Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9Y12ZM99E2R80VD7GF8PD

The rain tasted like grit and exhaust. Harlow shoved a stray strand of salt-and-pepper hair behind her ear, the movement stiff, practiced. Three blocks. He’d gained three blocks on her in the last five minutes, weaving through the late-night crowds with a disconcerting grace that defied his build. Liam Mercer. Petty thief, fence of dubious artifacts, and currently, her prime suspect in a string of disappearances the Met was politely ignoring. Her shoes slapped against the slick pavement. The neon glow of Leicester Square bled across the wet asphalt, painting the scene in lurid hues of pink and green. Mercer moved with purpose, not the panicked flailing of a cornered rat. That bothered her. It suggested something… planned. She risked a glance over her shoulder. A scattering of late-night revelers, a cabbie scanning for fares, a lone, huddled figure in a doorway. No one seemed to notice the woman in a dark trench coat sprinting through the rain, or the man she was chasing. Good. He ducked into a narrow alley, the stench of rotting garbage assaulting her nostrils. Harlow followed without hesitation, the alley walls closing in, the rain intensifying. Mercer was gone. “Damn it,” she muttered, her breath misting in the cold air. She scanned the surrounding buildings, searching for any sign of him. A fire escape, a rooftop access, a window left ajar. Nothing. “Looking for someone, Detective?” The voice was low, smooth, laced with a cynical amusement that tightened her jaw. Harlow spun around, her hand instinctively reaching for the Glock tucked into her holster. Silas stood in the alley’s mouth, leaning against the brick wall of a building, a thin plume of smoke curling from the cigarette dangling from his lips. The distinctive green neon sign of The Raven's Nest pulsed above him, casting an eerie glow on his face. He was a fixture in Soho, a purveyor of oddities, and a man who knew more than he let on. “Mercer,” Harlow said, her voice clipped. “He just went this way.” Silas took a slow drag from his cigarette. “He’s a frequent visitor. Prefers the back.” “Back where?” Silas flicked the cigarette to the ground, grinding it out under his heel. “Down, Detective. Considerably down.” He gestured with a subtle nod toward a nondescript metal door tucked into the side of the building. “Beneath your feet.” Harlow’s gut twisted. She knew that look on Silas’s face. Calculated neutrality masking something far more complex. She’d dealt with his kind before. Players. They thrived in the shadows, manipulating events for their own amusement. “What’s down there?” she asked, keeping her voice level. “A market,” Silas said, the word dripping with casual indifference. “An underground sort of place. Trades in things most people wouldn’t even believe exist.” “The Veil Market,” Harlow breathed, the name a cold weight in her chest. Rumors. Whispers amongst the uniformed officers. A black market for… unusual goods. She’d dismissed it, filed it away as cop’s folklore. Now… She pictured the disappearance reports. The cryptic ransoms. The witnesses who spoke of shadows and whispers. Could it be connected? “He’s got something, Mercer. Something worth disappearing for,” she said, her gaze fixed on the metal door. Silas shrugged, the movement almost imperceptible. “Everything has a price, Detective. Even information. And passage.” “Passage requires…?” Silas smiled, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. “A token. Bone. Clean bone. A small piece will do.” Harlow raised an eyebrow. "Bone?" “It’s the currency of that realm,” Silas said, his voice devoid of inflection. "Guarantees safe passage. No swearing. No questions asked. Though I wouldn't encourage any prolonged stays." She considered her options. Risk chasing Mercer into an unknown, probably illegal, underground market? A market that dealt in things she barely understood? A market that, according to Silas, required a bone token? Or abandon the pursuit, chalk it up to a dead end, and return to the paperwork and dismissive superiors. Her watch, a worn leather band against her wrist, ticked with relentless precision. DS Morris. Three years. The case, the unanswered questions, the gnawing feeling that something vital was being concealed. This felt… similar. The brush of something unexplainable just beyond her grasp. She thought of the families of the missing, their faces etched with worry and fear. She thought of Morris, and the circumstances surrounding his death, the lingering unease that she couldn’t shake. "Tomás knows the lay of the land," Silas added, as if reading her mind. "He can get you a token. And a bit of background. But few tend to survive lengthy negotiations with the merchant." “Tomás?” Harlow frowned. “Who’s Tomás?” “Someone who specializes in… unique medical needs,” Silas replied, his smile widening slightly. “He’s down there now, most likely. A favor for a client.” She tried to reconcile the information swirling in her head. A clandestine meeting place. A market for the supernatural. A former paramedic providing off-the-books medical care. Harlow's gaze landed on the metal door. The rain hammered against the alley walls, drowning out the sounds of the city above. This was a descent. A plunge into a world she wasn’t sure she was ready for. But Mercer was down there. And so were answers. “I need to speak with this Tomás,” she said, her voice hardening. Silas inclined his head, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “He’ll be expecting you. But be warned, Detective. The Veil Market doesn’t take kindly to disruptions.” Harlow reached into her pocket, pulling out a small, tarnished silver coin she’d confiscated from a suspect years ago. It felt inadequate somehow, a pathetic offering to whatever lay below. She needed bone. And she needed to find Mercer. She turned to Silas. “Give me Tomás’s location. And tell him I’m coming.” Silas pointed to a darkened corner of The Raven’s Nest. “He prefers the back room. Behind the bookshelf. Tell him Silas sent you. He’ll understand.” Harlow nodded, straightened her trench coat, and headed toward the bar. She could feel the weight of the rain, the weight of the unanswered questions, the weight of the unknown pressing down on her. One step at a time. One shadow at a time. She was a detective. It was her job to follow the trail, no matter how dark, how dangerous, or how far it led her from the light. But as she pushed open the door to The Raven’s Nest, the scent of stale beer and something else, something faintly metallic and unsettling, filled her nostrils. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was walking into a trap. And she suspected that by the time she found Mercer, it might already be too late.