Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAZQE8K388C9YVEH1WCE97

Rain hammered against the slick asphalt, reflecting the neon glow of The Raven’s Nest in fractured shards. Detective Harlow Quinn adjusted her worn leather watch, the rhythmic tick a counterpoint to the drumming downpour. Her breath plumed white in the frigid air as she followed him. Tomás Herrera. A medic, a shadow, and increasingly, a thread pulling her toward something rotten beneath London’s surface. He moved with a practiced ease, a dark silhouette weaving through the crowded streets of Soho. The rain plastered his dark curls to his forehead, revealing the olive skin beneath. He didn't glance back. Didn’t acknowledge her presence. Just kept moving. “Herrera,” she called, her voice clipped and tight. The words sliced through the rain and the din of the city. He paused at a red light, then turned. His brown eyes, warm and hesitant, met hers. A flicker of something – fear? – crossed his face before he melted back into the shadows. Quinn pushed off the curb, her boots splashing in puddles. She gained on him, the relentless rain mirroring her urgency. He navigated a maze of narrow alleyways, the smell of damp brick and exhaust fumes thick in the air. The streetlights cast an unsettling orange glow, painting the scene in hues of decay. “Stop,” she commanded, her hand hovering over her holster. He didn’t. Instead, he ducked into a doorway, disappearing from view. A wave of frustration washed over Quinn. She slammed her hand against the wall, the impact jarring her arm. “He’s anticipating me,” she muttered, scanning the alley. Nothing but shadows and the persistent rain. She checked her watch again. Seventeen minutes past the last confirmed sighting. The rain intensified, turning the street into a river. She adjusted her coat, pulling it tighter around her. The memory of DS Morris, lost three years ago in a case steeped in the impossible, tightened its grip on her chest. A case that had started with whispers of something beyond human comprehension. She circled the block, checking doorways, windows, anything that might offer a clue to his next move. The Raven’s Nest’s neon sign pulsed with an almost mocking invitation. Silas, the bar’s owner, was a collector of secrets, a subtle dealer in information. He’d likely have noticed Herrera’s presence. She pushed open the heavy wooden door of the bar, the smell of stale beer and something vaguely medicinal hitting her. The interior was dim, illuminated by flickering candles and the green glow of the neon sign outside. A handful of patrons huddled at the bar, their faces obscured by shadows. Silas, a stout man with a perpetually bored expression, wiped down the counter with a damp cloth. "Silas," she said, her voice authoritative. "Have you seen Tomás Herrera?" He didn’t immediately respond. He finished wiping the counter, his gaze sweeping over her with an unsettlingly perceptive intensity. “Lots of faces pass through here, Detective. You'll have to be more specific.” “He was here earlier. Asking about… unusual remedies.” Silas paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Unusual remedies, you say? Plenty of folks around here deal in unusual remedies. The Veil Market’s been particularly active lately.” The Veil Market. A ripple of unease passed through her. An underground black market for supernatural goods, tucked away beneath the city. Dangerous territory. The kind of place she actively avoided. “Tell me where it is,” she demanded. He hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “It shifts. Like a shadow. There’s a bone token required to enter. Moves every full moon.” “And he’s headed there?” “Possibly. He’s a… delicate man. Requires specific treatments.” Silas leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He's been coming to me for a few weeks, requesting ingredients for a… revitalization potion. Something potent.” Quinn felt a knot tighten in her stomach. Revitalization potion. It sounded like a euphemism. A way to mask something darker. “Does he say what he needs it for?” “Just that he ‘needs to return to his roots.’” Silas shrugged. "Don't ask me too many questions, Detective. Some doors are best left unopened." She ignored his warning. "The entrance." Silas pointed towards a darkened corner of the bar, obscured by a towering bookshelf packed with ancient maps and faded photographs. “Behind the cartography. Only those with the token can see it.” Quinn moved towards the bookshelf, her hand instinctively reaching for her holster. The air grew colder as she approached the corner. The rain outside seemed to intensify, drumming against the windows with renewed ferocity. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books, searching for a hidden latch, a mechanism. Then she felt it. A subtle shift in the shelf, a barely perceptible click. The bookshelf swung inward, revealing a narrow, descending staircase disappearing into darkness. The stench of damp earth and something metallic – blood, perhaps – wafted up from below. She hesitated for only a moment. The rain continued to batter the building, the city’s discordant symphony masking the deeper, more unsettling sounds emanating from the depths beneath. She took a step down, the steel of her boots echoing in the darkness. The staircase opened into a vast, cavernous space – The Veil Market. It was a chaotic sprawl of stalls and makeshift tents, illuminated by flickering oil lamps and the eerie glow of enchanted items. Vendors hawked their wares in hushed tones, their faces obscured by hooded cloaks. The air was thick with the scent of strange herbs, volatile chemicals, and something indefinably… ancient. Tomás Herrera was there, haggling with a wizened woman over a small, intricately carved wooden box. He was surrounded by a small group of figures, their faces hidden in shadow. Quinn moved silently through the throng, her eyes scanning the crowd, searching for him. He didn’t notice her approach until she was almost upon him. He turned, his eyes widening with a flash of alarm. He instinctively reached for the wooden box, clutching it tightly to his chest. “Herrera,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “You’re under arrest.” He didn’t resist. He simply raised his hands, his expression a mixture of resignation and something akin to… sadness. “Detective,” he said, his voice soft. “You shouldn’t be here.” “I have reason to believe you’re involved in illegal activities. Specifically, trafficking in… esoteric substances.” “I’m a healer,” he corrected, his hand tightening around the wooden box. “I provide care. That's all.” “The ‘revitalization potion’ Silas mentioned. It’s more than just care, isn't it, Herrera?” Before he could respond, a man stepped out from behind one of the stalls. Tall, imposing, and cloaked in black, his face was hidden in shadow. He moved with a predatory grace, his hand resting on the hilt of a silver dagger. “He offers solace, Detective,” the man said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “A temporary reprieve. But some wounds… they demand a deeper cure. And certain cures require a sacrifice.” Quinn recognized the scent immediately – ozone and decay. The unmistakable signature of a Revenant. One of the creatures her partner, DS Morris, had investigated before his death. The rain intensified, seeming to press against the makeshift walls of the market, as if eager to drag the secrets beneath the city to the surface. She knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was not just a chase. It was a descent into something far darker, something that reached back into the forgotten corners of London’s past. She drew her weapon, the cold steel a familiar comfort in the chaos. "I'm not leaving without him," she said, her eyes fixed on the Revenant. “And I won't hesitate to ensure he doesn’t endanger anyone else."