Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9DV79KRPH03SDC0GCFB7K

Rain lashed against Detective Harlow Quinn’s face, blurring the neon sign of a kebab shop into a smeared red glow. She tasted grit and exhaust fumes. Her leather jacket, usually enough protection against a London chill, was soaked through. Across the street, a figure darted into the gloom beneath a railway arch. Tomás Herrera. She’d been tailing him for three nights, a prickling instinct telling her he was a conduit, not a perpetrator, but a conduit to something foul. She pushed off from the wall she’d been leaning against, her sensible boots splashing in the puddles. Herrera moved with a deceptive casualness, the way a seasoned runner lulls a pursuer into overconfidence. Quinn wasn't fooled. He was fast, too fast for a former paramedic. She hadn't expected him to *run,* not like this. It confirmed her suspicions. The archway opened onto a narrow alley, barely wide enough for a single car. The air grew thick, smelling of damp concrete and something else… something metallic and faintly sweet. The alley ended abruptly at a metal grate set into the pavement. Herrera didn’t hesitate. He pulled a small, bone token from his pocket, swiped it across a recessed scanner beside the grate, and it shuddered open with a groan of protesting metal. He disappeared into the darkness. Quinn slowed, her breath misting in the cold air. She stopped at the edge of the opening, peering down. It wasn’t a sewer. It was a staircase, spiraling down into what looked like a vast, cavernous space. A faint, pulsating throb of music and voices drifted up from below, overlaid with the drip, drip, drip of water. The Veil Market. She'd heard whispers. Rumors among the city’s lowlifes, the sort who dealt in stolen antiquities and illicit substances. A black market for things that shouldn't *be* sold. Things that shouldn't *exist*. She’d dismissed them as barroom boasts. Until now. She checked her watch, the worn leather strap cold against her wrist. 23:47. A Friday night. The Market moved with the full moon, using abandoned spaces, lost tunnels; tonight it was beneath Camden. The reports had mentioned a bone token, a symbol of… admission. A chill that had nothing to do with the rain ran down her spine. The investigations surrounding DS Morris’s death three years ago kept looping back into the realms of the impossible. A case that had started with a seemingly straightforward robbery gone wrong had devolved into a tangle of strange symbols, archaic rituals, and a primal fear she hadn’t known she possessed. Officially, it was closed. An armed response failure. But Quinn knew better. She’d *felt* something that night, something cold and ancient, clinging to the edges of reality. She glanced back at the rain-slicked street. Empty. No backup responding to her silent call for assistance. She hadn’t told them where she was going, not exactly. Just that she had a lead. A strong one. And she hadn't given them Herrera's name. Not yet. The consequences of entering that underground world could be… unpredictable. Her career, for a start. She was operating outside of protocol, chasing shadows and hunches. But the thought of Herrera disappearing down there, potentially connecting with whoever – or *whatever* – was pulling the strings, was enough to override her caution. She took a deep breath, the damp air filling her lungs. Military precision, she reminded herself. Assess, plan, execute. She scanned the alley again, double-checking for witnesses. Nothing. No cameras that she could see. Good. She needed to remain untracked. The grate was heavy, reinforced steel. Someone had gone to considerable effort to conceal this place. The descent was steeper than she’d anticipated. The steps were slick with moisture, and a faint, sickly-sweet odor grew stronger with each downward spiral. The pulsating music resolved into a fractured beat, layered with exotic instruments and guttural chants. The voices below were a jumble of languages she didn't recognize, interwoven with the harsh consonants of London argot. When she reached the bottom, she found herself in a vast, labyrinthine space. The arched ceiling was lost in shadow, supported by crumbling brick pillars. Makeshift stalls lined the corridors, illuminated by flickering gas lamps and strange, glowing crystals. The air was thick with smoke, incense, and the scent of a thousand unidentifiable substances. This wasn't just a market. It was a warren, a den of iniquity, a festering wound beneath the city. People – and *things* – milled about, their faces obscured by hoods or masks. Figures with shimmering scales, others with unnaturally pale skin, creatures that looked like they’d stepped out of a nightmare. They haggled over vials of luminescent liquids, ornate daggers with curved blades, and bizarre artifacts carved from bone and stone. Quinn’s hand instinctively went to her sidearm, but she hesitated. Displaying a weapon here would be…provocative. Unduly so. This wasn't a street bust. This was something else entirely. She needed to observe, to blend in, to find Herrera. She moved slowly, keeping to the shadows, her eyes constantly scanning the crowd. The sheer audacity of the place was unsettling. The open flaunting of the forbidden. The casual acceptance of the impossible. Then she saw him. Herrera was further down the corridor, talking to a man with eyes like polished obsidian and a silver ring on every finger. He was handing over something small and wrapped in black velvet. Quinn quickened her pace, trying to get closer, but the crowd was dense, a swirling mass of bodies and otherworldly creatures. She brushed against a cloaked figure, catching a whiff of something cold and reptilian. She forced herself to keep moving. As she neared Herrera and the obsidian-eyed man, she picked up snippets of their conversation. “…the extract, as promised,” Herrera said, his voice low and tense. The man examined the velvet packet, a predatory smile spreading across his lips. “Exquisite. The Alchemist will be pleased. And your… contact?” "Safe. For now." “‘For now’ is a fragile promise, Tomás.” The man’s voice was like grinding stones. “This is a delicate transaction. Any disruption… and both your safeties are forfeit.” Quinn stopped a few feet away, pretending to examine a display of oddly shaped crystals. She needed to hear more. She needed to know what Herrera had just delivered. The man with obsidian eyes handed Herrera a handful of what looked like dried herbs. “A small payment. For your trouble.” Herrera nodded, avoiding the man’s gaze. He tucked the herbs into a pouch at his belt. Then, the man’s eyes swept across the crowd and landed on Quinn. He paused, his gaze lingering for a beat too long. A flicker of recognition crossed his face. “Well, now,” he said, his voice a silken threat. “What have we here?”