Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8X8HDFHAXE21WAPWZMRFJ0

The rain fell in relentless, diagonal sheets, turning the Soho pavement into a black mirror of neon and sodium light. Detective Harlow Quinn’s breath came in sharp clouds, her boots slapping against the wet concrete with a rhythm that matched her pounding heart. Twenty yards ahead, a dark-clad figure darted around the corner onto Dean Street, a blur against the glittering curtain of water. She pushed harder, the muscles in her legs burning. Her worn leather watch strap chafed against her wrist beneath her sodden coat sleeve. Three years. Three years since a chase like this had ended with Morris’s empty chair in the incident room, with a case file stamped ‘UNSOLVED’ in black letters that felt like a physical blow. She shoved the memory down, locking it behind the professional focus that had kept her going for eighteen years. The figure—male, lean, wearing a dark hoodie—glanced back, his face a pale oval under the streetlamp before he vanished into an alleyway. Quinn skidded around the corner, her hand going to the hip where her service pistol sat in its holster. She didn’t draw it. Not yet. “Met Police! Stop!” Her command was swallowed by the drumming rain and the distant wail of a siren. The alley was a canyon of dripping fire escapes and overflowing bins. The suspect was already at the far end, heaving open a rusted metal gate. He slipped through. Quinn sprinted, rainwater streaming from the salt-and-pepper hair plastered to her scalp. She reached the gate, shoved it wider with a metallic screech. Beyond was a service yard, then another street. He was heading north, towards Tottenham Court Road. She followed, her mind mapping the grid. He was moving with purpose, not random panic. This was a route. He cut across the traffic on Charing Cross Road, drawing a symphony of angry horns. Quinn wove through the stalled cars, her sharp jaw set. She caught a better glimpse as he passed under a bus shelter light: olive skin, a flash of a scar on a bare forearm. The hood fell back for a second, revealing short, dark curly hair. A name clicked into place from a weeks-old surveillance log. Tomás Herrera. Former paramedic. Associate of the clique she’d been watching from the dim booths of The Raven’s Nest. The man who’d lost his license for playing doctor to things that shouldn’t exist. “Herrera!” she yelled. He faltered for a half-step, his head turning. Their eyes met across thirty feet of rain-slicked asphalt. His were wide, not with fear, but with a frantic urgency. He didn’t stop. He raised a hand, not in surrender, but as if to ward her off. Then he ran faster. The chase stretched into a blur of exhaustion. Through the theatre district, across the sprawl of Covent Garden, into the darker, quieter streets of Bloomsbury. Quinn’s lungs were raw. Her clothes were a second skin of cold water. But the gap was closing. Herrera was tiring, his strides becoming less sure. He ducked into the brick archway of a disused railway viaduct. Quinn followed, slowing to a jog, her hand now resting on the butt of her pistol. The archway tunnel was long, dark, and smelled of damp earth and urine. A single bare bulb flickered at the far end. Herrera was there, fumbling at a heavy, padlocked chain on a metal door set into the brickwork. “It’s over, Herrera. Don’t make it worse.” He spun, his back against the door. His chest heaved. The Saint Christopher medallion around his neck glinted in the poor light. “You don’t understand. You can’t be here.” “I understand you’re running. I understand you’re involved with people who break the law. Talk to me. Now.” “The law?” A harsh, breathless laugh escaped him. “Your laws don’t matter down here. This is a bad idea, Detective. Go back to your warm office.” “Down where?” Instead of answering, he yanked something from his pocket—a small, pale object. He pressed it against the center of the metal door. There was a sound like a heavy lock disengaging, deep within the wall. The door swung inward, revealing not a room, but a descending staircase, lit by a faint, sourceless greenish glow. A wave of air washed out—cold, carrying the scent of ozone, exotic spices, and something metallic, like old blood. Herrera gave her one last, pitying look. “Forget you saw me. Forget this door. For your own sake.” Then he plunged down the stairs, disappearing into the glow. Quinn approached the doorway. The stairs were narrow, carved from old, worn stone, leading down into the earth. The green light pulsed faintly. From the depths, she heard a murmur—the distant, chaotic buzz of a crowd, the clink of glass, a low, melodic chant that raised the hairs on her arms. The Veil Market. The name surfaced from a fragment of an interview, a whisper from a terrified informant she’d discounted as delusional. A black market that moved. A place for things that belonged in nightmares. Her radio crackled on her shoulder, a burst of static. She ignored it. Every instinct honed by her years of service screamed at her to call for backup, to cordon off the area, to follow procedure. Procedure had filled out Morris’s death certificate with a lie. Procedure had closed the case while the truth festered in the dark. She remembered the look in Herrera’s eyes. Not guilt. Warning. The rain dripped from the archway onto her neck, a cold trickle. Down there was the unknown. The unexplained. The thing that had taken her partner and left no trace. Her hand tightened on the doorframe. The worn leather of her watch strap dug into her skin. She could turn around. Walk back into the rain, the familiar misery of the city, the cold case files. She could be smart. Quinn took her first step onto the top stair.