Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY99KT8YDKTB0G9RS6H4R4T

The rain fell in sheets, turning the cobbled streets of Soho into a slick, reflective mirror. Harlow Quinn pulled her collar tighter, the damp seeping through her jacket like a living thing. The suspect—a wiry man with a leather satchel slung over his shoulder—ducked into the narrow alley between *The Raven’s Nest* and the boarded-up tailor’s shop. She didn’t hesitate. Her boots splashed through puddles as she closed the distance, the neon glow of the bar’s green sign bleeding into the gloom. The alley stank of stale beer and something older, something metallic. She pressed herself against the brick wall, listening. A distant drip. The susurrus of the city, indifferent. Then—footsteps. Light, quick. He was moving deeper. Quinn exhaled through her nose, the cold air burning her lungs. She drew her service pistol, the weight familiar in her grip. The suspect had been tailing her informant for weeks, slipping in and out of the shadows like a rat. Tonight, he’d made a mistake. Left a trail of blood on the pavement outside the pub. Not enough to kill, but enough to draw her in. She rounded the corner just as he vanished behind a bookshelf. The wood groaned under her palm as she shoved it aside. The hidden door yawned open, revealing a stairwell descending into darkness. A stale, earthy scent curled up from below—damp stone, something herbal, the faint tang of ozone. Her pulse kicked. She’d heard whispers of this place. *The Veil Market.* A black-market den for things that didn’t belong in the light. The suspect was already halfway down, his satchel bouncing against his hip. Quinn hesitated. The stairs were narrow, the air thick with the hum of unseen energy. She could turn back. Call for backup. But backup would take time. And time was the one thing she didn’t have. She stepped forward. The moment her boot touched the bottom step, the door slammed shut behind her. The bookshelf sealed itself with a final, ominous *click*. Quinn spun, her finger tightening on the trigger. The stairwell was empty. No exit. No way out but down. A flicker of movement. A shadow detached itself from the wall—a figure in a long coat, their face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. “Lost, Detective?” The voice was smooth, amused. “Or just late for the party?” Quinn didn’t lower the gun. “Who the hell are you?” The figure tilted their head. “Names don’t matter down here. But if you’re looking for your friend”—a jerk of the chin toward the tunnel ahead—“he’s already gone. And you? You’re standing in the wrong place.” She didn’t flinch. “I don’t follow orders well.” A chuckle, low and knowing. “Neither do we.” The figure stepped aside, revealing the tunnel stretching into blackness. “But if you’re set on playing catch-up, the market’s that way. Just don’t blame me when the rules change.” Quinn holstered her pistol. She wasn’t here for games. She was here for answers. The tunnel twisted, the walls slick with condensation. Strange symbols glowed faintly in the dark—carved into the stone, or pressed into it, she couldn’t tell. The air grew heavier, charged like the moment before a storm. Distant voices echoed, a babble of languages she didn’t recognize. Laughter. The clink of glass. The scent of incense and something sharper, like burnt copper. Then she saw them. Stalls lined the tunnel, their wares displayed under flickering lanterns. Bottles of swirling liquid that shouldn’t exist. Bundles of herbs that withered and bloomed in seconds. A cage in the corner, its bars humming with energy, containing something that wasn’t quite an animal. Quinn’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t a market. It was a graveyard. A hand clamped onto her shoulder. She whirled, her hand going for her gun again— “Easy.” Tomás Herrera’s voice, sharp with urgency. His olive skin was pale, his dark eyes wide. “You shouldn’t be here.” She shoved him off. “Where’s he going?” Tomás didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed her wrist, dragging her deeper into the market. “They’ll sense you. They’ll *know* you’re not supposed to be here.” “Who?” “The ones who run this place.” His grip tightened. “And they don’t take kindly to visitors.” Quinn wrenched free. “I’m not leaving without him.” Tomás exhaled, frustrated. “He’s already sold what he came for. And now they’ll come for *you*.” A ripple of movement. Figures emerged from the shadows—tall, gaunt, their faces half-hidden beneath hoods. One of them stepped forward, their voice a dry rasp. “Detective Harlow Quinn. We’ve been expecting you.” She didn’t look away. “Where’s my suspect?” The figure smiled, or something like it. “Gone. But not before he gave us what we wanted.” Quinn’s fingers twitched toward her gun. “What did he sell?” The figure tilted their head. “Information. The kind that gets people killed.” A beat of silence. Then, from the darkness behind them, a sound—wet, guttural. Something dragged itself across the stone. Tomás grabbed her arm. “We need to move. *Now.*” Quinn didn’t resist. She let him pull her forward, her eyes locked on the figures retreating into the shadows. The market was a maze. And she was lost. But not for long.