Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY98WY6TARAA460WCGC1H7T

Rain hammered the pavement, slicking the cobblestones under Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots. Each footfall sent a spray of water into the already soaked air. Ahead, a figure—Silas, the proprietor of The Raven’s Nest—darted between overflowing bins and shadowed doorways. He moved with an unsettling grace for a man his age, a flicker of white hair catching the sodium glare of the streetlights. Quinn pushed harder, her breath misting in the frigid night. Eighteen years on the force hadn’t prepared her for this. Not for the lingering scent of ozone and old parchment clinging to Silas’ coat, not for the way the shadows seemed to stretch and writhe around him. Not for the feeling that she was chasing something far beyond the realm of petty theft or drug dealing. “Silas!” she yelled, her voice swallowed by the downpour. “Stop! You’re obstructing a police investigation!” He didn’t respond, just increased his pace, disappearing into a narrow alleyway reeking of stale beer and damp concrete. Quinn followed without hesitation, ignoring the prickle of unease crawling up her spine. The alley opened onto a quieter street, lined with boarded-up shops and forgotten doorways. Silas vanished behind a graffiti-covered wall. Quinn rounded the corner, gun drawn, heart pounding. Nothing. Just the relentless rain and the echoing drip from a leaking drainpipe. She scanned the street, her eyes catching on a small, almost imperceptible indentation in the pavement, concealed by shadows. A metal ring, slightly tarnished. She knelt, ignoring the cold seeping through her trousers, and grasped the ring. It rotated with a quiet click, and a section of the pavement groaned open, revealing a steep, dark staircase descending into the earth. A gust of warm, damp air, carrying an unfamiliar aroma of spices and something metallic, wafted up from the depths. Quinn hesitated. The rain intensified, plastering her hair to her forehead. Three years. Three years since Morris, since that case that twisted her understanding of reality. It started subtly—odd artifacts, whispers of things that shouldn't exist. Then, the darkness. And then, Morris. She pulled out her phone, but the signal was dead. Typical. A muffled shout came from below, followed by the clatter of something heavy being dropped. Silas. Quinn looked back at the rain-swept street, at the mundane normality of the shops and the passing cars. Then she looked down at the gaping maw in the pavement, the gateway to something unknown. Doubt gnawed at her. This wasn’t standard procedure. This wasn’t something she could explain to her superiors. But she couldn't shake the feeling that this—whatever this was—held the key to unlocking the secrets of Silas and potentially understanding what happened to Morris. She descended the stairs, her hand gripping the cold, damp stone. The air grew thicker, heavier, the scent of unfamiliar spices intensifying. The stairs opened into a vast, cavernous space. It was a market. But unlike anything Quinn had ever seen. The air throbbed with a strange energy, a hum that vibrated in her bones. Stalls lined the cavern walls, illuminated by flickering lanterns that cast long, dancing shadows. People—or things that resembled people—moved through the throng, their faces obscured by masks or shrouded in cloaks. There were vendors hawking glowing potions, antique weapons adorned with strange symbols, and vials filled with iridescent liquids. The language was a Babel of unfamiliar tongues, punctuated by the clinking of coins and the murmur of bartering. A figure with skin like polished obsidian bartered over a length of shimmering fabric with a woman whose eyes glowed with an unnatural luminescence. A hulking brute, covered in intricate tattoos, examined a set of bone dice. Quinn felt like she’d stumbled into a fever dream. She spotted Silas near the center of the market, speaking animatedly to a vendor behind a stall piled high with ornate boxes. He was gesturing wildly, his face flushed with excitement. She moved cautiously, scanning the crowd. The market felt…watched. She could feel dozens of eyes on her, assessing, calculating. A flicker of movement caught her eye—a tall, gaunt figure cloaked in shadows, its face hidden by a deep hood. It didn’t move, just stood there, observing. “Can I help you, officer?” Quinn spun around, gun raised. A man stood before her, leaning against a stall displaying an array of bizarre, pulsating fungi. He was tall, with olive skin, short, curly dark brown hair, and warm brown eyes. A Saint Christopher medallion hung around his neck. A thin scar ran along his left forearm. “Who are you?” Quinn demanded, keeping her weapon trained on him. “Tomás Herrera,” he replied, his voice calm, almost soothing. He raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “And you are clearly out of your element.” “I’m a detective,” Quinn said, her voice tight. “I’m looking for a man named Silas.” Herrera’s eyes flickered to Silas’ location. “Silas frequents this market. He’s…a collector of rare items.” “And what is this place?” Quinn asked, gesturing around the bustling market. “They call it the Veil Market,” Herrera said. “A place where things not found in the mundane world are bought and sold.” “Supernatural things?” He didn’t deny it. “Among other things.” He paused, studying her face. “Detective, you shouldn’t be here. This place…it’s not for people like you.” “People like me?” Quinn repeated. “People bound by laws, by reason,” Herrera said. “Here, those things hold little sway.” He glanced nervously at the cloaked figure still observing them from the shadows. “You’re drawing attention to yourself. Silas won’t appreciate it.” “I need to talk to him,” Quinn insisted. “He’s a suspect in a case.” Herrera shook his head. “That’s unwise. Things here can be…complicated.” He looked pointedly at her gun. “I can handle myself.” Quinn tightened her grip on the weapon. “You might be surprised,” Herrera said quietly. "And it gets moved every full moon. You'll be lost." He paused, then added, "Tell me, Detective... do you have a bone token?" Quinn frowned. "A what?" "Entry," Herrera clarified, gesturing to the crowd. "Everyone here has one. You don’t…” He didn’t finish the sentence. A gruff voice cut through the market’s clamor. “Quinn. What are you doing here?” Quinn froze. She recognized that voice. Deep, clipped, authoritative. Detective Harlow Quinn slowly turned around. Silas stood a few feet away, his face a mask of controlled fury. “I could ask you the same question,” Quinn retorted, keeping her gun trained on him. Silas chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "I'm just here to shop. Isn't that right, Tomás?" Herrera met Quinn's gaze, a look of concern etched on his face. “You’re making a mistake, Quinn,” Silas said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Leave now, and I might let you walk away.”