Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYASR08HDC90FBSPFVPWC1Z

Rain lashed against Detective Harlow Quinn’s face, blurring the neon glow of Soho into smeared streaks of colour. She tasted grit, a familiar flavour after eighteen years on the force. Ahead, a figure in a dark overcoat darted across Rupert Street, disappearing into a narrow alleyway. Herrera. Tomás Herrera. He moved with a practiced ease that didn’t square with his ‘former paramedic’ cover story. Quinn pushed off from the brick wall she’d been leaning against, her leather jacket slick against her back. Muscles protested – a dull ache in her shoulder, a twinge in her knee. Morris’ ghost always seemed to amplify the physical toll. She ignored it. This pursuit had been weeks in the making, a frustrating dance of shadows and near misses. Tonight, she intended to close it. The alley stank of stale beer and something acrid, something chemical. She drew her service weapon, the metallic click echoing off the damp walls. Herrera was quick, gone before she reached the alley’s mouth. But a glint of metal caught her eye - a small, ornate bone token lying abandoned on the grimy pavement. Her jaw tightened. A bone token. She knew what that meant. The Veil Market. A chill that had nothing to do with the November rain snaked down her spine. The Market was just a rumour amongst the city’s weirdos and lowlifes. An underground bazaar for the supernatural, hidden somewhere beneath Camden. She’d dismissed it as folklore, a convenient explanation for unexplained anomalies. Until now. The alley opened onto a dilapidated square, dominated by the distinctive green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest. Silas’ bar. A known haunt for the clique – the group of ‘collectors’ and ‘enthusiasts’ she’d been investigating. Herrera hadn’t gone in. He’d circled around the back. Quinn scanned the murky square. Two figures huddled under an awning, sharing a cigarette. They glanced up as she approached, then quickly looked away. She didn’t bother with them. They weren't worth the time. She followed Herrera’s trail, squeezing between overflowing bins and a stack of discarded crates. Behind the bar, a fire escape snaked down the brick wall. At the bottom, a rusting metal door, almost hidden by a tangle of ivy. And a faint, pulsing thrum of bass. Music. Something other than the city’s drone. She tested the door. Unlocked. Of course. Herrera wouldn’t bother with subtlety. This wasn't a raid, it was a pursuit. She descended the fire escape, her worn leather watch catching the dim light. Each step creaked, a small protest against her urgency. The bass grew louder, more insistent. The door opened onto a narrow, concrete corridor. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of incense and something that smelled like ozone. The corridor sloped downwards, leading into the darkness. She flicked on her flashlight, the beam cutting a swathe through the gloom. The walls were lined with graffiti - strange symbols, glyphs she didn’t recognise. The corridor opened into a cavernous space. And that's when the air shifted. She’d chased suspects through underground tunnels, abandoned buildings, but this… this felt different. Wrong. The space hummed with a low energy, a vibration that set her teeth on edge. Before her stretched a twisted labyrinth of stalls and makeshift shops. Flickering candlelight illuminated displays of bizarre objects – desiccated herbs, glass vials filled with iridescent liquids, antique weapons glinting in the half-light. A throng of shadowy figures moved between the stalls, their faces obscured by hoods and masks. The marketplace bustled with an unsettling, silent energy. “Looking for something, Detective?” The voice came from behind her, smooth as aged whiskey. She turned, her hand instinctively tightening on her weapon. Standing in the shadows was a woman with hair the color of a raven’s wing and eyes like chipped obsidian. She wore a long, velvet coat and a barely perceptible smile. “Just passing through.” Quinn’s voice was gravel, roughened by years of smoke and frustration. The woman tilted her head, her smile widening. “Oh, I doubt that. You reek of the mundane. This isn’t exactly a tourist destination.” “I’m looking for a man. Tomás Herrera.” The woman’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Herrera? A regular. Trades in rare ingredients. Bit of a healer, apparently.” “And where might I find him?” Quinn kept her voice level, refusing to betray her unease. “Patience, Detective. The Market has its own rhythms. Just wander. You’ll find what you’re looking for. Or perhaps… what finds *you*.” The woman melted back into the shadows, leaving Quinn standing alone in the chaotic heart of the Veil Market. The crowd pressed around her, a sea of faces she couldn’t quite focus on. The air crackled with a strange energy, a silent cacophony of whispers and unseen intentions. She holstered her weapon. Drawing it here, in this place, felt… wrong. Like waving a flag of aggression in a land governed by different rules. She started to move, weaving through the stalls, her eyes scanning for any sign of Herrera. She passed a stall selling antique maps, their parchment brittle with age. A merchant with pale, almost translucent skin tried to press a map into her hand. “Lost, Detective? Perhaps a guide? I know these tunnels like the back of my hand.” “Not interested.” She moved on, pushing past a group haggling over a cage containing some sort of bioluminescent insect. The air grew warmer, the scent of incense stronger. She passed a stall piled high with books bound in strange materials – leather, bone, even what appeared to be human skin. The stall keeper, a wizened man with eyes like a lizard, watched her with unsettling intensity. “Looking for knowledge, Detective? Or something… more?” “I’m looking for a man.” “Everyone is, eventually.” He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “But the Market doesn’t give up its secrets easily.” Then, a flash of dark curly hair. At the far end of the market, near a shrouded archway, she saw him. Herrera. He was talking to a tall, gaunt figure draped in black robes. They were exchanging something – a small vial filled with a swirling, crimson liquid. He turned his back to her, giving her a clear view of the scar that bisected his left forearm. He hadn’t seen her yet. She could move now, close the distance, take him into custody, get him out of this… this place. But something stayed her hand. A prickling sensation on the back of her neck. A sense of being watched. Not just by Herrera, but by everyone. By the Market itself. The archway. It pulsed with a dark energy. Beyond it, she could glimpse a descending staircase, disappearing into an even deeper level of the underground. She could arrest him now. Or she could follow him further down the rabbit hole.