Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYBAT267BC2WX8EBM9F7STX

Rain lashed London’s Soho sidewalks, turning oil slicks into iridescent pools that swallowed streetlamp glow. Detective Harlow Quinn planted her boot on a crushed beer can, the crunch cutting through the hum of distant taxi horns. Her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair stuck to her sharp jaw, and her worn leather watch glinted under a flickering storefront light—18 years of decorated service etched into every line of her military precision stance. She locked eyes with Tomás Herrera across the street, the man she’d staked out for three nights straight. Tomás had slipped out of The Raven’s Nest’s side door, the one hidden behind a stack of wooden crates bearing the bar’s faded logo. The bar’s walls, she knew from her stakeout notes, lined with old maps and black-and-white photographs—clues to the clique’s movements, maybe, but she hadn’t gotten close enough to check. The distinctive green neon sign bleeded into the rain, turning the wet sidewalk a sickly hue as Tomás tugged his coat collar high, his Saint Christopher medallion digging into his chest under the fabric. Quinn pushed off the wall she’d leaned against (mold and burnt coffee clinging to its bricks) and darted through a gap between two bustling kebab shops. Her boots slammed into the wet concrete, sending water spraying onto a nearby newspaper stand. The stand’s owner yelled, but she didn’t glance back—her focus was solely on Tomás’s retreating figure. His short curly dark brown hair clung to his olive skin, and when he twisted to glance over his shoulder, his warm brown eyes widened at the sight of her closing in. He darted between two parked cars, his scar—thin, silvery, a memento from a knife attack—glinting when he yanked his coat sleeve up to grip a car’s side mirror and pull himself around a corner. Quinn followed, her boots skidding on the wet asphalt as she cut the corner tighter, her sharp jaw set. She’d tracked suspects through worse—blizzards in the Scottish Highlands, riot-torn estates in East London—but the rain added a layer of friction, making every step a battle against the elements. When Tomás stumbled over a cracked curb, his coat slipping open to reveal a crumpled piece of paper tucked into his waistband, Quinn pushed her voice through the rain’s roar. You drop that paper, I’ll cut your chase short. Tomás’s hand flew to the paper, tucking it deeper into his waistband. He straightened, grabbed a metal pipe from a construction pile and propelled himself forward, his boots slamming into the concrete as he headed toward Camden High Street. The rain intensified, soaking Quinn’s uniform to the bone, but she didn’t slow. Her partner’s face—DS Morris, cold and still three years prior—flashed in her mind. Unexplained circumstances. Supernatural origins. The clique Tomás aided was tangled in it all. They hit Camden’s labyrinth of side streets, Tomás veering toward a chained-off alleyway marked with a faded Tube sign reading “Camden Town (Disused).” He grabbed a rusted crowbar from his coat pocket, pried the chain loose with a sharp clang, and slipped through. Quinn followed, her hand drifting to the baton at her belt—she didn’t carry a gun on stakeouts, not when she needed to corner a suspect without drawing unwanted attention from the clique’s lookouts, who she’d spotted loitering in the area for days. The alleyway opened onto a set of concrete steps leading down into darkness, the air growing colder the closer she got. Tomás bounded down them, his boots echoing off the damp stone walls covered in faded symbols she didn’t recognize—markers for the Veil Market, she guessed. She’d read confidential reports of the hidden supernatural black market: it sold enchanted goods, banned alchemical substances, and information; it moved every full moon; its current location was an abandoned Tube station beneath Camden; entry required a bone token. Her worn leather watch’s date dial confirmed it was full moon tonight. Tomás’s voice carried up the steps, his Seville accent thickening with exertion. You don’t know what you’re walking into. The market doesn’t take kindly to cops. Quinn’s sharp jaw tightened. She took a step down, the concrete slick under her boot from rain dripping through a crack in the alley’s ceiling. She could smell something acrid—burned sage mixed with the metallic tang of alchemical reagents—drifting up from the darkness below. She’d tracked suspects into dangerous territory before, but this was different. This was supernatural, a world she’d only glimpsed in the aftermath of Morris’s death, a world she didn’t understand but was determined to unravel. Tomás fumbled in his coat pocket, pulling out a small, yellowed token—bone, Quinn realized, her eyes narrowing. He pressed it into an indentation on a metal door at the bottom of the steps, the door’s surface covered in faded runes that glowed faintly purple when the token made contact. The door rumbled open, spilling faint purple light into the stairwell, and Quinn could hear the murmur of voices from beyond—whispers in a language she didn’t recognize, the clink of glass vials, the rustle of enchanted fabrics that shimmered even in the dim light. She reached the bottom step, her baton now in her hand, and studied Tomás—his shoulders hunched, his medallion twisting in his fingers as he hesitated in the doorframe. He’d lost his NHS license after administering unauthorized treatments to supernatural patients, her files said, and now he provided off-the-books medical care for the clique. He was a pawn, but he was a pawn with information, information that could lead her to the truth about Morris’s death. You’re hiding something more than just unauthorized treatments. Tomás’s warm brown eyes flashed with anger. He stepped through the door, but he paused on the threshold, his scar glinting in the purple light. I’m hiding people who the system abandoned. People who can’t go to the NHS because they’re not human enough for your rules. Quinn’s gaze darted from the bone token still clutched in Tomás’s hand to the purple light spilling into the stairwell. She thought of Morris, of the way his body had been found with no visible wounds, of the strange symbols carved into the warehouse walls where he’d died—symbols the forensics team couldn’t identify. She thought of the clique’s criminal activity, the threads she’d been pulling for months that all led to this market: enchanted goods used to commit robberies, banned alchemical substances used to control supernatural beings, information sold to the highest bidder. The door began to swing shut, the metal groaning against its hinges. Tomás’s voice carried through the narrowing gap. You cross that line, you’re on your own. No backup. No forensics. No one will believe you when the market’s creatures come for you. Quinn’s fingers tightened around her baton. She took a breath, the acrid smell of burned sage and metallic reagents filling her lungs. She thought of the military precision that had carried her through 18 years of decorated service, of the sharp jaw that had never flinched from a fight, of the worn leather watch that had ticked through every moment of her stakeout, every memory of Morris’s death. She could turn back—call for backup, wait for a warrant, play by the book. But the book had failed her three years ago, when the coroner had brushed Morris’s death under the rug, when her superiors had told her to drop the case. She glanced at her watch again, the second hand ticking loudly in the silence of the stairwell. The full moon was high, and the market would move soon—she’d lose her chance to uncover the truth if she hesitated. She thought of the way Tomás had clutched that crumpled paper, of the symbols on the market’s door that matched the ones on the warehouse walls where Morris had died. She had to decide—turn back, or follow the suspect into the unfamiliar, dangerous underground market.