Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9Y1WAMB04P0B803V5JRAK

The rain lashed Harlow’s closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair into sharp spikes against her sharp jaw, each drop a cold prod to her focus as she leaned against a Soho brick wall. Her worn leather watch—scuffed at the lugs from three years of gripping Morris’s service weapon at crime scenes—ticked against her left wrist: 1:17 a.m.—a steady metronome for the three hours she’d staked The Raven’s Nest. The bar’s distinctive green neon sign bleeded into the downpour, turning the puddles at her feet to murky lime that sloshed over her scuffed boots. Through the fogged window, she’d mapped every crevice of the dim interior: a frayed 1920s map of the Thames peeling from the north wall, its edges blackened by cigarette smoke; black-and-white photos of long-dead sailors nailed crookedly beside it, some clutching strange amulets she’d never seen in museum exhibits; the hush of clandestine conversations that made her skin prickle like Morris’s final radio call had. Three years ago, he’d been staking this same bar when he’d radioed in a garbled cry about “a market of shadows” before his body was found in a nearby alley—no wounds, no signs of struggle, just his eyes wide with unnameable terror. Harlow’s military training kept her still, her breath shallow enough that the rain drowned out its sound. She’d tucked her badge into her trench coat’s inner pocket, her service weapon holstered low on her hip where it wouldn’t catch the neon glow. The bar’s door creaked open, and a blast of beer-scented warmth fogged the window further. Then he emerged: Jax, the clique enforcer she’d been tracking for six weeks, his torn black parka hood pulled low but not low enough to hide the faint glint of a silver ring etched with a raven—clique insignia she’d seen on the pocket of Morris’s last case file. His boots sloshed through the lime puddles, and Harlow pushed off the wall, melting into the shadow of a fire escape before he could glance back. The chase stretched through Soho’s narrow streets, rain turning the pavements to glass that made Jax’s steps slip and stutter. Harlow matched his pace, her military stride keeping her balanced even when a gust of wind sent a trash can clattering into her path. She noted every detail: the way he kept his hand in his parka pocket (a switchblade, she guessed), the frayed edge of his red scarf catching on a metal bus stop pole and tearing free, the way he veered toward Camden as if following a pre-plotted route. She scooped the torn scarf edge into her coat pocket—a small trophy, a link to the case that had consumed her since Morris’s death. By the time they reached Camden, the rain had softened to a drizzle, but the air smelled of damp concrete and rot—fitting for the abandoned Tube station she’d dug up in her late-night file searches, the current home of the Veil Market. Jax darted down an alley choked with discarded mattresses and broken glass, his parka slipping off one shoulder to reveal a gnarled tattoo of a veil on his bicep—another clique marker, one she’d never seen in any official report. Harlow skidded to a halt at the alley mouth, her hand hovering over her service weapon. The alley ended at a rusted metal door set into a brick wall—she recognized the faint scratch marks around the handle, the telltale sign of the Veil Market’s doorman’s clawed fingers. Morris had mentioned a door like this in his final call, his voice cracking with fear. She hesitated, her leather watch ticking louder in her ears—what if this was the same thing that had snuffed out Morris’s life without a trace? But then she pictured his empty desk at the precinct, the photo of them at their promotion ceremony tucked under her notebook (his grin wide, hers tight with military discipline), and pushed forward. She pressed her ear to the brick wall, the cold seeping through her trench coat as she listened to the low murmur of voices beyond. Jax’s voice cut through the hum: “Bone token for entry—here to drop off the shipment of wisp powder.” A guttural response rumbled back—too deep for a human throat, Harlow thought—and then the scrape of the door opening. She peeked around the corner just in time to see Jax press a small, yellowed bone token into a doorman’s palm—an old man with skin like cracked earth, his eyes milky white but sharp enough to pin Jax with a glare that made the enforcer flinch. The door closed behind him, and Harlow’s throat went dry. The Veil Market’s entry requirement was non-negotiable, according to her fleeting intel—no bone token, no entry. She’d spent months trying to track down a token, but they’d all vanished with the market’s monthly full-moon moves. Then she saw him. A man with short curly dark brown hair and olive skin leaned against a nearby dumpster, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting in the faint glow of a flickering streetlight. Harlow’s gaze darted to his left forearm—there it was, the thin scar running along the length of it, a knife wound from a clique dispute she’d noted in his file (he’d been defending a supernatural patient from a group of thugs outside a Camden café). Tomás Herrera. Former NHS paramedic, born in Seville, who’d moved to London to care for his ailing grandmother before losing his license after administering unauthorized treatments to that same supernatural patient—someone the NHS had refused to treat because they couldn’t explain their glowing blue bruises. She’d tracked his ties to the clique for months, knowing he provided off-the-books medical care for their members, slipping enchanted salves into their pockets after late-night meetings at The Raven’s Nest. Tomás adjusted his medallion, his fingers brushing the scar as if it still ached, and pulled a small leather satchel from his shoulder—she guessed it held bandages soaked in moonwater and alchemical painkillers for the market’s patrons. He glanced at his phone, then toward the metal door, and Harlow realized he was waiting for someone to let him in. A plan sparked: distract him, steal whatever token he had, slip into the market before Jax could disappear with the wisp powder—a substance she’d found a trace of on Morris’s coat, a substance that could erase memories or kill, depending on its purity. But as she took a step forward, her boot crunched on a shard of glass. Tomás’s warm brown eyes snapped to her, and he tensed, his hand curling around the satchel’s strap. “Detective Quinn,” he said, his Seville accent thick with caution, like he’d been practicing her name in case they met. “I thought you’d be smarter than to stake a place like this alone. The clique’s lookouts have been watching for you.” Harlow froze, her hand still hovering over her weapon. The rain dripped from her salt-and-pepper hair onto her sharp jaw, and she wiped it away with a gloved hand. “Herrera,” she said, her voice steady despite the hammering of her heart. “You’re here to treat the clique’s supernatural pets. Just like you lost your license for—treating things the NHS can’t be bothered to understand.” Tomás’s jaw tightened, and Harlow saw a flash of grief in his eyes—grief for his lost license, for his grandmother who’d died shortly after he’d been fired, for the patients he couldn’t help. “They’re people,” he said, his gaze flicking to the metal door. “People with wounds that won’t heal, with illnesses that make doctors cross themselves and walk away. I learned to treat them in Seville, from my abuela—she was a curandera. You don’t know what’s in that market. What’s happened to the ones who go in unprepared. The last cop who tried to infiltrate vanished. No body, no trace. Just like your partner.” Harlow’s blood ran cold. She thought of Morris’s empty chair at the precinct, of the way his mother had hugged her at his funeral and asked if she’d find who’d killed him. She thought of her worn leather watch, which he’d given her for her 38th birthday, saying it would keep her on time for the cases that mattered. “I know what happens to the ones who walk away,” she said, her voice cracking just a little. “My partner died because he didn’t follow this trail to the end. I’m not making the same mistake.” Tomás sighed, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a small bone token—carved with the face of Saint Christopher, probably matched to his medallion. The bone was smooth from years of handling, and Harlow could see faint scratch marks on its edge. “You’ll need this if you go in,” he said, but he didn’t hand it over. “But be warned: the market’s vendors don’t take kindly to cops. They’ll sell you to the highest bidder, or feed you to their enchanted hounds. You’re out of your depth here, Detective. Your military training won’t save you from the things that hide in these tunnels.” Harlow’s internal conflict raged. She could turn back, file a report, wait for backup that would never believe her when she mentioned wisp powder and supernatural markets. She could go home, make a cup of tea, and try to forget Morris’s wide eyes. Or she could take the token, step into the unknown, and finally uncover the truth about his death. She glanced at her leather watch—1:43 a.m.—and thought of the 1920s map in The Raven’s Nest, of the sailors with strange amulets, of the wisp powder that had haunted her for three years. She reached for the token. “Give it to me,” she said, her voice firm again, her military bearing kicking back in. Tomás hesitated, his gaze flickering between her face and the metal door. He thought of his abuela’s words—help the ones who can’t help themselves—and pressed the token into her palm. The bone was cold, and it hummed faintly under her touch, like it held a piece of his abuela’s magic. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said. “And if you get hurt? Don’t come looking for me. I don’t treat cops anymore. Not after the last one turned on me.” He turned and rapped on the metal door three times—two short, one long—a code Harlow made a mental note of. The doorman’s clawed hand yanked it open just enough for Tomás to slip through, and Harlow heard a guttural murmur before the door closed. She tucked the token into her coat pocket, her service weapon unholstered at her side, and took a deep breath. The air smelled of rot and magic, of things she couldn’t explain, but it also smelled of truth. She rapped on the door three times—two short, one long—and when the doorman’s milky eyes locked on her, she pulled out the bone token and held it up. The doorman grunted, yanking the door open wider. Harlow stepped through, her boots hitting a stone floor that smelled of ancient dirt and burnt alchemical substances. The Veil Market stretched out before her: stalls lit by flickering torchlight, their vendors selling enchanted herbs and banned alchemical potions, their patrons a mix of humans and things she couldn’t quite name (one had antlers sprouting from their head, another’s skin glowed like bioluminescent algae). Somewhere in the crowd, Jax was disappearing with the wisp powder. Somewhere in the shadows, the truth about Morris’s death waited. And Harlow Quinn, military-trained detective with 18 years of decorated service, was finally going to find it—even if it killed her.