Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB3DWK3QFN186W5ZBT9FVN

Rain slashes the streets of Soho, a silver veil that blurs the neon and turns the pavement to a mirror. Detective Harlow Quinn’s boots pound through puddles, her coat clinging to her shoulders, the salt-and-pepper stubble on her jaw damp. She checks her watch—11:17 PM—fingers brushing the worn leather band, the same one Morris used to wear, the one he’d never taken off. The case had started as a routine smuggling ring: boxes of rare minerals seized at the docks, labels in a script no linguist recognized. Then the first body—found in a warehouse, throat slit, eyes replaced by black glass. Then Morris, sent to follow a lead, and he vanished. No blood, no tracks, just a single black feather left in his empty cruiser. Three years. Three years of digging, of collecting half-truths, of the Clique—so named because they moved in a tight, secret circle—eluding her like smoke. They didn’t just deal in contraband. They dealt in *something else*. The suspect materializes out of the gloom: a man in a black duster, hat pulled low, strides toward the alley where Quinn had last spotted him. She flicks on her flashlight, cutting through the rain, and the beam catches his profile—sharp cheekbones, a jagged scar above his left eyebrow. *Jax*. They’d picked up his trail two weeks ago, after a senior member of the Clique was found dead in his apartment, his heart extracted and replaced with a glowing orb. Jax had been the go-between, the *keeper* of secrets. She chases. Jax moves like water—smooth, unpredictable—darting left, then right, as if the rain itself is guiding him. Quinn’s boots slip on a patch of oil; by the time she catches her balance, he’s gone. But she hears him: a breath, shallow, then a *thud* as he drops something. She skids to a halt, beam focused on the cobblestones. A bone token, carved from what looks like deer antler, etched with runes that glow faintly under her light. *Veil Market*, she thinks. The rumors had always been there—about an underground market beneath Camden, a place for those who traded in what the law deemed *unholy*. But she’d never believed them. Not until Morris— She shakes her head, casting aside the memory. The token is warm, almost pulsing, as if it’s alive. She tucks it into her coat pocket, then presses her ear to the wet brick wall. Footsteps, receding—*but not down the alley*. He’s heading *underground*. Quinn follows, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. Soho’s backstreets curve downward, leading to a warren of cellars and service doors. She reaches a metal grate, its lock bent—Jax had pried it open. She heaves it aside, rain pouring into the darkness below. The air smells of damp concrete and something sharper, metallic, like ozone. She lowers herself into the space, flashlight trembling, and lands with a thud. The sewer tunnel is a straight line, but it splits after 50 feet. Jax’s tracks lead left—she can see the indentation of his boots in the mud. She crawls, elbows scraped, until she reaches a set of stone steps leading upward. The walls are slick with moss; above, a faint glow filters through a cracked manhole cover. *Street level*, she realizes. But not Soho. *Camden*. She climbs, pulling herself up by a rusted pipe, and bursts into the open. The steps lead to a derelict Tube station—signs for “Camden Town” hang crookedly, their paint peeling. The platform is empty, but the ceiling is pockmarked with holes, letting in the rain. And there, across the tracks, is Jax. He’s fumbling with his duster, revealing a leather satchel, and—*a bone token in his hand*. He presses it to a brick wall, which slides open with a hiss, revealing a narrow staircase. Quinn draws her service pistol. The gun is hot in her hand, its weight a familiar comfort. “Halt!” she yells. Her voice cracks, drowned out by the rain. Jax doesn’t stop. He descends the stairs, the wall sliding shut behind him. Quinn runs to the brick wall, pressing her palm to the cool stone—no token in her coat pocket, she realizes. *Of course*, she thinks. She should have known. The Clique didn’t leave trails for amateurs. But she’s not an amateur. She fumbles with her keys, yanking a small, rusted lockpick from her pocket—Morris had taught her, way back when. She jams it into the crack, twists. The wall creaks, then slides open. The staircase is steep, the air thick with the smell of sage and something sweet, cloying—like burning honey. She follows, her breath ragged, the pistol raised. The staircase ends in a vast chamber. The tube station has been transformed: stalls line the walls, their vendors hidden behind tattered curtains, their wares glowing with strange light—vials of liquid that pulse like hearts, swords with blades that shimmer like smoke, cages holding tiny, winged creatures that chirp softly. The ceiling is low, but the air is warm, the rain long since forgotten. This is the Veil Market. Jax is ahead, heading for a booth draped in black velvet. A woman sits inside, her face hidden by a hood, her hands busy with a vial of glowing green liquid. “Herrera’s medallion,” Jax says, his voice tight. “I need it. The orb—” “—needs a consecrated vessel,” the woman says, her voice a purr. “Saint Christopher, huh? Cute. But you think *he’ll* let you touch it? Not after what you did to Maria.” Maria—Jax had killed her, two months ago. She’d been a healer, one of Tomás’ patients. Quinn had tracked Jax to this market three times before—each time, he’d vanished into the crowd, his token leading her here, only to disappear into the stalls. But this time, she’s ready. She steps forward, pistol steady. “Clique business is over, Jax. You’re coming with me.” The woman behind the velvet booth looks up. Her hood falls, revealing a face like cracked porcelain, her eyes milky white. “You shouldn’t be here, Detective. The rules—” “—are for those who follow them,” Quinn finishes. She doesn’t take her eyes off Jax, who’s now reaching into his satchel. Inside, a glint of metal—*a knife*, its blade etched with the same runes as the bone token. Jax turns, knife in hand. “You think you can stop me? The market protects us. It sees what you *don’t*.” “Then let it see,” Quinn says. “I’ve got warrants. Murder. Conspiracy. The eye glass at the warehouse—*they’re* supernatural. Morris would’ve seen that. He—” She stops. The woman behind the booth has stood, her hood gone, her porcelain face now *flickering*, like a candle in a wind. “Morris,” the woman says, and her voice is Morris’—warm, with a hint of a Spanish accent. “He meant well. But he *snooped*.” Quinn’s stomach drops. “What… what are you?” “*I* am what the market is,” the woman says. “A keeper. A guardian. We watch. We wait. And when fools like you get too close—” Jax lunges. Quinn dives, rolling across the stone floor. The knife whizzes past her ear, embedding itself in a stall. She comes up firing, the bullet grazing Jax’s shoulder. He screams, blood blooming dark on his duster, and staggers back. The woman—*the keeper*—reaches into her pocket, pulling out a vial of the green liquid. She hurls it at Quinn, who ducks. The vial shatters, and a cloud of smoke erupts, filling the chamber. “Run!” the keeper yells. “Before it—” Her words are cut off by a roar. Quinn squints through the smoke, heart pounding. Jax is gone. In his place, a shadow—tall, thin, with eyes like black pits—looms over the keeper. Its mouth opens, a scream that splits the air, and the woman dissolves, her porcelain face crumbling to dust. The smoke clears. The shadow is gone. Quinn stands, pistol shaking. The stalls are empty now, the vendors vanished. But on the floor, where the keeper had stood, is a single Saint Christopher medallion. She picks it up, its metal warm against her palm. The ribbon is frayed, the saint’s face worn smooth by time. A voice behind her. “You shouldn’t have come here.” Quinn spins, pistol trained. Tomás Herrera stands in the shadows, his left forearm bare, the scar running from his wrist to his elbow taut. His eyes are wide, his jaw set. “That’s mine,” he says, nodding at the medallion. “My father gave it to me before he died. You tracked it here.” Quinn glances at the medallion, then back at Tomás. “You’re part of the clique, aren’t you? The market… the supernatural stuff. Morris would’ve—” “—would’ve died,” Tomás finishes. His voice is quiet, but his hands are clenched, the knuckles white. “He *did* die. In that warehouse. I saw it. The shadow. It took him.” Quinn’s breath catches. “You saw it? How?” Tomás steps into the light, his olive skin pale. “I was there. I was treating a patient, and I heard him screaming. I ran into the warehouse, and… and it was gone. Just the feather. The black feather.” Quinn’s hand goes to her pocket, pulling out a crumpled photograph: Morris, grinning, holding a feather. She’d kept it, hidden in her wallet. “You never told me.” Tomás looks away. “I didn’t want to believe it. The Clique… they’re broken people. Maria, the healer. She was dying, Tomás. Brain cancer. The doctors said she had months. The Clique… they offered me a way to help her. To make her better. I couldn’t say no.” “You administered unauthorized treatments,” Quinn says, recalling the codex. “To supernatural patients.” He nods. “I know it’s illegal. But she was *my* friend. And then… and then Jax came. He said the orb could fix anything. But it didn’t. It took her. And then it took Morris.” Quinn studies him, the medallion in her hand. His eyes are red, his voice thick with pain. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “Because I was scared,” he says. “Scared of what you’d do. Scared of what *they’d* do. But Jax… he’s planning something. He wants to use the orb to break the veil, to let… to let *them* in. And when he does, no one will be safe. Not even you.” Quinn looks up, toward the stairs. The air still hums with the residual magic of the market, the weight of secrets hidden in the stalls. Jax is out there, somewhere, but so is the truth—about Morris, about the Clique, about the supernatural that haunts London. She tucks the medallion into her coat, next to the bone token. “I need to find Jax,” she says. Tomás reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small vial. “Take this. It’ll help you see. The magic… it clings to things. To people. And Jax… he’s been using it. There’s a trace of it on him. It’ll guide you.” Quinn takes the vial, its contents a glowing blue liquid. “Thank you,” she says. He shakes his head. “Be careful, Harlow. The market doesn’t forget. And it doesn’t forgive.” She turns, heading for the stairs. The rain is falling again, soft now, as if the sky is crying. Behind her, the medallion pulses, warm against her chest. Somewhere, a clock ticks. Somewhere, a shadow waits. Quinn grips her pistol, the vial in her other hand. She takes a step forward, into the darkness. And into the unknown.