Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9VD95EBZWPERWQX7M9Z1B

The rain tasted like ash. Harlow Quinn didn’t bother wiping it from her lips. It matched the feeling in her gut. Seventeen blocks. He’d given her seventeen blocks’ head start, weaving through the throngs of late-night revelers and early-morning commuters with a practiced ease that spoke of deliberate evasion. Silas Blackwood. Antiquarian, collector, purveyor of… things. Things she couldn't quite place but suspected were more than just dusty relics. She adjusted her grip on the worn leather strap of her holster, the familiar weight a small comfort in the slick, dark labyrinth of Soho. Blackwood hadn’t been subtle getting away. Bursting from The Raven’s Nest, shoving a barmaid aside with unnecessary force, and then – sprint. A man his age shouldn't move like that. He was at least sixty, if not older. She’d thought for a moment it was all a grand performance, an elaborate attempt to throw her off the scent. Now she wasn’t so sure. Her boots slapped against the wet pavement in a staccato rhythm, each footfall echoing the frantic pulse in her temples. The rain was relentless, a blinding curtain of water blurring the neon signs that pulsed with artificial cheer. Quinn ignored them. She focused on the fleeting glimpses of Blackwood's figure ahead – the distinctive curve of his shoulders, the flash of a dark coat disappearing around a corner. He cut down Berwick Street, then abruptly plunged into a narrow alleyway reeking of damp concrete and stale refuse. Quinn followed without hesitation, the alley opening onto a wider thoroughfare buzzing with the faint hum of the Northern Line. Blackwood paused at the edge of the street, glancing over his shoulder before darting down a set of stairs leading down, down, into the earth. Quinn hesitated. The stairs were unmarked, almost invisible in the gloom. She could hear the faint metallic screech of train wheels echoing from below, mingling with the drip, drip, drip of water. This wasn’t a public access point. This was… something else. She pulled out her phone, the screen offering a momentary shard of brightly lit reality in the oppressive darkness. No signal. Of course. “Damn it,” she muttered, tucking the phone back into her pocket. Three years. Three years since DS Morris had vanished into a similar abyss, swallowed by a darkness she wasn’t even sure existed. He’d been chasing something similar - whispers of ritual and a network of impossible dealings. She’d dismissed them as the fanciful imaginings of a troubled informant. Now, she wasn’t so sure. The image of his face – younger, filled with a naive optimism she knew she'd never recapture - flickered behind her eyes. She pushed it down, forcing herself to focus on the present. Blackwood was down there. And he was leading her somewhere. Taking a deep breath, Quinn descended the stairs. The air grew colder with each step, the smell of rain giving way to something mustier, something ancient. The screech of the trains grew louder, resolving into a low, resonant rumble. At the bottom of the stairs, she found herself in a vast, echoing space. A disused Tube station. But not derelict. Not entirely. The platform stretched out before her, shrouded in a perpetual twilight. Flickering gas lamps, their flames a sickly green, cast long, distorted shadows across the damp concrete. Makeshift stalls lined the platform, illuminated by strings of bare bulbs. Cloaked figures moved amongst them, their faces obscured by shadows. The air thrummed with a low, almost imperceptible energy. This was no abandoned station. This was… something else entirely. She saw him then. Blackwood. He was standing at a stall overflowing with strange objects – dried herbs, polished stones, vials filled with shimmering liquids. He was haggling with a woman whose face was hidden behind a heavy veil, the exchange conducted in hushed tones. Quinn moved cautiously, keeping to the shadows. The place was teeming with people, but they all seemed… different. Taller. Sharper-featured. Their eyes glowed with an unsettling intensity. Not human, not entirely. She heard snippets of conversations in languages she didn't recognize, punctuated by the clinking of coins and the rustling of fabric. She recognized the currency: bone tokens. Small, carved pieces of bone, intricately etched with symbols she couldn't decipher. According to the few whispers she’d managed to glean from her informants, they were the currency of this… underworld. She spotted Tomás Herrera near a stall laden with exotic spices. He was talking to a heavily tattooed man with a single, piercing blue eye. Tomás looked uncomfortable, agitated. His hand instinctively went to the Saint Christopher medallion around his neck. Quinn watched as Tomás handed the man a small pouch, then turned, his gaze meeting hers. He flinched, a flicker of fear in his warm brown eyes. She started towards him, intending to get a read on the situation. “Tomás?” she called out, her voice low. He didn't respond, just averted his gaze and hurried away, disappearing into the throng. Blackwood had finished his transaction. He turned, his gaze sweeping across the platform, and for a moment, his eyes met hers. There was no surprise in his expression, only a cold, calculating amusement. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod and then melted back into the crowd. Quinn felt a chill run down her spine. He’d been expecting her. She scanned the platform, trying to get her bearings. This place… it moved. She’d heard whispers of it, the Veil Market. A subterranean black market that catered to the… unusual. It moved locations every full moon, using abandoned Tube stations as temporary havens. A city beneath a city. A world hidden in plain sight. But to enter, one needed a bone token. And she didn't have one. She paused. Should she press on? Follow Blackwood deeper into this labyrinth of the unnatural? She was a police detective, not some ghost hunter. Her job was to uphold the law, to protect the innocent. This… this felt beyond the scope of her authority, beyond the realm of anything she understood. But Blackwood was a suspect in a case that was rapidly becoming more than just petty theft and fraud. She’d found traces of alchemical compounds – compounds that shouldn’t exist. And the victims… the disappearances… they all seemed to lead back to him. Morris. She thought again of his face, the frustration in his eyes, the desperate need to uncover the truth. He’d been so close. And then he’d vanished. Quinn tightened her grip on her holster. Fear was a luxury she couldn't afford. She wasn't stepping into a police investigation; she was stepping into something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something unknown. She took a hesitant step forward, pushing deeper into the heart of the Veil Market, the rain and her old life far above.