AI The rain arrived not as a gentle drizzle, but a solid sheet, plastering itself to the slick cobblestones of Soho. Each drop felt weighted, a tiny, insistent hammer blow against the pavement. Detective Harlow Quinn adjusted the worn leather watch on her left wrist, the subtle tick a counterpoint to the insistent drumming of the downpour. Twelve minutes. Twelve minutes since she’d last seen him – Silas Blackwood , a collector of the… unusual, and a man who’d been weaving a tangled web of lies for the past three weeks. He’d been boasting, loudly and carelessly, at The Raven’s Nest about a new acquisition, something he referred to only as “The Veiled Echo.” Quinn had intended to simply record his boasts for a warrant, a polite, bureaucratic conversation. Instead, he'd bolted.
The rain intensified, turning the neon signs of the bars into distorted smears of colour. Quinn pushed off the brick wall of a closed bookstore, the damp seeping through her jacket. Blackwood was heading east, down Berwick Street, his movements quick, almost frantic. Not the calculated efficiency of someone who knew exactly where they were going, but the desperate scramble of a cornered animal . She followed, her boots splashing through puddles that reflected the city’s sickly glow. The air smelled of wet asphalt, exhaust fumes, and something else… something faintly metallic, like old blood. The kind of smell that lingered, that scratched at the back of your throat. A memory flashed – DS Morris, his face pale beneath the forensic lights, describing a similar scent clinging to the victim of *that * case, three years ago. A case she’d been ordered to bury, to forget.
She crested the street and saw him disappearing into a narrow alleyway between a kebab shop and a pawn shop – a jarring juxtaposition of late-night cravings and illicit goods. Quinn pushed through the alley, the stench of garlic and something vaguely rotten clinging to the air. The alley opened abruptly into a darker, narrower street, slick with rainwater and shadowed by towering buildings. The rain here was heavier, driven by a wind that smelled of the Thames. Blackwood was gone . She checked his discarded leather gloves, a dark burgundy, lying abandoned on the wet pavement. No trace of a weapon, no hurried note. Just the gloves, a single, deliberate abandonment.
“Damn it,” she muttered, adjusting the strap of her holster. Her military precision, honed over eighteen years on the force, demanded a systematic approach. A single abandoned glove wasn’t enough to justify a blind chase. Unless… Silas Blackwood wasn’t just running; he was deliberately misleading her. She activated her comms. “Miller, I need you to run facial recognition on Blackwood ’s prints from the gloves. Priority one. And pull up everything we have on the Veiled Echo. I want to know who he was dealing with, and what he thought he was getting himself into.”
The response crackled in her ear: “On it, Detective.”
Quinn scanned the street again, her eyes moving with practiced efficiency, cataloguing every shadow, every reflection. A flicker of movement at the end of the alley. She moved quickly, her boots slipping slightly on the wet pavement. A figure emerged from a doorway – Tomás Herrera, a former paramedic who'd built a discreet, illicit medical practice, catering to the city’s less-than-legal clientele. He was kneeling beside Blackwood , examining a gash on his forearm, the scarlet stain blooming beneath the dim light. The scar, a jagged white line that spoke of a violent encounter , was new. Very new.
“Mr. Blackwood ," Herrera said, his voice low and carefully neutral, "you’re bleeding considerably. And this wound… it’s remarkably clean. Almost surgical.” He didn’t look up. “Didn’t expect this to escalate so quickly .”
“Just a bit of clumsy business,” Blackwood grunted, clutching his arm. His face was pale, his breathing ragged. "Let's just... let's just get out of here."
Quinn stepped into the alley, her Glock drawn, the steel reflecting the flashing neon from the street above. “Don’t move.” Her voice was clipped, devoid of emotion. The rain seemed to amplify the sound, turning it into a harsh, echoing drone.
Blackwood tried to rise, but Herrera grabbed his arm, holding him down with surprising strength. “Let her handle it, Silas. You’re not winning this.”
“You took something from me,” Blackwood spat, his eyes darting around the alley, searching for an escape route. “Something valuable.”
“Everything has a price,” Herrera replied, his gaze unwavering . “You chose to pay it.”
Quinn didn't wait for more conversation. She moved swiftly, tackling Herrera to the ground. The medic, despite his training, was surprisingly resistant. A brief, brutal struggle ensued, punctuated by grunts and the scraping of leather against concrete. Within seconds, she had him pinned, the medical medallion around his neck glinting under the rain.
“Secure him,” she commanded, her voice tight with controlled fury. “And check him for anything… untoward.”
As one of her officers, Miller, began to examine Herrera, Quinn turned her attention back to Blackwood . He was attempting to scramble towards a side door, a narrow opening concealed behind a stack of overflowing bins. She stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
“It ends here, Blackwood .”
“You don’t understand,” he pleaded, his voice rising in desperation. “It’s not about the Echo. It’s about… protection.”
“Protection from what?”
He hesitated, glanced nervously at Herrera, then back at Quinn. "From *them *."
Suddenly, the ground beneath them began to tremble. A low, guttural hum resonated through the alley, rising in intensity . Rain intensified drastically, turning from a downpour to a deluge. A section of the brick wall behind them shuddered, and a rectangular panel slid open, revealing a dark, narrow passage. The air pouring out was cold, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something else… something ancient and unsettling. The entrance to The Veil Market.
“Get down!” Quinn yelled, shoving Blackwood towards the ground.
The panel slammed shut with a resounding thud, plunging the alley into near darkness, illuminated only by flashes of lightning. Miller shouted, “Detective, there’s… something moving down there!”
From the depths of the passage, a low, rhythmic chanting began, accompanied by the clatter of unseen objects. A shimmering, almost visible ripple distorted the air around the opening. It wasn’t just the rain. It was something else. Something far more sinister . Blackwood ’s eyes widened with a terror Quinn hadn’t seen before.
“They found me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the chanting. “They *always * find me.”
Before Quinn could react, a figure emerged from the passage - a tall, gaunt man in a long, dark coat, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. He carried a bone token, a polished shard of bleached ivory, and he regarded Quinn with an unsettlingly calm gaze.
“Detective Quinn,” the man’s voice was a low rasp, like dry leaves skittering across pavement. “We’ve been expecting you.” He extended a hand, offering Quinn the bone token. “Welcome to the market.”
The chanting intensified, rising to a fever pitch. A wave of icy air washed over Quinn, and she felt a prickling sensation on her skin, as if countless unseen eyes were bearing down on her. The rain intensified, blurring the edges of reality.
Miller shouted again, “Detective! I’m picking up a massive energy spike! It’s… it’s centered right on that doorway!”
Quinn instinctively raised her Glock, her finger tightening on the trigger. Whatever was happening down there, it wasn’t natural. It wasn’t human.
"Miller," she said, her voice tight with suppressed urgency . "Secure the perimeter. I need every officer available, and I want them ready for anything. And –" she paused, her gaze fixed on the entrance to the Veil Market. “Tell forensics to dust for prints. Old prints. And whatever you do, don’t touch anything."