Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA5DZASES6QVAPBTBX8VK3

Rain lashed against Detective Harlow Quinn’s face, plastering strands of salt-and-pepper hair to her forehead. The slick cobblestones of Soho offered treacherous footing, mirroring the situation. Ahead, a figure in a dark overcoat—Julian Devereux, the magician—sprinted, weaving through the late-night crowd. He moved with a disturbing fluidity, a practiced grace that didn’t quite align with a man supposedly fearing arrest. Her worn leather watch showed 2:17 AM. Perfect. The city exhaled a cold, damp breath. She adjusted her grip on her regulation Glock, the metal cold against her palm. Three blocks. He’d given her three blocks of clean running before disappearing into the maze of side streets. “Devereux! Metropolitan Police!” she called, the sound swallowed by the rain and the throb of bass from a nearby club. He didn’t even glance back. Good. Let him run. It narrowed her options, forced a decision. He cut sharply left, disappearing into the gloom beneath a distinctive green neon sign. *The Raven’s Nest*. Silas’ bar. Not the destination, but a convenient stopping point. Quinn cursed under her breath. She knew Silas. Loose-lipped, but fiercely protective of his patrons. Obtaining information wouldn't be simple. She slowed, eyes scanning the street. No immediate backup. Standard for a Friday night. She’d been running this chase alone since the initial tip came in. A burner phone, a panicked voice, a string of coded words about “transactions” and “the Market.” Quinn pushed through the bar's heavy door. The air shifted, thick with cigarette smoke and the scent of stale beer. The low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses felt muted, distant. The interior was a collector's obsession made real. Old maps adorned every available inch of wall space, their faded colours whispering tales of forgotten lands. Black-and-white photographs, portraits of stern-faced men and women from a bygone era, stared down from ornate frames. Devereux wasn't at the bar. A gruff voice startled her. “Can I help you, Detective?” Silas. He leaned against the polished mahogany, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. His gaze was steady, assessing. “Devereux. Julian Devereux. Just came through here.” Quinn kept her tone even, professional. Silas swirled the liquid in his glass. “Magician. Showman. Plays cards in the back sometimes. Don't know where he is now.” “He was heading this way. I’m tracking him on a matter of… public safety.” A half-truth. She wasn't ready to reveal the strange currents swirling around Devereux, the whispers of something *more* than simple fraud. Silas didn’t react. “Soho's full of folks heading somewhere, Detective. Doesn't mean I keep tabs on ‘em.” He gestured with his glass. “Unless they’re causing trouble.” “He’s suspected of dealing in… illicit goods.” Silas’s lips twitched. “Illicit? Everything in Soho is illicit after midnight.” He paused, then his gaze hardened. “Look, I run a clean establishment. I don’t appreciate you implying otherwise.” Quinn held his stare. “Just looking for information, Silas. A direction he might have taken.” He sighed, then nodded towards a bookshelf crammed with leather-bound volumes. “He sometimes uses the back room. For… private games. The shelf over there. Third book from the left. Pull it.” She moved to the bookshelf, ignoring the curious glances from a handful of patrons. The third book was a first edition of *Grimm’s Fairy Tales*, its spine cracked and faded. She gripped it and pulled. The bookshelf groaned, then swung inward, revealing a narrow hallway shrouded in darkness. The air immediately grew colder, carrying a faint, earthy smell. “What is this?” Quinn asked, her hand resting on the butt of her weapon. “Just a room. For gentlemen’s pursuits.” Silas’s voice was carefully neutral. “And Devereux?” “Wouldn’t know.” Silas turned back to his polishing. Dismissed. Quinn hesitated. The hallway reeked of secrets. It was a convergence point. Devereux had chosen *this* exit. The thought sent a prickle of unease down her spine. The air tasted… different. Older. She pulled out her radio. “Quinn to Dispatch. I’m at The Raven’s Nest, and I’m pursuing a suspect. Requesting backup, possible breach of a secondary location.” Static crackled. “Copy that, Quinn. Backup en route. ETA five minutes.” Five minutes. Too long. Devereux could be miles away by then. Her gut tightened. This felt different from the usual chase. The coded tip, the magician's unnatural agility, this hidden room… She took a deep breath, the stale air filling her lungs. Switching on her tactical flashlight, she stepped into the darkness. The hallway opened into a descending staircase, slick with moisture. The air grew colder with each step, the smell of earth intensifying, mingling with something metallic, acrid. The beam of her flashlight danced across damp brick walls, revealing strange symbols etched into the stone— spirals, triangles, geometric patterns that seemed to shift and writhe at the edge of her vision. The staircase ended abruptly in a cavernous space. Quinn found herself in a sprawling, underground market. It wasn’t a market of fruit and vegetables. This was something… else. Stalls lined the space, illuminated by flickering gas lamps that cast long, distorted shadows. Vendors hawked their wares in hushed tones. But the goods weren't what she expected. Glass jars filled with iridescent liquids sat beside stacks of antique books bound in human skin. Strange, metallic instruments lay displayed on velvet cloths. A man with eyes like a reptile offered her a shrunken head. This was the Veil Market. She’d heard whispers about it, tales dismissed as urban legends by most of the force. A hidden black market for the supernatural, operating beneath the city. And there, across the chaotic expanse, she saw him. Devereux. He was bargaining with a woman whose face was hidden behind a silver mask, handing over a small, intricately carved box. He glanced around, then disappeared into the crowd. Her jaw tightened. This was a new level of complication. A warrant for fraud didn’t cover navigating a supernatural bazaar. A risk assessment flashed through her mind. No backup yet. Unknown entities. Potential for… what? She didn't want to consider it. She could turn back. Radio in, call for heavy reinforcements. Seal off the entrances. Play it by the book. But Devereux was getting away. Plus, the urgency of the initial tip hadn’t lessened. Whatever he was dealing in, it was important. Too important to let him vanish into this… underworld. She stepped further into the Veil Market, her hand tightening around her Glock. A couple of figures turned to look at her. Their expressions weren't hostile, exactly. More… assessing. Curious. A man bumped into her, muttering an apology. As he passed, she caught a glimpse of a medallion around his neck—Saint Christopher, worn smooth with age. He had kind eyes, warm brown like melted chocolate, and a faint scar tracing his left forearm. He paused, looking back at her with a flicker of recognition. “You look lost, Detective,” he said, his voice a soft murmur against the din of the market. “This isn't a place for tourists.”