Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAXHA970E92WNMB3DFC5AC

The rain lashed Harlow’s cropped salt-and-pepper hair to her skull, each drop a tiny, stinging percussion against her sharp jaw as she leaned against a rain-slicked brick wall across from The Raven’s Nest. The bar’s distinctive green neon sign flickered above the entrance, painting the puddles at her feet in sickly streaks of light that warped when a taxi hydroplaned past. She lifted her left wrist to check her worn leather watch—three hours and seventeen minutes since she’d settled into her stakeout, the hum of her military-trained pulse counting every second in lockstep with the watch’s tick. DS Morris’s face flashed unbidden behind her eyes, his grin faded by the memory of his cold, unexplained death three years prior; the coroner had called it a heart attack, but Harlow had seen the faint, iridescent bruises curling around his throat, bruises no human fist could have left. She’d promised him that night, kneeling beside his body in the rain-soaked alley, that she’d find whoever—or whatever—was responsible, no matter how deep she had to dig. Her gaze drifted to The Raven’s Nest’s walls, visible through the bar’s fogged window: frayed old maps of 19th-century Thames tunnels and black-and-white photographs of long-dead Soho residents, including one of a stern-faced man with a raven perched on his shoulder—Silas, the bar’s owner, who Harlow suspected was the clique’s middleman. She tensed when the bar’s door creaked open. A lanky figure in a waterlogged hoodie stumbled out, one hand clamped around a crumpled cloth bundle that glowed faintly through the fabric—supernatural, Harlow’s gut screamed, the same kind of energy she’d sensed the night Morris died. The figure’s hood fell back for a split second, revealing a gaunt face crisscrossed with silver scars, before he yanked it forward and bolted east, his boots splashing through puddles like a frightened rat. Harlow didn’t hesitate. She pushed off the wall, her trench coat flaring behind her, and gave chase, her 5’9” frame eating up the pavement with the precision of her 18 years of Met service. She wove around a group of drunk tourists huddling under an awning, their laughter fading into the rain as she ducked into an alley, her brown eyes locked on the hoodie’s flapping hem. The figure cut through a gap between two shops, and Harlow followed, but her boot slipped on a patch of ice hidden under a puddle—she caught herself on a rusted fire escape railing, her worn leather watch scraping against the metal with a sharp squeal, before pushing forward again, her military training turning the near-fall into a fluid recovery. The chase circled back to The Raven’s Nest. The hooded figure skidded to a halt in front of the green neon sign, wrenched open the bar’s door, and vanished inside. Harlow burst through right behind him, the scent of stale beer, old paper, and wood smoke slamming into her. The bar’s walls were lined with frayed old maps of 19th-century London and black-and-white photographs of long-dead Soho residents, their faces staring blankly as Harlow scanned the dim room. Her gaze caught on a man tending to a woman slouched in a booth: olive skin, short curly dark brown hair, a Saint Christopher medallion glinting against his throat, a thin scar running along his left forearm—Tomás Herrera, the former NHS paramedic she’d been investigating for his off-the-books care of the clique. He was dabbing a glowing, oozing wound on the woman’s thigh with a cloth soaked in some viscous blue liquid, and he murmured a Spanish prayer under his breath—*Nuestra Señora del Rosario*, Harlow recognized from her own limited Spanish lessons—when he saw her. The woman whimpered, her hand clamping around Tomás’s scarred forearm, and he froze, his warm brown eyes widening in recognition. “Detective Quinn,” he said, his Seville accent thick with caution, but Harlow didn’t stop. She spotted the hooded figure darting toward a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in the back corner, its shelves crammed with dust-covered tomes ranging from *Moby-Dick* to a tattered copy of a 17th-century alchemical manuscript. The figure grabbed the alchemical manuscript and yanked; the bookshelf swung inward with a low groan, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into darkness. He vanished into the stairwell, and Harlow was on him in three strides, her hand closing around the bookshelf’s edge to keep it from swinging shut. She hesitated for a split second, the memory of Morris’s cold body weighing on her—this was uncharted territory, a hidden space she’d never known existed, but the glow of the hooded figure’s bundle was still visible at the bottom of the stairs, a beacon calling her toward the truth she’d been chasing for three years. She descended the staircase, her boots thudding against wooden steps that creaked with age. The air grew colder the farther down she went, the scent of mildew and burning incense replacing the bar’s stale beer. At the bottom, she stepped into a narrow tunnel lined with moss-covered brick, the sound of the rain above fading to a distant murmur. She followed the glow of the hooded figure’s bundle until the tunnel opened into an abandoned Camden Tube station—tattered posters peeling from the walls, tracks overgrown with weeds, the faint hum of activity echoing from the platform. This is the Veil Market, Harlow realized, her mind racing with the intel she’d gleaned from anonymous tips: a hidden supernatural black market that moved locations every full moon, selling enchanted goods, banned alchemical substances, and information no cop could dig up legally. The entry requirement was a bone token, the tips had said, but the hooded figure had dropped his when he stumbled over a rotting bench—Harlow spotted it on the ground, a small, smooth raven bone glinting in the faint light of a flickering fluorescent bulb. She bent to pick it up, her fingers closing around the cold bone, and tucked it into her trench coat pocket. A soft voice behind her made her spin, her hand hovering over the baton at her waist. Tomás stood in the tunnel’s entrance, his Saint Christopher medallion swinging gently as he stepped forward, his scarred left forearm visible through the sleeve of his soaked flannel shirt. “You shouldn’t be here, Detective,” he said, his Seville accent warmer now, laced with concern. “This market doesn’t take kindly to cops. You don’t understand the things that go on here—supernatural things, the kind that got your partner killed.” Harlow’s jaw tightened. “I know you lost your NHS license for administering unauthorized treatments to supernatural patients,” she said, her voice sharp with the intel she’d uncovered. “I know you provide off-the-books care for the clique that’s been running this market. What are you hiding, Herrera?” Tomás’s shoulders slumped. He pulled down the collar of his flannel shirt, revealing a faint, iridescent scar curling around his neck—same as Morris’s. “I’m not hiding anything,” he said, his warm brown eyes softening. “I was born in Seville, raised to help people—when I moved to London for the NHS, I thought I’d be saving lives, but then I found a woman with a glowing wound in her side, a wound no regular doctor could fix. I gave her a treatment I’d learned from a healer in my hometown, and they took my license away. The clique found me after that, offered me a place to keep helping people no one else would touch. That scar? It’s from a supernatural creature that attacked me while I was tending to a boy with scales instead of skin. I’m not a criminal, Detective. I’m just trying to do good.” Harlow stared at him for a long moment, her military precision warring with the flicker of doubt in her gut. She thought of Morris’s iridescent bruises, of the hooded figure who’d vanished into the market’s depths, of the glowing bundle that held the key to unlocking the truth about his death. She heard the hooded figure’s voice echoing from the market’s platform, arguing with someone in a guttural language she didn’t understand—“stolen amulet,” she caught, the words tangled with the hum of supernatural energy. The Veil Market was unfamiliar, dangerous, a place where human laws didn’t apply—but it was also the only lead she’d had in three years. She pulled the raven bone from her trench coat pocket and held it up. “The entry requirement is a bone token,” she said, her voice steady. “I have one. I’m going in after him.” Tomás stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “Don’t do this,” he said. “You’ll get yourself killed. The vendors here will tear you apart if they find out you’re a cop. They sell enchanted blades that can cut through bone like butter, alchemical potions that can twist your mind into mush. You don’t stand a chance.” Harlow shook her head. She thought of the promise she’d made to Morris, of the nights she’d lain awake staring at his photo, of the iridescent bruises that had haunted her for three years. “I don’t care,” she said, her eyes locked on the market’s platform, where the hooded figure’s glow was fading into the crowd. “Morris didn’t die for nothing. I’m going to find out what’s going on here, no matter the cost.” She turned and walked toward the platform, the raven bone clutched tightly in her hand. The market’s activity grew louder as she approached—shouts in languages she didn’t understand, the clink of glass vials, the faint glow of enchanted goods lining the stalls: a sword with a blade that shifted from silver to black, a vial of red liquid that bubbled without heat, a book with pages that turned on their own. She adjusted her trench coat, her leather watch ticking softly against her wrist, and stepped into the crowd, her military bearing a shield against the chaos around her. A vendor with a face crisscrossed with glowing blue veins glanced at her raven bone, then at her uniformed collar peeking from under her coat, and smirked—a cold, knowing twist of the lips that sent a shiver down Harlow’s spine. She didn’t know what she’d find in the Veil Market, but she knew she couldn’t turn back—not when the truth about Morris’s death was finally within her reach, tangled in the hum of supernatural energy that filled every shadow of the abandoned Tube station.