Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9923P15EJ3KPA5EK9TDER

The rain tasted of coal dust and desperation. Harlow Quinn’s coat, a practical, dark grey number several years out of style, plastered to her legs as she pounded the slick pavement. Each breath hitched in her throat, a ragged counterpoint to the drumming of the downpour. Ahead, Silas—the proprietor of The Raven’s Nest, and currently her prime suspect—moved with a surprising agility for a man his age, his long coat billowing behind him like a shroud. He’d bolted from the bar the instant she'd mentioned needing to ask him a few questions about a shipment of “rare herbs” that had been delivered earlier that evening. Rare herbs, she suspected, were a euphemism for something considerably more potent. And illegal. Twenty years on the force hadn't dulled her instincts, but they sharpened with every case she pursued. This one, this prickling sense of wrongness, felt different. It clung to her like the damp chill seeping through her shoes. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Two uniformed officers were gaining on him, but not quickly enough. Silas had a head start, a familiarity with these labyrinthine alleyways that she lacked. The neon green glow of The Raven’s Nest’s sign, a faded raven perched on a swirling branch, receded behind her. The chase weaved through the narrow streets of Soho, a frantic dance amongst overflowing bins and flickering streetlights. Silas ducked under a sagging awning, disappearing momentarily into the shadows. Harlow pushed past, her hand instinctively moving to the SIG Sauer holstered at her hip. He reappeared at the mouth of a service tunnel, a rusted metal door set into the brickwork. Without hesitation, he fumbled with a lock, the screech of protesting metal echoing in the rain-swept night. “Silas!” Harlow shouted, her voice strained against the wind and rain. He didn't answer, only yanked the door open and plunged into the darkness. She hesitated, the raw scent of damp earth and something else… something ancient and unsettling… wafting out of the tunnel. It wasn’t the usual subterranean grime of London's underbelly. It was…different. Her watch gleamed faintly in the dim light – a worn leather piece, a relic from her father, a reminder of a life before the job consumed her. Checking the time offered no comfort. It only seemed to amplify the silence that pressed in on her. The uniformed officers arrived, panting and soaked, at the tunnel's entrance. “Detective Quinn! What’s down there?” the younger one, Miller, called out, his voice tight with apprehension. Harlow didn't respond. She glanced back at the tunnel entrance, a dark maw promising unknown dangers. This wasn’t a simple case of smuggling. Something else was at play, something she couldn't quite grasp. The missing pieces of her partner’s disappearance, three years ago, felt like they might be buried down there, too. She thought of DS Morris. The official report listed it as a tragic accident during a stakeout. But Harlow knew better. There were inconsistencies, shadows at the edges of the investigation that had never been fully illuminated. Shadows that whispered of something beyond the mundane. “He’s gone underground,” she stated, her voice low and steady despite the turmoil in her gut. “Secure the perimeter. Don’t let anyone in or out.” Miller’s face was a mask of confusion. “Underground? What are we even looking for, Detective?” “Something I don't understand yet,” Harlow replied, turning back to the tunnel entrance. “But I intend to find out.” Taking a deep breath, she engaged the tactical light on her weapon, a beam of white cutting through the oppressive darkness. The air grew colder as she stepped inside. The tunnel sloped downward, the walls slick with moisture. The familiar smell of sewage gradually faded, replaced by a musty odor that pricked at her nostrils. The tunnel opened into a vast, cavernous space. A low hum vibrated through the floor, resonating in her bones. The rain above was gone; the air was strangely still, thick with an almost palpable energy. And then she saw it. A sprawling marketplace spread out before her, bathed in the eerie glow of flickering lanterns suspended from the low-hanging ceiling. Stalls lined the cavern walls, displaying an array of bizarre and unsettling wares: dried herbs in unfamiliar shapes, vials filled with iridescent liquids, strange metallic objects that pulsed with an inner light. The architecture was impossible, defying conventional engineering – arches and pillars seemed to defy gravity, constructed from a black, obsidian-like material. This was no ordinary underground space. This was… the Veil Market. She’d heard whispers of it, legends dismissed as urban myths by her superiors. A black market for the supernatural, they said, a place where the veil between worlds thinned. A place that moved locations every full moon, hidden beneath the ever-changing landscape of London. A man with olive skin and short, curly dark brown hair hurried past, his Saint Christopher medallion swinging against his chest. Tomás Herrera. She recognized him instantly from his medical records. A former paramedic, now operating outside the bounds of the NHS, providing illicit care to… individuals. He spotted her and froze, his warm brown eyes widening in alarm. He didn’t stop, however, but darted deeper into the market. He was headed for a stall draped in heavy black cloth, the air around it shimmering with an unnatural heat. Harlow moved forward, her boots echoing on the damp stone floor. The crowd was strangely silent, a collection of shadowy figures cloaked in long robes and concealing hoods. She caught glimpses of inhuman features beneath the fabric – elongated ears, iridescent scales, eyes that glowed with an otherworldly light. The scent was almost overwhelming now – a mixture of exotic spices, decay, and something indefinably… magic. She felt a prickle of unease crawl across her skin, the instinctive warning of a predator sensing another. She scanned the crowd, searching for Silas. He was nowhere to be seen. Reaching the stall, she saw Silas engaged in a hushed conversation with a slender figure draped in crimson robes. The figure’s face was obscured by a deep hood, but Harlow caught a flash of silver rings adorning long, elegant fingers. Silas was handing over a small, intricately carved wooden box. The figure accepted it with a curt nod, then produced a small, bone-like token – a simple circle etched with strange runes. “The exchange is complete,” Silas said, his voice barely a whisper. “As agreed,” replied the figure. “The information will be delivered within the hour.” The figure turned to leave, disappearing into the throng of shoppers. Silas watched him go, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Harlow stepped forward, her gun raised. “Silas,” she said, her voice ringing out through the unnatural quiet. He turned, his face pale, the facade of amiable bar owner crumbling to reveal a desperate man. "Detective Quinn," he said, his voice tight. “What are you doing here?” “That’s what I’d like to know,” Harlow countered, her grip tightening on her weapon. “And what you’re trading for.” He gestured vaguely towards the dark recesses of the market. “Just business, Detective. Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” “Business involving enchanted artifacts and clandestine information? You think I’m going to let that slide?” She shifted her weight, her posture radiating authority and intent. "Where did you get the bone token? And where does this market move to next?" He didn't answer. Harlow knew then; she'd stumbled onto something significant, something that threatened to unravel everything she thought she knew about London. And she was standing on the precipice of a world she barely understood. Turning back towards the tunnel entrance, she considered what awaited her: a potential reckoning, a heightening danger, a pathway to understanding the supernatural events that started with her partner's death. But did she really want to descend further into this darkness?