Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYACQCFM18YE286ST3S13A3

The rain came down in cold, stinging sheets, plastering Harlow’s closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair to the sharp angle of her jaw. She leaned against a rain-slicked brick wall in Soho, her left wrist throbbing where her worn leather watch dug into the skin—a gift from DS Morris, three Christmases before he vanished into the unexplained dark of a case she still couldn’t close. It was 2:17 AM, according to the watch’s faded dial, and she’d been staking out the courier for four hours, ever since he’d left a clique safe house with a frayed wool coat bulging at the pocket. She’d seen the glint of a glass vial through the fabric earlier, a hint of the banned alchemical substances she’d linked to the clique’s trafficking ring—the same ring she suspected had gotten Morris killed. The courier’s head snapped up, his eyes flicking to her hiding spot. Harlow tensed, her military precision kicking in—shoulders back, weight shifted to her balls of her feet, hand hovering near the baton at her belt. Before she could move, he bolted, his boots squelching on the cobblestones as he cut between a kebab cart (its metal sides steaming despite the rain) and a closed boutique (its window displaying a tattered Union Jack dress). Harlow gave chase, her brown eyes locking on the flash of his coat as he weaved through the narrow streets. The rain muffled the sound of her breath, but she could hear his ragged gasps, could smell the stale beer and cigar smoke on his clothes as she closed the gap. Her legs burned—18 years on the force had kept her fit, but the rain slowed her, and he gained a step when he skidded around a corner. He skidded to a halt in front of a dimly lit bar, the distinctive green neon sign above the entrance cutting through the rain like a beacon: The Raven’s Nest. Harlow recognized it immediately—her files on the clique were thick with notes about Silas’ bar, the hidden back room accessible through a bookshelf, the old maps and black-and-white photographs lining the walls. She’d staked it out twice before, but never managed to get past the bartender—a burly man with a scar across his cheek who’d threatened to call the boys if she didn’t leave. The courier wrenched open the door and vanished inside. Harlow followed, her boots thudding against the bar’s warped wooden floor. The air reeked of whiskey and cigar smoke, and the bartender’s head snapped up, his hand pausing on a bottle of scotch. Two other men at the bar—clique members, by the way they tensed, their hands resting on hidden blades at their belts—glanced at her, but she ignored them, her eyes scanning the room. The walls were crammed with old maps: a 17th-century chart of the Thames, a tattered atlas of the Scottish Highlands, a hand-drawn map of Soho’s secret alleyways. Black-and-white photographs stared down from the rafters—Soho gangsters from the 1950s, their faces hard with menace; a group of women in flapper dresses, laughing at a table; a young Silas, standing behind the bar with a cigar in his hand. The courier was gone, but Harlow spotted the edge of his wool coat disappearing behind a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf tucked in the back corner. She moved silently, her fingers brushing the spines of leather-bound books until she found the trigger: an old atlas of the British Isles, its pages frayed at the edges and marked with red ink. She tugged it, and the bookshelf swung inward with a low creak, revealing a narrow stone staircase leading down into darkness. Harlow hesitated for half a second—her training screamed caution, but the ghost of Morris’s face flickered in her mind, his last words a garbled warning about “things that don’t belong” before he died in her arms, his skin cold and clammy despite the summer heat. She descended, her flashlight cutting through the dark as she took each step slowly, her hand resting on the baton at her belt. The staircase opened into a damp tunnel, its walls lined with moss and the distant drip of water echoing through the space. Harlow’s boots splashed in puddles of rainwater that had seeped through the ceiling, and she pulled her flashlight from her belt, its beam cutting through the gloom. The courier’s footprints were visible in the mud, leading deeper into the tunnel, and she followed them for ten minutes until the tunnel opened into an abandoned Tube station—Camden’s old Northern Line stop, according to the chipped sign above the platform. This was the Veil Market’s current location, she’d learned from her investigations: an underground supernatural black market that moved with every full moon, selling enchanted goods, banned alchemical substances, and stolen supernatural artifacts to those with the right token. She’d heard rumors of fairies trading wings for healing potions, of werewolves bartering claws for silver bullets, of witches selling curses wrapped in black silk. The courier was standing at the edge of the platform, fumbling in his coat pocket. Harlow pressed herself against a pillar, watching as he pulled out a small, yellowed bone token—the entry requirement, she’d been told, carved from the bone of a supernatural creature. He flicked it at a shadowy figure standing by the ticket barriers, a woman with eyes that glowed with a faint red light, and the figure nodded, stepping aside to let him pass into the market’s main hall. Harlow’s heart sank—she didn’t have a token, couldn’t get in without one, and if she turned back now, the courier would vanish with the vial in his coat, and Morris’s case would remain unsolved. She thought of the way his file had been marked “unsolved” by her superiors, the way they’d told her to move on, to stop chasing ghosts. She couldn’t. A soft murmur pulled her attention to the side of the platform. She turned her flashlight beam, and her breath caught: a man with olive skin and short curly dark brown hair was kneeling beside a figure wrapped in a tattered blanket, his hands moving gently over a wing that glowed with a faint, otherworldly blue light. It was Tomás Herrera—she’d memorized his file: former NHS paramedic, born in Seville, lost his license for unauthorized treatments to supernatural patients, Saint Christopher medallion around his neck, scar running along his left forearm from a knife attack he’d received while protecting a vampire from a mob. He looked up, his warm brown eyes locking with hers, and his hand stilled on the wing. The fairy under the blanket whimpered, and Tomás whispered a prayer in Spanish—a plea to Saint Christopher to protect the creature—before turning back to Harlow. “Detective Quinn,” he said, his voice low and wary. He tucked the Saint Christopher medallion under his shirt, his scar glinting in the flashlight beam. “You’re treading ground you don’t understand. The Veil Market doesn’t care about your badge, about your rules. The things here—they feed on doubt, on fear. You don’t have a token. You’ll be torn apart before you take three steps inside.” Harlow stepped forward, her sharp jaw set. “I understand the clique is using this market to move a banned alchemical substance,” she said. “Something that ties to Morris’s death. He was investigating the same ring three years ago, before he vanished. I’m not going to let them get away with it.” Tomás stood, brushing mud from his knees. He glanced at the fairy, who had closed her eyes, the blue glow of her wing dimming. “I’ve seen what happens to humans who wander in without a guide,” he said, stepping forward to block her path. “I lost a friend once, a human who tried to sneak in to find his sister. They found his bones three days later, scattered across the tracks. You’ll not make it out alive.” Harlow stared at him, her brown eyes hard with resolve. She’d spent three years chasing the shadow of Morris’s death, three years living with the guilt of not saving him, three years reading and rereading his case file until the pages were frayed. She wasn’t going to stop now. Then she saw it: a small bone token, discarded on the ground beside Tomás’s kneeling spot, probably dropped by the fairy’s caretaker when they’d brought her to him for treatment. She reached down, tucking it into her pocket, her fingers closing around the smooth, yellowed surface. Tomás’s eyes widened, and he reached out to stop her, but she pulled away. “You’re making a mistake,” he said, his voice urgent. “I can help you. I can get you in safely, but you have to listen to me. The clique has eyes everywhere. They’ll know you’re a detective the second you step through that barrier.” Harlow stared at him, her hand hovering over the barrier. She thought of the risk—of the supernatural creatures that would see her as prey, of the clique members that would try to kill her, of the possibility that she’d end up like Morris, cold and dead in a dark tunnel. Then she thought of Morris’s face, of his laugh, of the way he’d always told her to follow the clues, no matter how dark they led. “I don’t need your help,” she said, pushing past him. She walked to the ticket barriers, pulling the bone token from her pocket and flicking it at the shadowy woman. The woman nodded, stepping aside. Harlow paused for a second, her hand hovering over the barrier, the worn leather watch on her left wrist ticking like a countdown in her ear. Then she stepped through—into the dark, unknown heart of the Veil Market, her baton ready, her resolve unbroken, the faint murmur of supernatural bartering rising to greet her like a warning.