Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY911PBS74Y1SF3960PDS45

The neon glow of the Raven’s Nest pulsed like a dying heartbeat against the rain-slicked pavement, casting jagged shadows across the slick cobblestones. Detective Harlow Quinn’s breath came in shallow gasps as she sprinted through the drizzle, her boots sinking slightly into the wet earth. The scent of damp stone and old wood clung to the air, mingling with the acrid tang of cigarette smoke from the bar’s patrons. She had been chasing Tomás Herrera for hours now, her gut twisting with every step. The man had vanished into the labyrinth of Soho, leaving behind only a trail of lies and a warning that had sent her heart racing. Her fingers tightened around the worn leather watch on her left wrist, the brass dials glinting dully in the dim light. She had no idea where he was going, only that he had taken a left at the corner of Great Windmill Street, disappearing into the gloom. The rain had turned to sleet, stinging her cheeks as she pushed harder, her pulse hammering in her throat. She needed to catch him before he did something reckless—something that would get him hurt, or worse, get her partner’s ghost haunting her again. Then she saw it. A flicker of movement between the buildings, a flash of dark clothing against the neon glow. Quinn’s instincts flared. Tomás wasn’t just running—he was *leading* someone. And if there was one thing she knew about Tomás Herrera, it was that he didn’t lead anyone into anything good. She skidded to a halt, her breath fogging the air in front of her. The suspect—a broad-shouldered figure in a dark coat—had already vanished into the alleyway, but Tomás was still there, his back to her, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He turned slowly, his warm brown eyes locking onto hers. The Saint Christopher medallion around his neck glinted under the dim light, a stark contrast to the grim expression on his face. “You’re not supposed to be here,” Tomás said, his voice low, rough with exhaustion. Quinn didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The way he looked at her—like he knew something she didn’t—sent a chill down her spine. She pulled her service revolver from her holster, the cold metal biting into her palm. “I’m not leaving you.” Tomás exhaled sharply, his scar running along his left forearm catching the light. “You don’t understand what you’re getting into.” “Then tell me.” He hesitated, then stepped forward, his boots crunching on the wet gravel. “The Veil Market. That’s where he’s taking him.” Quinn’s stomach twisted. The Veil Market. The underground black market beneath Camden, where supernatural and mundane alike traded in secrets, in power, in things that should never be bought or sold. She had heard whispers about it—rumors of deals gone wrong, of things that came back to haunt those who touched them. Tomás had been there before, but he hadn’t come back. “You’re not supposed to know about it,” she said, her voice steady despite the unease coiling in her chest. “Neither are you,” he shot back. “But I’m not leaving him. Not like this.” Quinn’s fingers twitched toward the revolver. “Then you’re making a mistake.” Tomás met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “I know.” The alleyway ended at a set of rusted metal gates, their hinges groaning in the wind. Beyond them, the darkness stretched endlessly, thick with the weight of unseen eyes. Quinn could hear the distant murmur of voices, the clink of glass, the low hum of a place that wasn’t meant for the living—or at least, not for those who didn’t belong. She thought of the case that had nearly killed her partner. The way the shadows had twisted around him, the way the air had grown thick with something she couldn’t name. She thought of the way Tomás had looked at her now, like he was offering her a glimpse into something darker than she could handle. And then she saw the bone token. A single bone, polished to a dull sheen, resting on the ground near the gates. Tomás picked it up, his fingers brushing against it. “You need this,” he said. “To get in.” Quinn’s breath caught. “What if I don’t?” Tomás didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked toward the gates, his boots making no sound on the wet metal. Quinn hesitated, her pulse roaring in her ears. She could turn back. She could go home. She could pretend this never happened. But the way Tomás looked at her—like he was waiting for her to choose—made her hand tremble around the revolver. She stepped forward, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth as she followed him into the dark. The gates groaned open, revealing a tunnel of shadows that seemed to swallow the light. Tomás led her deeper, his footsteps echoing in the confined space. The air grew colder, thicker, charged with an electric hum that made Quinn’s skin prickle. Then, suddenly, the tunnel opened into a vast, cavernous space, the walls lined with flickering lanterns and the scent of something old and decaying. And there, in the center of it all, was the Veil Market. The market was a labyrinth of stalls, each one draped in black cloth or draped with strange, glowing sigils. The air was thick with the scent of incense and something metallic, like blood that had long since dried. People moved through the crowd, their forms blurred by the dim light, their voices a low murmur of secrets and bargains. Tomás led her toward a particular stall, its door slightly ajar. “This is where he’s taking him,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The man with the dark coat. He’s not just selling him—he’s *collecting* him.” Quinn’s stomach dropped. She had seen enough of this world to know that collecting wasn’t a metaphor. It was a game, and the stakes were always higher than they seemed. Tomás pushed open the door, revealing a narrow hallway lined with shelves of strange, glowing objects. Bottles of liquid that pulsed with an unnatural light. Crystals that hummed with energy. And in the center of it all, a figure in a dark coat, his back to them, his movements deliberate. Quinn’s breath hitched. The man turned slowly, his eyes locking onto hers. He was tall, his face obscured by the shadows, but there was something familiar about the way he looked at her—like he knew her, like he had seen her before. Then Tomás was there, his voice cutting through the tension. “You’re not supposed to be here.” The man didn’t flinch. “Neither are you.” Quinn’s hand tightened around the revolver. “I’m here to take him down.” The man smiled, his voice low and smooth. “You’re too late.” Tomás stepped between them, his voice firm. “He’s not leaving. Not like this.” The man’s smile widened. “Oh, but he is. And you’ll be right behind him.” Quinn’s blood ran cold. She had seen enough of this world to know that words like that weren’t empty threats. They were promises. Then the ground trembled. A deep, resonant hum filled the air, vibrating through Quinn’s bones. The market seemed to shift, the stalls swaying slightly, the lanterns flickering. And then, from the darkness beyond the stall, a figure emerged—a woman, her form shifting between solid and shadow, her eyes burning with an unnatural light. Quinn’s mind raced. She had seen this before. She had seen it in the case that had nearly killed her partner. The Veil Market wasn’t just a place. It was a prison. And whatever was inside it was hungry. Tomás grabbed her arm, his grip tight. “We need to go.” Quinn looked at him, her mind racing. She could run. She could leave. But the way the woman watched her, the way the market seemed to breathe around them, made her hesitate. Then the woman’s voice cut through the tension, low and insistent. “You shouldn’t have come.” Quinn’s hand trembled as she pulled her revolver. “I’m not leaving him.” The woman’s smile was a ghost of a thing, her form flickering like a dying flame. “You’re already too late.” And then the market exploded into chaos. The stalls collapsed around them, the lanterns snapping like firecrackers. The air was filled with the scent of smoke and something else—something metallic, something *alive*. The woman’s form dissolved into the darkness, her voice fading into the chaos. Tomás grabbed Quinn’s arm, pulling her toward the exit. “We need to get out of here.” Quinn’s mind was a whirlwind of images—of the case that had nearly killed her partner, of the way the market had shifted, of the woman who had watched her with such familiarity. She had seen enough of this world to know that she was in over her head. But she couldn’t turn back now. She followed Tomás through the collapsing stalls, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the market seemed to swallow her whole. The tunnel behind them groaned, the gates rattling in the wind. And then, suddenly, they were back in the alleyway, the rain-soaked streets of Soho stretching out before them. Tomás pulled out the bone token, holding it up to the dim light. “You need this to get back in.” Quinn’s fingers trembled as she took it, her mind still reeling. She had seen enough of this world to know that she was never going back. But as she looked at Tomás, at the way he watched her with such intensity, she knew she had no choice. She turned and walked toward the Raven’s Nest, her boots crunching on the wet gravel. The market was gone, but the shadows remained, watching, waiting. And she was never going to let them win.