Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9SZGERDTW1D6DK0EZ6C86

The rain lashed London’s Soho sidewalks, turning puddles into dark mirrors that caught the flicker of The Raven’s Nest’s green neon sign—its glow seeping through the bar’s fogged windows to paint the wet concrete in sickly streaks. Detective Harlow Quinn pressed her back to a soot-stained brick wall, her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her skull, her worn leather watch digging into her left wrist as she curled her fingers into a fist. She’d staked the bar for three nights straight, her military precision keeping her motionless through each downpour, each distant siren wailing over Soho’s neon-lit chaos, each murmur of cliquesmen slipping through the hidden back room’s bookshelf door—she’d spotted the hinge glint once, when a bartender had reached for a tattered map on the wall. The Raven’s Nest’s interior hummed with unspoken secrets: old maps of supernatural ley lines tacked to the walls, black-and-white photographs of long-dead clique leaders staring down from above the bar, the faint scent of banned alchemical smoke seeping through the cracks. Then he emerged. A lanky man with a ragged wool coat slung over one shoulder, his hood pulled low to hide his face, his hand clamped around a small, off-white object Quinn’s sharp eyes pegged as a bone token—she’d seen the same pitted trinket in a seized clique ledger two weeks prior, its pages scrawled with notes about the Veil Market’s moving locations and entry requirements. He glanced over his shoulder, his jaw tight enough to make his cheekbone bulge, and bolted. Quinn pushed off the wall. Her boot slammed into a puddle, sending water arching over a parked bicycle’s rusted handlebars. She didn’t yell. Yells wasted breath, gave the suspect a head start to dart into Soho’s narrow alleyways. She tracked his strides, her 5’9” frame eating up the slick asphalt faster than he anticipated—her military training turning each splash of rain into a marker, each skid of his sneakers into a clue. The man darted around a stack of discarded cardboard boxes, his coat catching on a rusted fire escape’s rungs, and stumbled. Quinn closed the gap by three feet, her fingers brushing the edge of her utility belt where she kept her cuffs and a tattered photo of her late partner, DS Morris. He veered north, toward Camden, his sneakers skidding on the wet curbs as he cut through a crowd of rain-drenched tourists hovering outside a kebab shop. Quinn wove through the crowd, her sharp jaw tightening when a tourist’s umbrella jabbed her in the shoulder—she didn’t pause, didn’t apologize, her focus locked on the suspect’s hooded figure. He reached a chained-off subway entrance, its metal grates corroded with age, the words “Camden Town Abandoned” stenciled on a peeling sign above. He fumbled with the bone token, pressing it to a hidden slot on the grate. A click echoed through the rain. The grates swung inward, and he slipped down the stone steps. Quinn skidded to a halt at the entrance. She grabbed the chain, her fingers slick with rain and rust, and tugged. It didn’t budge—not without the token. She scanned the street, her brown eyes darting past closed record shops and graffiti-tagged walls, and spotted him. Tomás Herrera leaned against a flickering lamppost, his short curly dark brown hair matted with rain, his olive skin glistening under the light. His Saint Christopher medallion hung from his neck, bouncing lightly as he shifted his weight, and the scar running along his left forearm stretched when he crossed his arms. Quinn recognized him immediately—intelligence reports linked him to the clique’s off-the-books medical care, his lost NHS license a mark of his ties to supernatural patients he’d treated with unauthorized remedies. She’d tracked his movements for a week, seen him slip into The Raven’s Nest’s secret room twice to patch up clique members with claw marks and alchemical burns. You’re here for the market. Quinn’s words cut through the rain’s drumming, sharp as a knife’s edge. Tomás’s head snapped up, his warm brown eyes narrowing into slits. He pushed off the lamppost, his boots crunching on a broken glass bottle’s shards. You don’t belong here, detective. Quinn stepped closer, her military bearing pinning him in place—her shoulders squared, her posture rigid, every muscle coiled for action. She nodded toward the subway entrance, where the faint hum of the Veil Market’s stalls now seeped through the stone steps. The man I’m chasing slipped down there. He’s got a bone token. He’s part of the clique running enchanted goods through Soho’s back alleys—goods that left a kid in St. Thomas’ with glowing bruises last month. Tomás’s scar tensed as he clenched his fist. He glanced at the entrance, then back at Quinn, his medallion catching the lamppost’s light. He’d been at the lamppost for ten minutes, waiting for a market vendor to sell him a vial of enchanted salve for a clique patient with a supernatural burn that wouldn’t heal. He sighed, then dug a small bone token from his coat pocket—he’d kept it hidden since he lost his license, a last resort for emergency supplies. You’ll need this. But if the market’s enforcers catch you, I don’t know you. They skin cops alive for trespassing, feed their bones to enchanted hounds. Quinn grabbed the token. She tested its weight in her palm, the rough bone’s pits digging into her skin—she thought of Morris, of the night he’d vanished in an abandoned Tube station just like this one, his radio cutting out mid-sentence, a single bone token left on the ground where he’d stood. She leaned in, her sharp jaw set so tight her molars ached. I don’t care about the enforcers. I care about the clique that’s hiding the truth about Morris’s death. The supernatural twist no one’s willing to talk about. Tomás’s medallion glinted as he turned his head, listening for the distant clink of market stall glass vials. He recalled the night he lost his license: a supernatural patient with wings tangled in a power line, his NHS supervisor refusing to let Tomás administer the enchanted antidote that would save him, Tomás injecting it anyway and watching the wings fade into thin air—only to be fired the next day. The clique’s been pushing banned alchemical substances on runaways, too. I found a kid last week with a vial of red potion in his pocket, his skin peeling off in scales. I can’t let that keep going. Quinn nodded. She turned toward the subway entrance, the token clutched in her fist. The rain continued to lash the street, but she barely noticed—her focus narrowed to the stone steps ahead, to the suspect’s footprints marking the damp ground. She paused at the first step, her boot hovering over the cold stone, and glanced back at Tomás. If I don’t come back, tell no one where I went. Not my captain, not the coroner. Just burn Morris’s old case file I left in the park bench’s hidden compartment. Tomás crossed his arms, his warm brown eyes locked on hers. He’d seen cops fold under the market’s pressure before, but Quinn didn’t look like she’d fold—she looked like the kind of person who’d fight enchanted hounds with her bare hands if it meant finding the truth. I won’t have to. You’ve got more fight in you than the NHS supervisors who fired me. You’ll come back. Quinn stepped down the first step. The stone was cold, slick with moisture, and the sound of the rain faded behind her as she descended. She could hear the distant murmur of voices now—rough, guttural, laced with accents from supernatural realms—the clink of glass vials, the rustle of enchanted fabrics woven from fairy silk, the faint snarl of an enchanted hound in the distance. She tightened her grip on the bone token, her military precision kicking in as she scanned the dark tunnel ahead. The suspect’s footprints marked the damp ground, leading deeper into the market’s labyrinth—each print smudged with the same alchemical smoke she’d smelled in The Raven’s Nest. She had a choice: turn back, return to the familiar rain-soaked streets and the Metropolitan Police’s rulebook, return to staking out The Raven’s Nest’s green neon sign and waiting for another kid to get hurt. Or press forward into the unfamiliar, dangerous territory of the Veil Market—where banned alchemical substances, enchanted goods, and information about supernatural crimes were sold openly, where enforcers patrolled with enchanted hounds, where the clique’s secrets were hidden in every stall’s shadow. She took another step down the stairs, her boot sinking into a puddle of rainwater that had seeped through the stone, and continued toward the murmur of the market. She didn’t look back. She didn’t hesitate. She just kept moving, her leather watch ticking against her wrist, a reminder of Morris’s unsolved death, a reminder of the fight she’d started three years ago and would finish no matter what the Veil Market threw at her.