Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAZ7NY5FZVQ063CWVBKEFV

The rain came down in sheets, turning the streets of Soho into a slick, glistening maze. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots splashed through puddles as she moved with the precision of a soldier on patrol, her sharp jaw set in a grim line. The neon glow of the Raven’s Nest flickered above her, its green light bleeding into the storm like a bruise. She had been tailing the suspect for twenty minutes now—ever since he’d slipped out the back door of Silas’ bar, his coat pulled tight against the cold. His name was Elias Voss, and according to her sources, he was a middleman for something far worse than drugs. Something that made the Veil Market’s dealers look like amateurs. Harlow’s gloved fingers tightened around the grip of her pistol, the weight familiar in her palm. She wasn’t here for the usual petty theft or the occasional supernatural scam. This was bigger. Three years ago, she’d lost her partner, DS Morris, in a case that had gone sideways—too sideways. The official report had called it a botched raid, a tragic accident. But Harlow knew better. She’d found the charred remains of a sigil carved into the wall of the abandoned warehouse where it had happened. A symbol she’d seen before, in old grimoires, in the whispered warnings of occultists who knew too much. Now, Voss was leading her deeper into the city’s underbelly, and she wasn’t about to let him slip away again. The alley behind the Raven’s Nest was narrow, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or the metallic tang of old blood. Harlow’s breath came steady, her pulse steadying as she moved. She wasn’t afraid. Not yet. But the way Voss had darted into the shadows, his movements too fluid for a man who’d just been drinking, told her he wasn’t just a criminal. He was something else. Ahead, a flicker of movement. A figure ducking into a narrow passage, just wide enough for one person at a time. Harlow followed, her boots clicking against the wet pavement. The passage opened into a narrow staircase, its steps slick with rainwater. She took them two at a time, her pistol drawn, her senses sharp. The air down here was warmer, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something metallic, like copper. The sound of dripping water echoed around her, and the distant hum of the city above felt like a distant dream. At the bottom of the stairs, the passage opened into a cavernous space. Harlow’s breath caught. The Veil Market. It was nothing like the stories. No grand bazaar of enchanted wares and robed dealers. Instead, it was a labyrinth of rusted metal scaffolding, flickering lanterns casting long shadows, and the occasional flash of something that wasn’t quite right—eyes reflecting in the dark, movements that were too quick, too precise. The air hummed with energy, like the moment before a storm breaks. And then she saw him. Elias Voss stood near the center of the market, his back to her, his coat draped over his shoulders like a predator’s cloak. Around him, figures moved—some human, some not. A woman with too many fingers sipped from a glass that shouldn’t exist. A man with antlers like a stag’s leaned against a stall selling vials of liquid that shimmered with an inner light. And Voss—he was speaking to a figure in the shadows, his voice low, his posture relaxed. Too relaxed. Harlow’s finger twitched on the trigger. She could end this now. Shoot him where he stood, take him down before he could react. But something held her back. The market was a maze of danger, and she wasn’t sure what she was walking into. The last time she’d been in a place like this, she’d lost her partner. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. A hand clamped down on her shoulder. Harlow spun, her pistol coming up in a fluid motion. A man stood behind her, his olive skin damp, his dark curls plastered to his forehead. A medallion glinted around his neck, the image of a saint she didn’t recognize. His eyes were warm, but his grip was iron. “Detective,” he said, his voice low, urgent. “You shouldn’t be here.” She didn’t lower the gun. “Who the hell are you?” “Tomás Herrera. I work here. And you’re about to get yourself killed.” Voss turned at that moment, his head tilting slightly, as if he’d heard something. His gaze locked onto hers, and for a second, she saw it—the recognition, the understanding. He knew her. Or at least, he knew what she was. Harlow’s pulse spiked. “You’re not here to help me.” “No,” Tomás said, his voice grim. “But I can get you out of here. If you’re willing to listen.” Voss took a step forward, his movements too smooth, too deliberate. The figures around him shifted, their attention turning toward her. The air in the market seemed to thicken, the hum of energy rising like a tide. Harlow exhaled slowly, her grip on the pistol steady. She had a choice to make. She could shoot Voss now, risk the chaos that would follow, or she could listen to this stranger and see where this led. She’d lost her partner once. She wasn’t about to lose herself now. “Fine,” she said, her voice low. “But I’m not leaving without answers.” Tomás nodded, his expression grim. “Then follow me.” He turned and moved through the market, weaving between the stalls and the figures that watched them with predatory eyes. Harlow followed, her pistol still drawn, her senses on high alert. The market seemed to shift around them, the paths twisting and turning, the figures changing. It was like walking through a dream, one that was trying to trap her. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the market opened up into a wider space. A platform stood in the center, and upon it, a figure sat in a chair of black iron. The air around him crackled with energy, and the figures in the market fell silent, their attention turning to him. Voss stood beside him, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. The figure on the platform lifted his head, his gaze locking onto Harlow. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow, but his voice was strong. “Detective Quinn,” he said, his voice echoing through the market. “I’ve been expecting you.” Harlow’s breath caught. She knew that voice. She’d heard it in her nightmares. “Silas,” she whispered. The man smiled, his teeth sharp in the dim light. “Welcome to my nest, Detective.”