AI Rain slashes the pavement, turning the street into a sheet of silver. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots slap against a puddle, sending up a spray that soaks her cuffs. She’s chasing a man—slim, dark coat flapping around legs like a bird’s wing—who darted into this Soho alley five minutes ago. Her breath comes in short, hot bursts; the rain stings her cheeks like gravel.
Her watch, a worn leather band fraying at the edges, digs into her wrist. The second hand ticks, *tock, tock *, a metronome for the chase. Seventeen years, eighteen if you count the academy, and she’s still got the legs. Still got the fire.
The man skids around a corner, heading for a chain-link fence. Quinn skids too, tires screeching from some late-night cab that swerves, horn blaring. She hears the fence rattle before the man gets there—he’s prying at the lock, fingers shaking, rain plastering his dark hair to his neck.
“Stop, you piece of—” she starts, but the word dies when he yanks the fence open. Metal clangs, and he disappears. But not before a flash of something under his coat: a bone token, white and ridged, glinting in the streetlight.
Quinn dives through the fence. The other side is a service alley, brick walls slick with moss. A single overhead bulb swings, casting pools of light over crates, a rusted dumpster, a stack of pallets. The man’s footsteps fade—he’s moving fast, but she’s faster.
Then she smells it: damp stone, and something sharper, metallic, like blood. *Not blood. Iron.* Supernatural. Her hand drifts to her holster, but she doesn’t draw. Not yet.
A grate in the alley’s center catches her eye. Big, cast-iron, with a lock. The man was heading for it. She runs, boots thudding on the brick, and slams her shoulder into it. It doesn’t budge. She fumbles for her keys, jams one into the lock. It turns with a *squeal *. She yanks the grate up, rain pouring into the dark hole below.
The smell hits her then—rot and sage, something sweet that makes her sinuses throb . She pauses, listens. Footsteps. Light. A distant hum, like generators or whispers.
“*Harlow.*”
She doesn’t jump. Not anymore. But her spine tightens. The voice is low, Spanish-accented, rough. Tomás Herrera. Ex-paramedic, off-the-books doctor to the clique. The same clique she’s been digging into for three years—since Morris died, throat torn out, eyes carved out, no wound, no blood, just… *nothing *.
“Come up,” he says, and she hears movement: a rat scurrying, a can clattering. “He ’s not leaving you alone. Not if he’s got that token.”
Quinn hesitates. The subway is a mausoleum down there—abandoned, maybe infested with ghosts, or worse. But the man with the token is the link. To the clique. To Morris. To the darkness she’s spent three years avoiding.
“Where is he?” she calls, and climbs down the grate.
The ladder is rickety, metal slats cold through her gloves. She hits the bottom with a jolt, rolls to her feet. The tunnel is wide, with high, arched ceilings. Graffiti scrawls the walls—*stay out *, *they see you *, *blood for bone *. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, flickering. Beyond it, a crowd.
People. But not just people. A woman with scales running up her neck, a man with antlers, a child with eyes like猫眼石, grinning as he plays with a glowing frog. They’re haggling—voices loud, sharp, a mix of English and languages that don’t exist. Stalls line the tunnel: one sells vials of glowing liquid, another displays blades with wavy edges, a third has a man with a hook for a hand, measuring out sand in a jar.
Quinn’s hand drifts to her badge, but no one stares. They’re used to strangers. *Detectives * don’t come here. Not alive, anyway.
“Through the barrier,” Tomás says. He ’s leaning against a stack of crates, a cigarette in hand. His olive skin glows under the light, the scar on his forearm stretching over his bicep. The Saint Christopher medallion peeks out from under his shirt. “He went that way five minutes ago. After the bone token—”
“—he triggers the market,” she says.
Tomás nods. “Don’t let him speak. Not a word. The Veil *eats * words. Echoes. If he calls, it comes for you.” He pauses, flicking ash into a puddle. “You sure you want in? Last time a copper did, his body turned to dust by dawn.”
Quinn doesn’t flinch. “Last time, it was Morris.”
Tomás’ smile fades. “He was… sharp. Knew more than he let on.” He looks past her, then tenses. “There. See that arch? The one with the stained glass. He ’s behind it.”
Quinn starts forward. A woman in a fur coat glares at her, then turns back to her stall. A man with a snake for a tongue spits on the ground, and the spit hisses, melting a hole in the brick. She keeps moving.
The arch is made of concrete, but the stained glass is odd—shards of colored glass, cracked, depicting scenes that don’t make sense: a man with antlers holding a bone, a woman with scales standing over a body, a child with eyes like embers. Behind the arch, a door: oak, carved with runes. The man is there, fumbling with the door handle, the bone token in his hand.
“Stop,” Quinn barks.
He turns. His face is blurred , like a watercolor left in the rain. His eyes are two black holes. “You can’t follow me, detective. The Veil *changes * things. You’ll never find your way out.”
“Try me.” She takes a step.
He laughs. It’s a sound like gravel grinding, and the doors behind him creaks open. Heat pours out—smoke, maybe, or something hotter. “You think 18 years makes you tough? You think you know what happened to Morris? *He * followed a bone token. *He * wanted to be a hero.” The man’s hand tightens around the token, and it glows, bright as a match. “Go on, then. Come see what heroes get.”
Quinn doesn’t stop. She steps into the doorway, and the world shifts.
It’s a market, but not the one above. The stalls are makeshift—cardboard, tarps, old suitcases. The air is thick, syrupy, like honey. Lights hang from wires: jars of fireflies, lanterns with blue flames. The walls are lined with skulls, their eye sockets glowing. A woman with a mermaid’s tail is selling fish that sing, their scales shimmering. A man with a talking raven on his shoulder is trading a dagger for a vial of tears.
And the man with the token is gone.
Quinn pauses, listening. Footsteps. A whisper . *“Behind you.”*
She spins. A shadow—tall, thin, with too many limbs—looms . It hisses, showing teeth like shards of glass.
Tomás’ voice echoes in her ear. *“Don’t move. Breathe. It’s drawn to motion.”*
She holds still. The shadow tilts its head, as if listening . Its fingers reach for her, but hesitate, then retreat. It hisses again, louder, and fades into the crowd.
Quinn takes a breath. It comes out shaky. She looks around. The market is alive, buzzing with交易, but everyone keeps a wide berth. No one meets her eye.
The man with the token could be anywhere. But she has to find him. For Morris. For the cases she’s botched, the nights she’s lost sleep, the burning question of what the hell happened to the partner who took her under his wing.
She checks her watch . The second hand ticks. *Tock, tock.*
Somewhere, a clock chimes midnight.
Quinn takes a step forward. The market swallows her whole.