Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8VANX7KQY7F8M4C8F8RQDC

The rain fell in a persistent, cold drizzle, turning the neon signs of Soho into smears of colour on wet pavement. Detective Harlow Quinn pressed herself into the shadowed doorway of a closed boutique, her breath a pale plume in the damp air. Fifty yards ahead, the man she’d been tailing for three hours paused under the distinctive green glow of The Raven’s Nest, pulling his collar up against the weather. Tomás Herrera. Former paramedic. Unofficial medic to a circle of people Quinn was increasingly certain were not just eccentric, but criminal. And connected, somehow, to the hole Morris’s death had blown in the world. She watched as Herrera glanced left and right, his movements economical, alert. The scar on his left forearm was just visible below his pushed-up sleeve as he checked his watch. Quinn’s own worn leather strap felt heavy on her wrist, a familiar anchor. She didn’t need to check the time. She had the patience of eighteen years on the job, and the specific, grinding patience of three years without answers. Herrera moved off, not heading for a bus or a taxi rank, but east, towards Covent Garden. Quinn waited a three-count, then stepped out, her boots silent on the slick cobbles. Her stride was precise, a relic of her brief, earlier life in uniform, her sharp jaw set. The salt-and-pepper of her closely cropped hair was beaded with moisture. The chase was a slow, tense ballet. Herrera knew the streets, cutting through service alleys and across quiet squares. Quinn hung back, using reflections in shop windows, the occasional slowing at a crosswalk to close the gap. He was leading her on a circuitous route, a man wary of a tail. Good. That meant he had something to hide. The drizzle intensified into a proper downpour as they crossed into Camden. The tourist crowds had vanished, leaving the streets to the rain and the occasional hurrying figure. Herrera suddenly ducked into an alleyway between a shuttered record store and a kebab shop. Quinn quickened her pace, reaching the mouth of the alley in time to see him disappear through a rusted, graffiti-tagged gate that should have been locked. She approached, hand resting on the butt of her service pistol under her jacket. The gate swung open to a set of worn stone steps leading down into darkness. Not a basement. The air that wafted up was cold, carrying the distant, metallic scent of the underground and something else—ozone, and a faint, coppery tang. *Abandoned Tube station.* Morris had been found near one. His notes, before they’d gone missing from evidence, had mentioned “bone tokens” and “market nights.” Quinn had dismissed it as the ramblings of a partner under too much stress. Now, standing at the top of those steps, the hair on the back of her neck prickled. She descended, the sound of the rain fading behind her. At the bottom, a narrow service tunnel stretched into gloom, lit by a single, flickering emergency light. At the far end, she saw a figure silhouetted against a brighter, warmer glow. Herrera. He was standing before a heavy, riveted metal door. As she watched, hidden behind a pillar, he took something from his pocket—a small, pale object—and slotted it into a crevice beside the door. There was a click, a grind of old mechanisms, and the door swung inwards. The warm light spilled out, and with it a cacophony of muted sounds: chatter, the clink of glass, a strange, melodic humming. Herrera stepped through and the door began to swing shut. Quinn moved. She covered the distance in a silent sprint, her heart hammering against her ribs. She caught the door just before it sealed, her fingers curling around the cold iron edge. She pulled it open a crack and peered inside. The sight stole her breath. The abandoned Camden Town station platform had been transformed. Dozens of stalls, lit by lanterns and strings of faerie lights that burned with colours she couldn’t name, lined the old tiles. The air was thick with the smell of incense, strange spices, and that coppery tang. People—if they were all people—moved through the space. A woman with eyes like polished jet sold vials of swirling liquid. A hulking figure with skin like bark haggled over what looked like a bundle of dried feathers. At the far end, where the tunnel mouth should have been, a shimmering curtain of light pulsed like a living thing. The Veil Market. It had to be. Herrera was already melting into the crowd, heading towards a stall stacked with medical-looking supplies and jars of unidentifiable herbs. Quinn stood on the threshold, the damp of the tunnel at her back, the impossible marketplace before her. Every instinct honed over two decades screamed at her to call for backup, to treat this as a potential terrorist cell, a massive, organized crime operation. But what would she say? *I followed a suspect to a magical flea market under Camden?* They’d pull her badge. They’d think she’d gone the way Morris was supposed to have gone. Morris. He’d tried to tell her. *“It’s not what we think, Harlow. It’s older. It’s under everything.”* She’d told him to get some sleep. The memory was a cold knife in her gut. This was the territory. The unexplained circumstances. This was where the truth about her partner’s death was traded, along with enchanted goods and banned substances. She looked at Herrera, now in conversation with the herbalist, his Saint Christopher medallion glinting in the weird light. He was her only link. Quinn took a deep breath, the air tasting of magic and mildew. She had no bone token. She had only her warrant card, her gun, and a debt to a dead man. She stepped through the door, letting it sigh shut behind her, sealing her in. The sounds of the market seemed to swell for a moment, as if noting her entrance. A few nearby faces turned towards her—pale, curious, assessing. She kept her bearing rigid, her face a mask of detached authority, and began to move through the crowd, her eyes locked on the dark curls of Tomás Herrera. She was in the deep end now. All she could do was swim.