Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB1R0KRM41BR5120042Q2C

Rain hammered the pavements of Camden High Street, turning gutters into rushing torrents. Neon signs bled pink and blue into puddles, reflecting Harlow Quinn's sprinting form. Her boots slapped wet asphalt. Salt-and-pepper hair clung to her scalp under the hood of her trench coat. Brown eyes locked on the figure ahead—short curly dark hair, olive skin flashing under streetlamps, jacket flapping like a wounded bird. "Stop! Police!" Her voice cut through the downpour, sharp as her jawline. The man—Tomás Herrera, she'd clocked his face from the Raven's Nest CCTV—glanced back. Warm brown eyes widened. He bolted harder, shoulders pumping. A Saint Christopher medallion swung from his neck, catching lamplight. Scar on his left forearm peeked from rolled sleeve as he shoved past a cluster of late-night revellers outside a kebab shop. Harlow's lungs burned. Eighteen years on the force, military bearing kept her strides precise. She vaulted a fallen umbrella, coat tails whipping. Traffic snarled at the junction—black cabs honking, headlights slicing fog. Tomás darted between cars. A horn blared. Tyres screeched. He cleared it, vanished into a shadowed alley off Parkway. She followed, radio crackling at her hip. "Control, this is Quinn. Suspect Herrera on foot, heading Camden alleys. Request backup." "Copy, Quinn. Units en route. Ten minutes." Ten minutes. Too long. Her worn leather watch ticked under rain's assault—midnight past. Partner's ghost whispered in her skull: Morris, gone three years, chasing shadows that didn't bleed normal. Alley swallowed them. Brick walls closed in, graffiti snarling in the gloom. Puddles splashed calves-deep. Tomás slipped on slick cobbles, righted himself, scar twisting as he gripped a dumpster for leverage. "You're done, Herrera!" Harlow yelled. "Off-books doctoring? Clique's poison trade? Ends tonight." He didn't answer. Just ran. Turned sharp at alley's end, plunged down rusted metal stairs to a service door beneath a boarded-up warehouse. Padlock hung loose—forced earlier. He kicked it free, yanked the door. Hinges screamed. Harlow hit the stairs three at a time. Boots clanged. Door slammed behind him. She rammed shoulder first—wood splintered inward. Stale air punched her face, thick with mould and something sharper, like ozone after lightning. Tunnel stretched black ahead, abandoned Tube line forgotten since the Blitz. Drips echoed from ceiling vaults. Tomás's footsteps faded into murk. Her hand found the torch on her belt, beam stabbing darkness. Rats scattered, eyes glowing ruby. "Give it up, Tommy boy." Voice bounced off tiles. "NHS kicked you out for a reason. Supernatural stitch-ups? We're past human now." Footsteps halted. Echoed back. "You don't know shit, Detective." His accent rolled thick, Seville sun in the vowels. "Lost your partner to what you can't name. Back off." Torch beam caught him at a junction—forked tunnels, one sealed with chain-link, the other dropping steeper. Medallion glinted as he fumbled pocket. Bone token emerged, carved like a femur shard, etched runes glowing faint green. Veil Market rumours—whispers from informants, black market under the city. Moves every full moon. Enchanted crap, alchemical sludge. Clique's haunt. He slotted the token into a wall recess. Stone ground. Hidden hatch irised open, stairs spiralling down into red pulse-light. Harlow charged. "Police! Hands up!" Tomás dropped through. Hatch began closing—gears whirring. She lunged. Fingers caught lip. Metal bit skin. Pulled. Boots scraped edge. Below, market noise swelled: haggling voices, sizzle of impossible meats, low chants. Smells wafted—sulphur, blood, herbs burning electric. Hatch ground shut an inch. Her watch strap snapped under strain. She hauled harder, military precision firing muscles. Inch by inch, it reversed. "Control, underground Camden. Suspect entering black market site. Need—" Static swallowed her words. Signal dead down here. Hatch stuck half-open. Tomás's voice drifted up, muffled. "Come on, Quinn. You want truth? Jump." Torch beam pierced the gap. Market sprawled below: abandoned platform reborn. Stalls crammed against tiled walls—vials bubbling purple, blades humming with trapped screams, cages holding things with too many eyes. Figures in hoods bartered. A woman with scales for skin haggled over a heart still beating. Bone tokens clattered as currency. Central archway pulsed: entry guarded by two bruisers, horns curling from brows, eyes like oil slicks. Tomás melted into the crowd, medallion tucked away. Harlow dangled. Rain dripped from her coat, pooling on the lip. Legs kicked void. Torch slipped, clattered down into market depths. Shouts rose below. "Five-oh! Pig in the hatch!" One guard looked up, horns silhouetted. Grabbed a crossbow—bolts tipped glowing green. She heaved. Biceps corded. Hatch groaned wider. Pulled through, rolled onto tunnel floor. Gasped air laced with market reek. Decision slammed her. Backup miles away. Radio silent. Streets above safe, protocol. But Herrera slipped deeper—answers on Morris's death buried there. Supernatural origins she'd buried with her partner. Unexplained flames, no bodies. Footsteps thundered up the stairs. Guards coming. Her hand went to holster. Glock 17, standard issue. Useless against whatever festered below? Informants spun tales: wraiths that ate bullets, shifters dodging lead. Torch gone. Phone light flickered on—dim blue. She crept to hatch edge, peered down. Tomás bartered at a stall. Passed bone token for a satchel—bulging with vials. Seller nodded, fangs glinting. "Fresh from the Nest, eh? Quinn's sniffing close." He glanced up. Their eyes met across the gulf. Scar twisted as he smirked. "Truth's down here, Detective. Or run home." Guard's shadow loomed behind her. Crossbow bolt whistled. Harlow dropped. Stomach lurched. Wind rushed ears. Platform rushed up. She twisted mid-air, coat ballooning. Boots hit tiles—jarring knees. Rolled into a stall. Jars shattered—slime oozed, something inside shrieked. Crowd parted. Chaos erupted. Hoods drew blades, claws. "Intruder!" She surged up, Glock out. Fired warning into ceiling. Plaster rained. "Metropolitan Police! Stand down!" Laughter rippled. Scaled woman hissed. "Pigs don't carry bone." Tomás vanished into throng. Satchel slung over shoulder. Harlow pushed forward. Elbows carved path. A vendor lunged—tentacle arm whipping. She sidestepped, pistol-whipped his skull. Wet crack. He slumped. Deeper in. Stalls blurred: enchanted maps unfolding to other realms, alchemical powders sparking visions. Air hummed power. Full moon above ground tugged veins, unnatural. Guard dropped from hatch—horns first, crossbow raised. Bolt flew. She dove. It sank into a caged imp—creature exploded in green ichor. She fired. Hit his knee. He bellowed, collapsed. "Quinn!" Tomás's voice ahead. "You lost Morris to us. Want why?" She shoved through. Heart thundered. Watch face cracked, ticking erratic. Stairs at platform's end—down further. He took them two at a time. Her boots followed. Glock barked—warning shot ricocheted off pipes. Market denizens pursued now. Claws scraped stone. Shouts in tongues that curdled blood. Deeper stairs spiralled. Torchlight from below—no, bioluminescent fungi clinging walls, pulsing like veins. She hit bottom. Cavern widened: secondary chamber, Veil Market's heart. Auctions underway. Podium held a chained shifter—fur matted, eyes feral. Bids rose in bone clacks. Tomás wove auction crowd. Paused at shadowed alcove. Handed satchel to a figure—cloaked, face obscured. Harlow closed gap. Sweat mixed rain on skin. Military bearing held form straight. "Freeze, Herrera!" Crowd hushed. Eyes turned—predatory. Cloaked figure took satchel. Voice slithered. "Detective Quinn. Persistent." She levelled Glock. "Clique's done. Herrera, cuffs." Tomás stepped forward. Medallion swung. "Lost license saving your kind from ours. Morris? He saw too much. Fire wasn't natural." Truth clawed her gut. Three years chasing ghosts. Auctioneer banged gavel. "Next lot!" Guards encircled. Horns, fangs, scales. Crossbows nocked. Her finger tightened trigger. Backup gone. Territory theirs. Follow Herrera into alcove shadows? Or fight out? Radio crackled faint—static whisper. "Quinn... position..." Decision hung. Glock steady. Brown eyes flicked between Tomás and the horde. Rain echoed distant from streets above, world normal forgotten.