Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB8QYSP5KJZKSNKAKFGT6E

The rain lashed Quinn’s face, sharp as gravel, and she didn’t slow. Her boots smashed through puddles, each step a thud against the wet pavement of Soho’s back alleys. The alley behind her was a black slit, the only sound her ragged breath and the siren’s wail, thin and far-off. *Twenty seconds*, she thought. Just twenty seconds to close the gap. Forty-one, 5’9”, salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her scalp. A sharp jawline that could have cut glass, even through the rain. Her left wrist, the one with the worn leather watch—cracked band, smudged face—pounded with her pulse. Military precision, but right now her shoulders hunched, the trench coat’s brim doing little to shield her. She didn’t look like a detective; she looked like a woman who knew how to *run*. A shadow darted up ahead, between a delivery van and a brick wall. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark curly hair matted to his skull. Left arm extended, as if fending off the rain, and for a split second, Quinn saw it: a white bone, set in a silver chain, glinting against the wet fabric of his coat. He turned, and she caught the scar—thin, silvery—running along his forearm. The same as the boy in the warehouse. The one with the Saint Christopher medallion still looped around his neck, even as his skin turned blue, rotting from the collarbone up. Morris had found him. “Not natural,” he’d mumbled, before the lights went out. Quinn lunged. Her shoulder slammed into his back. He stumbled, grunted, and spun, fist flying. She ducked, grabbing his wrist, and they grappled, rain mixing with mud. His skin was cold, clammy, like a corpse’s. “You can’t outrun this,” she panted. He laughed—a sound like stones grinding. Elbowed her in the gut. She grunted, losing her grip, and he bolted for a metal door at the alley’s end. Unlocked. She pushed it open, stepping into blackness. Stairs, slick with wet, spiraled downward. The air thickened, smelling of damp stone and something sharper—brine, maybe, or old blood. She went down, flashlight beam cutting the gloom. At the bottom, a tunnel stretched ahead, stalls lining the walls. A man with antlers haggled over a jar of green fire. A woman with scales ran a hand over a vial that glowed like liquid starlight. Quinn’s breath hitched. *Veil Market*. The one they’d heard about—subterranean, hidden, where the world’s rules dissolved. She should backtrack. Call for backup. But Morris’s face swam into her mind, blue and cold, his last words a whisper: *They’re closer than you think*. She moved into the tunnel, flashlight shaking. A cat-headed woman looked up, ears flattening, and hissed. Quinn froze, then kept going. The suspect was ahead, vanishing into a crowd. She pushed through, vendors shouting curses, but didn’t stop. At the tunnel’s end, a bookshelf stood against the wall. It slid open, revealing a black portal. The suspect stepped through, and the shelf closed. Quinn skidded to a halt. The portal hummed, a low vibration that made her teeth ache. She reached for her holster, but the gun felt heavy, useless. This wasn’t a chase. It was a trap. Like Morris’s. She stepped closer to the bookshelf. Its wood was warm, alive, pulsing. She remembered the boy in the warehouse: *You’re not like us. You’ll never understand*. No. She had to try. She pushed the shelf. It slid open. Behind it, a void yawned. She stepped through. The market hit her like a wave—loud, sweating, alive. The floor was uneven, cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of boots. Stalls stretched in every direction, selling bone tokens, enchanted daggers, jars of “truth smoke” that left a bitter taste. Creatures mingled: a child with eyes like oozing tar, a man with wings folded tight, a tailor with a snake’s tail coiled around his waist. The air reeked of incense and burned sugar, and the noise—voices in half a dozen languages, laughter, a man shouting about “a soul for a moonstone”—was deafening. Quinn’s flashlight beam flickered, catching the suspect. He stood at a stall selling skulls, his back to her. She moved forward, boots crunching on something gritty—a bone, maybe. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, turning. His eyes were black, no whites, no pupils. “This place *eats* cops.” Quinn didn’t stop. “Warehouses eat boys,” she said, and went for her handcuffs. He drew a knife. It was black, veins of red running through it, and as he held it up, Quinn saw the blade squirm, alive. She hit the brakes, her heart lurching. “Run,” he said, and bolted. Quinn chased. The market was a maze—stalls blocking her path, creatures scurrying into her way. She shoved them aside, barking, “Get out of the way!” A dog-headed man snarled but stepped back. The suspect reached a staircase. She followed, flashlight swinging. At the top, a door led to the street—unlocked. She burst through, rain drenching her, and saw him ten yards ahead, vanishing down an alley. She ran, lungs burning, the rain pounding her. Morris’s voice, low and urgent: *They’re closing in. You have to stop them*. Quinn didn’t know if the suspect was one of *them*, if the Veil Market was tied to his death. But she knew she couldn’t let him go. Not again. She chased him into the night, the rain falling harder, and the world narrowing to the man ahead, the alley behind, and the silence at the edge of her hearing—where eyes watched, waiting.