Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9KXBZ37X8X6KVSE6V3JE4

The rain came down in sheets, a relentless assault on the neon glow of Soho’s streets. Harlow Quinn’s breath fogged in the cold air as she ducked beneath the awning of a shuttered bookshop, her leather watch glinting dully against her wrist. The suspect—*her suspect*—had vanished into the crowd, but the scent of damp wool and old ink clung to her coat. She could still hear the distant thud of boots on pavement, the murmur of voices that weren’t quite human. *Stupid move.* She adjusted the grip on her revolver, the weight familiar in her gloved hand. The case had been too neat, too *clean*—the kind of thing that made her skin prickle. The clique. The whispers. The way the witnesses had all vanished after the last murder. She’d spent three years chasing ghosts, and now she was chasing a man who might not even be human. A shadow moved ahead of her, just for a second, before slipping into the alley between two brick buildings. Harlow didn’t hesitate. She followed, her boots splashing through puddles that reflected the sickly yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. The alley narrowed, the walls slick with rain, and the air thickened with the stench of rotting garbage and something older—something *wrong*. Then she saw it. A door, unmarked but for a single, rusted hinge. No sign, no number, just a heavy wooden panel that should have been boarded up long ago. But it wasn’t locked. The suspect was already inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a groan of protesting hinges. Harlow didn’t think. She kicked it open. The room beyond was a maze of crates and flickering lanterns, the air thick with the scent of damp wood and something metallic, like old blood. A man stood in the center, turning to face her, his face half-lit by the dim glow. Tomás Herrera. She recognized him from the files—former paramedic, disgraced, last seen in association with the clique. His dark eyes widened, but he didn’t run. Didn’t even flinch when she raised her revolver. "Detective Quinn," he said, his voice low, accented. "I was wondering when you’d find me." She stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind her. The alley was gone now, swallowed by the weight of the city above. "You’re not supposed to be here," she said, her voice sharp. Tomás exhaled, running a hand through his damp curls. "Neither are you." A beat of silence. The kind that hung between two people who knew too much about each other. Then he gestured to the far wall, where a narrow staircase spiraled downward into darkness. "You really want to do this here?" Harlow’s pulse hammered in her throat. She knew that staircase. She’d seen it in the files, in the grainy photos taken by some long-dead undercover cop. The Veil Market. The underground market. The place where the clique did their business. She should have walked away. Should have called for backup. Should have done *anything* but follow him down there. But the files had been wrong. The witnesses had lied. And now, standing in this damp, reeking room with a man who knew things he wasn’t supposed to, she realized she’d already crossed a line. She holstered her revolver and stepped forward. "Lead the way." Tomás didn’t argue. He descended the stairs, his boots echoing in the silence. The air grew colder, thicker, until it felt like breathing through water. The lanterns flickered, casting long shadows that seemed to move on their own. And then, at the bottom of the stairs, the door opened. It wasn’t a door. Not really. It was a veil of shifting mist, thick and heavy, like the breath of something vast and unseen. Beyond it, the market stretched out—a labyrinth of stalls and whispers, the air humming with the low murmur of voices that weren’t quite human. Tomás stepped through without hesitation. Harlow followed. The moment she crossed the threshold, the world changed. The rain was gone. The city was gone. All that remained was the market, a place that shouldn’t exist, where the laws of the world above were just suggestions. Stalls lined the narrow paths, their wares glowing with an eerie light—bottles of black liquid, bones carved with strange symbols, fabrics that shimmered like liquid silver. And people. Dozens of them, moving like shadows, their faces half-hidden in the gloom. Some watched her. Some whispered. One man, his skin too pale, too smooth, turned and locked eyes with her. Harlow’s breath came faster. She clutched the revolver in her hand, her fingers numb. Tomás didn’t look back. He kept walking, his steps sure, his shoulders tense. "You’re not supposed to be here," he said again, this time without inflection. She wanted to ask why. Wanted to demand answers. But the words stuck in her throat, choking on the weight of what she was seeing. Because this wasn’t just a market. This was a *hunting ground*. And she was standing in the middle of it. A hand clamped onto her shoulder, rough and calloused. She spun, revolver raised— —and found herself staring into the sharp brown eyes of Tomás Herrera, his face twisted in something between apology and warning. "Run," he said. The word hung between them, heavy as a threat. Harlow didn’t move. She’d come too far to turn back now.