Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9286E3XC8HQKVFQSJCQ0M

The rain fell in sheets, turning the cobblestones of Soho into a slick, treacherous mirror. Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles that reflected the sickly glow of the streetlights, her breath steady despite the adrenaline. She kept the suspect in her sights—a wiry figure in a long coat, moving with purpose through the labyrinth of alleys. The man had slipped through her fingers twice already, but not this time. Not when she had the scent of him now, the faint metallic tang of fear clinging to the damp air. She pressed herself against the brick wall of a shuttered tailor’s shop, her sharp jaw set. The suspect had ducked into a narrow passage between two buildings, one hand clutching a small, leather-bound object. Quinn’s fingers twitched toward the holster at her side, but she held back. No shots. Not yet. Not until she knew what he was carrying. The passage opened into a dimly lit courtyard, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something older—something that prickled at the back of her neck like static. The suspect hesitated at the edge of the courtyard, glancing over his shoulder as if sensing her presence. Then he was moving again, his footsteps echoing against the wet stone. Quinn followed, her military precision keeping her silent. The courtyard was a dead end—or so it seemed. But the suspect didn’t stop. Instead, he pressed his palm against the wall, and with a quiet *click*, a section of the brickwork swung inward, revealing a darkness beyond. Quinn’s pulse jumped. She knew this place. Or at least, she knew the rumors. The Veil Market. A black market for things that didn’t belong in the light. She’d heard whispers of it from informants, but no one had ever seen it. No one had ever *been* there. The suspect was already disappearing into the darkness, the leather-bound object clutched tight in his gloved hand. Quinn hesitated. The market was uncharted territory. If she followed him down there, she’d be stepping into the unknown—no backup, no rules, just the cold certainty that something was very wrong. But she couldn’t let him go. She exhaled, then stepped forward, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The hidden door groaned shut behind her, sealing her in the dark. The air was thick, humid, the scent of damp stone and something else—something like ozone and old blood. A flickering lantern cast long shadows across the tunnel walls, where strange symbols had been carved into the rock. Quinn’s flashlight cut through the gloom, revealing a path that sloped downward, the walls lined with stalls that hadn’t existed the last time she’d been above ground. People moved through the crowd—no, not people. Some were human, their faces gaunt, their eyes too bright. Others were not. A woman with skin like polished obsidian passed by, her fingers trailing over a glass case filled with jars of swirling liquid. A man with too many teeth grinned at Quinn from the shadows, his voice a wet whisper. *"Lost, detective?"* Quinn ignored them, her gaze locked on the suspect. He was weaving through the crowd, his movements sharp, desperate. She followed, her hand resting on the butt of her service weapon. The market was a maze, the stalls selling things that made her stomach clench—bottles of black liquid, bundles of herbs that hummed with energy, small cages containing things that *moved* even when they shouldn’t. A stall caught her eye—a man in a long coat, his fingers stained with ink, offering *"truths for the asking."* Quinn’s instincts screamed at her to turn away, but she forced herself to look closer. The man’s eyes were milky white, his smile too wide. *"You want to know about your partner, detective?"* he murmured. *"I know things. Things that will make you sleep better at night."* Quinn’s breath hitched. Morris. His name was a ghost in her chest, a wound that never closed. She took a step forward— A hand clamped around her wrist, yanking her back. She whirled, her free hand flying to her weapon, but it was only Tomás Herrera, his dark eyes wide, his scarred forearm flexing as he pulled her deeper into the shadows. *"You don’t want to talk to him,"* Tomás hissed. *"He’s not selling truths. He’s selling *lies*."* Quinn wrenched her arm free. *"I don’t have time for this. My suspect—"* *"Is already gone."* Tomás jerked his chin toward the far end of the market, where the suspect had vanished into a side tunnel. *"And you’re about to walk into something you can’t handle."* Quinn’s jaw tightened. *"I don’t need your help."* *"You do if you want to leave this place alive."* Tomás’s voice was low, urgent. *"This isn’t just a market. It’s a *door*. And once you step through, the rules change."* Quinn looked back at the tunnel where the suspect had disappeared. She could still chase him. She could still— A sound cut through the noise of the market—a wet, tearing noise, like fabric being ripped. Then a scream. Not human. Something *else*. Quinn’s blood turned to ice. Tomás grabbed her arm again, dragging her toward a side passage. *"Now you listen to me. There’s another way out. But we have to move."* She let him pull her, her mind racing. The suspect was gone. The market was a trap. And whatever had made that sound was closing in. They ran, the lantern light flickering behind them, the air growing colder with every step. Quinn’s flashlight beam caught movement ahead—a figure, hunched and wrong, blocking their path. Its eyes gleamed in the dark, too many teeth bared in a grin. Tomás cursed, shoving Quinn behind him. *"Run,"* he ordered. She didn’t hesitate. They turned down another tunnel, the sound of pursuit echoing behind them. Quinn’s lungs burned, her boots slipping on the damp stone. Then, suddenly, light. The exit—a rusted metal ladder leading up into the dark night. Tomás didn’t wait. He climbed first, his hands gripping the rungs, his body disappearing into the darkness above. Quinn followed, her muscles screaming, her mind replaying the sounds of the market—the screams, the whispers, the things that moved in the dark. She emerged into the rain-soaked alley, gasping for air. Tomás was already there, his back against the wall, his breath ragged. *"You okay?"* he asked. Quinn wiped rain from her face, her fingers trembling. *"No."* Tomás studied her, his warm brown eyes searching hers. *"What did you see down there?"* She thought of the suspect, of the things in the market, of the voice that had whispered about Morris. *"Enough to know I don’t want to go back."* Tomás exhaled, running a hand through his dark curls. *"Good. Because you won’t."* Quinn looked back at the hidden door, now just another section of brick in the wall. The market was gone. For now. But the questions remained. And she wasn’t done yet.