Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAPJ0VWPVV3Y30H2AT84KR

The rain hammered down like God himself had turned off the sky’s faucet and left it running. Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles that reflected the sickly glow of streetlamps, her breath fogging in the cold. The suspect—a wiry man in a long coat—ducked into the alley between two brick buildings, his movements sharp, desperate. She didn’t hesitate. Quinn lunged after him, her leather jacket slick with rain, the weight of her service pistol a familiar comfort against her hip. The alley reeked of damp concrete and something older, something metallic. A discarded hypodermic needle glinted in the gutter. She ignored it. Focused. The man was fast, but she was faster. He bolted left, nearly colliding with a homeless man curled under a tarp. Quinn skidded to a stop, her boots sliding on the wet pavement. The suspect didn’t look back. He vanished around the corner of a boarded-up pub, the *Red Lion*, its sign hanging crooked, rusted. She rounded the corner just in time to see him shove something into the mouth of a sewer grate. A bone token. White, jagged, like a broken rib. Her pulse spiked. She’d seen those before—at the Veil Market, where things that shouldn’t exist changed hands. The grate rattled. The man was already halfway down the iron ladder bolted to the wall, his coat flapping like a crow’s wings. Quinn didn’t think. She grabbed the ladder, her fingers slipping on the wet rungs. Muscle memory took over. She descended, her boots clanging against the metal, the stench of stagnant water and something fouler—rot, decay—hitting her like a fist. The tunnel sloped downward, the air thickening. The man was gone. A flicker of movement. A shadow. Then—nothing. Quinn’s flashlight cut through the dark, the beam trembling in her grip. The tunnel split ahead. Left or right? She chose left, her instincts screaming at her to move. The walls here were slick with moisture, the ceiling low enough she had to duck. The air hummed, low and electric, like the city’s heartbeat had been buried here. Then she saw it—a faint glow, pulsing like a slow, sick pulse. Not a light. Not exactly. The Veil Market. She stepped forward, her boots sinking slightly into something soft. Not mud. Not quite. Her stomach twisted. She didn’t look down. The tunnel opened into a cavernous space, the air thick with the scent of incense and something sharper—ozone, like before a storm. Stalls lined the walls, their wares glowing faintly in the dim light. Jars of black liquid. Bottles labeled with scripts she didn’t recognize. A man in a long coat—no, a *robe*—haggling over a skull that pulsed faintly, veins of blue light threading through its bone. Quinn’s hand tightened around her pistol. She wasn’t here for the market. She was here for the man who’d led her down. She moved deeper, her flashlight sweeping over the crowd. No sign of him. Then—a whisper. *“Detective Quinn.”* She spun. A woman leaned against a stall, her lips curled in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, a silver ring on her thumb that glinted in the low light. *“You shouldn’t be here,”* the woman said. Quinn didn’t answer. She scanned the crowd again. Nothing. *“He’s gone,”* the woman said, as if reading her mind. *“But you’re not.”* Quinn’s jaw tightened. “Who are you?” The woman tilted her head. *“Someone who knows things.”* She stepped closer, her voice dropping. *“You’re looking for the wrong man.”* Quinn’s finger twitched on the trigger. “What man?” The woman’s smile widened. *“The one who didn’t lead you here. The one who sent you.”* A cold prickle ran down Quinn’s spine. She didn’t like being played. *“Who sent me?”* she demanded. The woman’s eyes flicked to something behind Quinn. Then she was gone, swallowed by the crowd. Quinn turned. The tunnel behind her was empty. But the air had changed. Thicker. Heavier. And then she saw it. A figure stood at the far end of the market, half-hidden in shadow. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A coat that pooled at his feet like spilled ink. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But he was watching her. Quinn’s breath hitched. She knew that stance. That stillness. She’d seen it in the mirror. The figure stepped forward, and the market seemed to hold its breath. Quinn’s hand flew to her pistol. But it was too late. The figure was already reaching for her.