Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB54Z834CE1SH3H3H1N62E

Rain hammered the Soho pavements like a thousand tiny fists, turning the gutters into rushing black rivers that swallowed cigarette butts and crumpled flyers. Detective Harlow Quinn hunched her shoulders against the deluge, her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair plastered flat to her scalp beneath the hood of her trench coat. Water streamed down her sharp jaw, blurring the edges of her vision, but she didn't blink. Not when she'd just caught sight of him—Tomás Herrera, slipping out the back door of the Raven's Nest like a shadow detaching from the wall. Quinn's worn leather watch ticked against her left wrist, marking the seconds since she'd clocked him inside the bar twenty minutes ago, nursing a whiskey neat while whispering with that shifty bartender, Silas. Eighteen years on the force had honed her instincts to a razor's edge; Herrera wasn't just some off-books medic patching up bar fights. No, he was tangled in something darker, tied to the clique she'd been chasing for months—disappearances, ritualistic symbols carved into alley walls, whispers of unnatural shit that didn't fit the Met's tidy case files. Her partner's ghost still haunted her dreams, DS Morris vanishing three years back into fog that reeked of brimstone. Supernatural bollocks, the brass had called it. Clean accident. Quinn knew better. She bolted from her unmarked sedan parked curbside, boots splashing through puddles that mirrored the green neon glow of the Raven's Nest sign. "Herrera!" she barked, voice cutting through the roar of traffic and rain. He didn't stop. Just glanced over his shoulder—warm brown eyes flashing recognition under the brim of his hood—before ducking into a narrow alley off Wardour Street. Bastard was fast for a healer, legs pumping with the urgency of a man who'd ditched scrubs for flight. Quinn's lungs burned as she gave chase, military precision driving her strides. At 5'9", she matched his height, but he had youth on his side—twenty-nine, her files said, olive-skinned Spaniard from Seville with a knife scar snaking his left forearm and a Saint Christopher medallion bouncing against his chest. She glimpsed it now as he shoved past overflowing bins, the silver glinting under sodium lamps. Rain slicked the cobbles, turning the alley into a skidway; she nearly went down when her boot hydroplaned on a slick leaf, but she caught herself on a graffiti-scarred wall—tagged with that same looping sigil she'd seen at three crime scenes. "Police! Stop!" The words echoed off brick, futile as prayers. He vaulted a low chain-link fence into a side street, and she followed, coat flapping like sodden wings. Horns blared as they burst onto Oxford Street, weaving through umbrellas and late-night revelers spilling from pubs. A cab swerved, brakes screeching; Quinn dodged left, her brown eyes locked on Herrera's curly dark hair, sodden and wild. He was heading north—Camden way. Why? The Nest was his haunt, not some midnight hike through the storm. Blocks blurred: neon shopfronts bleeding color into puddles, the acrid tang of wet asphalt and fried kebabs. Her watch strap chafed her wrist, soaked through, but she ignored it. Flash of memory— Morris's face, pale and twisted, the last she'd seen before the alley ate him whole. No body, no trace, just her gut screaming otherworldly. This clique, Herrera's crew—they were the thread. She wouldn't lose it now. He cut east into a maze of backstreets behind a shuttered market, breath ragged, audible over the downpour. Quinn closed the gap, fingers brushing her holstered Glock beneath the coat. "Herrera, you wanker—give it up!" He stumbled on a pothole, righted himself with a curse in Spanish—something about la puta madre—and plunged into a service alley flanked by towering skips. She vaulted after, heart thundering, adrenaline sharpening every sense: the metallic bite of rain on her tongue, the slap of his trainers ahead. Camden's fringes loomed now, the air thickening with the ghosts of punk rock and market stalls long shuttered for the night. He darted across a deserted junction, past a flickering "Closed" sign on a tattoo parlor, then vanished down a set of concrete stairs half-hidden by chain-link and weeds. Quinn skidded to the top, peering into the gloom. Abandoned Tube access—disused since the Blitz, cordoned off with rusted barriers and "Danger: No Entry" signs flapping in the wind. Rain cascaded down the steps like a waterfall, pooling at her feet. She drew her Glock, two-handed grip steady despite the wet. Torch beam from her phone pierced the dark: Herrera's silhouette midway down, fumbling at a grate set into the wall. No—not fumbling. He pulled something from his pocket—a small, yellowish token, carved like a femur, etched with runes that twisted her gut. Bone. Her files had scraps on this: Veil Market, supernatural bazaar in the underbelly, entry by token only. Moves every full moon. Bollocks, but real enough to chase leads here before. The grate swung open on silent hinges, unnatural in the rusty decay. Herrera shot her one last look—defiance mixed with pity?—before slipping inside. The grate clanged shut behind him, but not fully; a sliver gaped, enough for a slim frame. Quinn's breath fogged the air. Pulse hammered in her temples. Follow him down there? Into the black maw of legend, where her partner had maybe met his end? Stories from beat cops: whispers of enchanted blades that drank blood, alchemists peddling elixirs that melted flesh, creatures bartering souls under gaslight. Unfamiliar territory, crawling with the unknown. Backup? Miles away, radios crackling static in this storm. Her radio hissed now—control checking in—but she thumbed it silent. Solo op, always had been since Morris. She holstered the Glock, fingers numb. Military bearing kicked in: assess, decide, act. The alley behind her was empty, rain erasing her tracks. If she turned back, he'd vanish into the clique's web again—another dead end, another night staring at case files till dawn. But down there... Her free hand brushed her watch, ticking relentlessly. Morris's voice echoed in her skull: "Harlow, some shadows you don't chase." Sod that. She was no stranger to darkness. Quinn wedged her fingers into the grate's gap, muscles straining as she heaved. It gave with a groan, runes pulsing faint green before fading. She squeezed through, torch sweeping the narrow stairwell beyond: damp brick walls slick with moss, air turning fetid, laced with incense and ozone. Steps descended in a spiral, endless, her boots echoing like gunshots. Fifty feet down, the passage widened into a platform—abandoned Tube station, alright. Cracked tiles bore faded station names: "Camden Underworld – Next Train: Never." Arched doorways yawned into tunnels, but straight ahead, a heavy curtain of black velvet hung, embroidered with silver eyes that seemed to track her. Muffled voices seeped through—accents from nowhere, laughter like shattering glass. The Veil Market. She pushed the curtain aside, Glock drawn again, and stepped into hell's bazaar. Torchlight fractured across a cavernous chamber, brick vaults soaring overhead, strung with bioluminescent lanterns that cast writhing shadows. Stalls crammed the platform: rickety tables laden with glowing vials, amulets pulsing with inner fire, books bound in what looked suspiciously like skin. Vendors hawked wares in tongues that twisted her ear—hags with eyes like oil slicks, men in top hats with tails curling from coattails, a woman whose arms forked into tentacles coiling around potion bottles. Crowds milled: humans with haunted eyes rubbing shoulders with... things. Scales glinting under hoods, fangs bared in grins, wings folded like umbrellas. The air hummed with magic's static, thick as the rain outside. Quinn's skin crawled; her partner's disappearance flashed vivid—fog coiling like serpents, screams cut short. "There—human copper!" A rasp from a stall selling jars of writhing worms. Heads turned, eyes narrowing. A growl rippled through the throng. Herrera was ahead, weaving toward a shadowed archway opposite. He glanced back, medallion swinging, scar stark white on his forearm as he shoved through the press. Quinn lunged forward, elbowing a spindly figure with too many joints. "Outta my way!" Chaos erupted. A vendor hurled a vial—green liquid splattered near her boot, tile hissing into smoke. "Filth! No badges here!" Tentacle-woman lashed out, appendage whipping Quinn's arm; pain flared, but she twisted free, Glock barking a warning shot into the ceiling. Dust rained, lanterns swinging wild. The crowd parted like oil, revealing Herrera at the arch. He paused, rain still dripping from his curls, face a mask of conflict. "Quinn—go back. You don't belong here." She leveled the Glock, breath heaving. "Neither do you, Tommy. What's Saint Christopher think of black markets and body parts?" His jaw tightened, hand dipping toward his pocket. "This ain't your world. DS Morris learned that." Ice lanced her gut. He knew. "What happened to him?" Herrera's eyes flicked to the shadows beyond the arch—reinforcements? "Follow, and find out. Or walk away alive." The mob closed in, murmurs rising to snarls. A blade glinted from a nearby stall, long and hungry. Quinn's finger tightened on the trigger. Unknown territory. Deadly. But the truth—about Morris, the clique, all of it—lay beyond that arch. She stepped forward, Glock steady. "Lead on, Herrera." He vanished into the dark, and she followed, the Veil swallowing her whole. The curtain fell shut behind, sealing her fate in the underbelly's roar.