Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA665VRW1WFVYMN1Y95VHG

Rain lashed at Harlow’s face, each drop a cold pinprick. She kept her stride long and economical, the slick pavement reflecting the neon smear of Soho. He—Herrera, Tomás Herrera—was quick, surprisingly so for a man who spent his days patching up scrapes and broken bones. She’d pegged him as soft, a medic with a savior complex. She’d been wrong. He’d bolted from The Raven’s Nest like a scalded cat the moment she’d shown her badge. Silas, the bar’s owner, hadn’t even bothered with a protest, just a tight-lipped nod and a quick wipe down of the already spotless counter. Silas knew. They all knew. That was the frustrating part. They were a network, a hive, protecting something. Harlow adjusted the collar of her trench coat, the fabric already saturated. Herrera cut a hard left, disappearing into a narrow alley reeking of stale beer and something vaguely chemical. She didn’t break stride. Years on the force had taught her to anticipate, to read the flow of a chase. He was headed toward Camden. And more specifically, she suspected, toward the abandoned Tube station beneath it. The alley opened onto a wider street, the traffic a blurred stream of red and white. Herrera was already weaving through pedestrians, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. He glanced over his shoulder, catching her in the headlights of a passing cab. A flicker of something—fear, perhaps?—crossed his face. Good. Let him be afraid. She pushed past a couple huddled under an umbrella, offering a curt apology that was lost in the roar of the city. He disappeared into the grimy entrance of the Camden station, a yawning maw of darkness. The station had been closed for decades, a casualty of budget cuts and changing commuter patterns. But Harlow knew it wasn’t truly abandoned. Rumors had swirled for years. Whispers of a black market, a place where you could buy things you shouldn’t, things that weren’t…legal. She slowed, reaching the entrance. The air immediately grew colder, damper, laced with the scent of mildew and ozone. The chipped tiles of the platform were slick underfoot. Rain dripped from the decaying ceiling, forming puddles that reflected the faint streetlights filtering through the grates above. Herrera was nowhere in sight. Her hand instinctively went to the Sig Sauer holstered beneath her coat. Standard procedure. But this wasn’t a standard case. It wasn’t a mugging gone wrong or a drug deal turned sour. It was something else. Something unsettling. She pulled out her radio, her thumb hovering over the transmit button. “Quinn to Dispatch. Approaching a potential crime scene, abandoned Camden station. Requesting backup.” Static crackled in her ear. “Dispatch to Quinn. Receiving. We’ve got nothing on Camden station. And Detective, you’re a bit off your route, aren’t you?” “I’m pursuing a suspect. Tomás Herrera. Medical professional. Possible connection to known criminal activities.” “Herrera? Negative record. No outstanding warrants. You sure about this, Quinn?” She clenched her jaw. They wouldn’t understand. Not yet. “Affirmative. I’m going in.” She cut the connection, the silence amplifying the dripping water and the echoing silence of the abandoned station. She moved deeper into the darkness, drawing her weapon. The beam of her flashlight cut through the gloom, revealing a graffiti-covered wall and a line of decaying ticket booths. Then she saw it. A small, unassuming wooden door tucked away in a recess of the wall. It hadn’t been there the last time the station was superficially investigated. She remembered the report—surface level check, structurally unsound, no signs of forced entry. The report had been a lie. Or, more accurately, incomplete. She approached cautiously, her senses on high alert. The air around the door felt…different. Charged. She pressed her ear against the wood, listening for any sound. Nothing but a faint, rhythmic thrumming. An idea, a terrible suspicion, solidified in her mind. Not just a black market. Something *more* than a black market. Something…hidden. Then, a glint of metal caught her eye. A small, circular object embedded in the doorframe. A bone. A small, polished bone, crudely fashioned into a token. The entry requirement. The stories, the rumors, suddenly felt terrifyingly real. She knew, with a cold certainty, that to open that door was to cross a line. To enter a world she wasn’t prepared for. A world she hadn't even believed existed. A world that might swallow her whole. She glanced back towards the station entrance, the dim light offering a semblance of safety, of normalcy. Backup wouldn’t arrive for at least fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes that Herrera would use to disappear further into the labyrinth beneath the city. Her worn leather watch felt heavy on her wrist. She thought of DS Morris. Three years. Three years since he'd vanished, the case file closed with the unsatisfying label of “unexplained disappearance”. Three years of unanswered questions, of gnawing doubt. She hadn't understood then. She hadn’t even known what questions to ask. But she was starting to get a sense. A terrifying sense. Herrera wasn’t just a medic. He was a key. A gatekeeper. And that door, that hidden door, was a path. She took a slow, deliberate breath. Her jaw tightened, firm and resolute. She wasn't backing away. Not this time. Morris deserved more than a closed file. *She* deserved the truth. She gripped the bone token, her fingers closing around its chillingly smooth surface. It felt ancient, cold and faintly…alive. She pushed. The door creaked inward, revealing a dimly lit passageway that descended into the earth. A wave of sounds washed over her – muffled voices, the clinking of glass, and an undertone of something else, something primal and unnerving. The scent of incense mingled with the metallic tang of blood. She hesitated for only a moment. Then, with her Sig Sauer raised and her military precision honed to a razor’s edge, Detective Harlow Quinn stepped into the Veil Market.