. The green neon sign bled into the grey night, a sickly promise of warmth and anonymity. Inside, the air hung thick with the smell of stale ale, damp wool, and something else… something faintly herbal and unsettling. Herrera had been nursing a whiskey near the back, his dark curls plastered to his forehead, the Saint Christopher medallion glinting faintly under the flickering gaslight. He hadn’t looked up when she’d entered, hadn’t even registered her presence. Professional. Damnable professional. Now, he was gone. A trail of rain-slicked cobblestones led her east, away from the familiar bustle of Shaftesbury Avenue. She followed the subtle signs – a dropped handkerchief embroidered with a stylized raven, a faint scent of sandalwood and night-blooming jasmine, the nervous tread of someone accustomed to moving unseen. The trail led her down a narrow alley, choked with overflowing bins and the shadows of fire escapes, and then, abruptly, into a dark, yawning passage. The passage opened into a vast, echoing chamber—The Veil Market. It wasn’t a market in the conventional sense. There were no stalls, no hawkers, no brightly colored displays. Just a labyrinth of dimly lit tunnels and cavernous rooms beneath the abandoned Camden Tube station. The air here was colder, heavier, laced with a palpable tension that prickled at her skin. The scent of herbs and decay was stronger, mingled with the ozone tang of something unnatural. Figures moved in the gloom—shadowy shapes draped in velvet, faces obscured by hoods, the glint of unfamiliar metal on belts and wrists. A stall offered vials filled with shimmering liquids, another displayed intricately carved bone charms. A hooded man examined a cluster of pulsating fungi, his face impassive. This wasn't a place for the mundane. Herrera was here. She could feel it, a subtle shift in the air, a prickling at the back of her neck. She moved through the crowd, her military precision honed over eighteen years of police work. Each step was deliberate, each observation cataloged. Her hand instinctively rested on the butt of her service pistol, not out of aggression, but out of a cold, unwavering alertness. The rain continued to fall, drumming a relentless rhythm against the corrugated iron ceiling. A voice, low and hesitant, broke through the ambient murmur. "Detective Quinn. I’ve been expecting you.” She turned to find Herrera leaning against a damp wall, his arms crossed, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. The scar on his forearm was stark against the pale olive of his skin. He looked remarkably calm, considering the circumstances. “You’re a persistent one,” she said, her voice flat. “And a slippery one. I’ve pulled a few strings, talked to a few people. It seems you’ve been feeding information to the clique.” “Information is a valuable commodity in this city,” he replied, his brown eyes steady. “Especially to those who understand its true nature.” “The clique,” she repeated, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. “You know what they're capable of. You've been complicit.” He shrugged, a dismissive gesture. “I offer a service. I don’t judge who seeks it.” “Don’t insult my intelligence. They’re not just collectors of rare antiquities. They’re manipulating something… something dangerous. Something I’ve been trying to understand for three years.” The memory of Morris, lost to an inexplicable darkness, tightened in her chest. It wasn’t just a case; it was a personal obsession. “And you think I hold the key?” Herrera asked, tilting his head slightly. “I think you know more than you’re letting on. And I think you’re involved in something beyond simple medical consultation.” She took a step closer, her gaze unwavering. "Where is it? The shipment? The component they’re looking for?" He didn’t answer immediately. He simply regarded her with a disconcerting stillness. Then, he gestured with a subtle movement of his hand, directing her attention toward a shadowed alcove. “There’s a contact down there. A woman named Lyra. She deals in… specific artifacts. She might have what you’re looking for.” As she moved towards the alcove, a figure detached itself from the deeper shadows. A woman, tall and unnervingly pale, with eyes like chips of obsidian and a smile that didn’t quite reach them. She held a small, intricately carved box made of bone—exactly the kind of token required to enter the Veil Market. Suddenly, two figures emerged from the darkness behind Quinn. They weren't human. Their skin was the color of polished granite, their eyes burned with an unnerving violet light. They moved with a chilling, unnatural grace—predators. The clique. “Detective Quinn,” one of them said, its voice a low, resonant drone. “You shouldn’t be here. This is not your concern.” Quinn didn't hesitate. She drew her weapon, the click of the safety a sharp punctuation in the subterranean gloom. "Your concern is stopping me." Herrera, surprisingly, moved with a sudden urgency. He shoved her aside, a brief, almost desperate act of self-preservation. "Don't listen to them!" he shouted, pulling a small, tarnished silver locket from beneath his shirt. He flung it at the granite-skinned figures, and it shattered against one of their faces, releasing a cloud of shimmering, iridescent dust. The figures recoiled, momentarily disoriented. Quinn used the distraction to unleash a controlled burst of fire, hitting both of them. They didn’t fall, but the bullets seemed to pass through them, leaving only a faint ripple in the air. Their violet eyes narrowed in fury. “You interfere, you suffer,” the first figure growled, advancing on her. The rain outside intensified, drumming against the tunnel walls, a chaotic soundtrack to the escalating violence. Quinn knew, with a sickening certainty, that she'd stumbled into something far deeper, far more dangerous than she could have ever imagined. The Veil Market wasn't just a black market—it was a gateway. And she, along with Tomás Herrera, had just unwittingly opened the door. It was a mistake she would be paying for, in blood, or something far worse.