AI The rain came down in sheets, plastering Harlow’s cropped salt-and-pepper hair to her skull and slicking the London concrete into a treacherous mirror. Her lungs burned, a sharp, metallic tang in the back of her throat. Each pounding step sent a fresh ache through her calves, but the hunger in her gut—the one that had gnawed at her for three years, ever since Morris—kept her driving forward. Her worn leather watch, a familiar comfort on her left wrist, pressed against her skin, marking time she couldn’t afford to lose.
The suspect, a wraith in dark clothing, was fast, faster than any human should be. They moved with an unsettling fluidity, a ripple through the urban landscape. Harlow watched them vault a low wall, barely breaking stride, then melt into the gap between two derelict buildings. A shortcut, no doubt. A gamble.
“Police! Stop!” Harlow’s voice was a ragged bark, pulled thin by the wind and the ceaseless drumming of the rain. No response. Just the spray of water from the suspect’s heels as they splashed through a puddle the size of a small pond.
She followed, her military precision bearing holding strong despite the physical toll. She didn’t stumble, didn’t flinch from the biting wind. Her brown eyes, narrowed against the downpour, fixed on the shadow ahead. This wasn’t just about a case anymore. This felt like a thread, a single, frayed strand leading to the inexplicable void where Morris had vanished. A phantom limb of justice twitched, urging her on.
The chase had begun in Soho, weaving through the neon-soaked alleys near Archer Street, past the distinctive green sign of The Raven’s Nest, a fleeting flash she barely registered. Now, they were heading north, deeper into the city’s underbelly, away from the usual patrols. The air grew heavier, tasting of damp earth and something metallic she couldn’t quite place . Discarded refuse bins, overflowing and malodorous, lined the narrow thoroughfares. The distant wail of a siren started, then faded, leaving only the relentless patter of rain and the harsh, rhythmic scrape of her own shoes.
She ducked under a hastily erected scaffolding, the metallic clatter echoing off the wet brick. The suspect was gaining distance, utilizing tight turns and shadowed doorways with unnerving familiarity. Harlow’s sharp jaw tightened. She was 41, not 25, but the adrenaline coursing through her veins made her forget the years, made her forget the aching joints, made her forget everything but the chase.
A flash of movement. The suspect turned sharply down a narrow, graffiti-scarred alley. Harlow followed, skidding slightly on a patch of slick moss. The alley opened into a more desolate street—abandoned warehouses, boarded-up storefronts, the kind of place where streetlights often died and stayed dead. Here, the rain fell unimpeded, washing the filth into flowing rivulets.
The suspect, a mere outline against the dim glow of distant traffic, headed straight for a crumbling red-brick building, its windows long since shattered , its entrance a gaping maw of darkness. An old Tube station, surely. One of the many derelict arteries beneath the city’s skin. Harlow felt a prickle of unease. This felt different. More deliberate.
She pushed harder, emptying the last reserves of her energy. Her breath plumed in jagged bursts. She had to close the gap. She couldn’t lose them now, not when she was this close to something… something *else *.
As she reached the building, the suspect had already vanished. No forced entry, no broken locks. Just an open, rusted metal door, set deep within an archway, swallowed by shadow. The air here was colder, heavier, tinged with a faint, earthy smell, like damp crypts and something vaguely metallic, like blood and old copper coins. It spoke of ancient things, of forgotten places.
Harlow hesitated for only a fraction of a second, her senses screaming caution. Her police training roared warnings: *unsecured area, unknown dangers, lack of backup *. But the phantom limb twitched again, stronger this time. Morris. This felt like the labyrinthine darkness she ’d seen an imprint of in that impossible case three years ago. This felt like the truth.
She pulled out her service weapon, cold steel a familiar weight in her gloved hand. The rain poured over the muzzle. She moved with deliberate care, pressing herself against the damp wall, peering into the blackness. Barely a foot inside, the sound of the rain faded. The air became thick, still, holding secrets.
A flicker of movement further down, in the inky blackness. A figure, already far ahead. The suspect. They hadn’t paused, hadn’t looked back. They *knew* what this place was.
Harlow took a breath, the scent of earth and something else —something like exotic spices and burnt sugar —filling her lungs. She stepped through the rusted doorframe, her boots scraping on gritty concrete. The heavy rain was gone , replaced by a profound , echoing silence . Only the drip of unseen water somewhere in the distance.
Within the cavernous space, a dim, unnatural light began to emerge. Not a single source, but a diffuse glow, pulsing with a faint, purplish hue . It bled from cracks in the ceiling, from ancient pipes, from the very air itself. The walls, once plastered with advertisements, were now obscured by countless symbols, strange pictograms and sigils etched into the grime. The air grew warmer, almost humid, thick with a thousand different smells: incense, something acrid and chemical, roasted meat, sweat, and something else entirely—indefinable, otherworldly .
Before her, the vastness of an abandoned Tube station stretched out, but it was no longer abandoned. Stalls lined the derelict platforms, rickety tables laden with objects that caught the dim light in strange ways. Trinkets of bone, vials of swirling liquid, weapons of unknown alloys, glowing crystals. Figures moved between them, hunched and cloaked, some displaying forms that were distinctly *not * human. Their voices were a low murmur, a constant, alien hum that vibrated through the very foundations of the earth.
This was The Veil Market.
The information had always been dismissed as rumour, dismissed as urban legend. A black market, yes, but for *what *? For whom? Her colleagues had laughed. Morris had heard stories, too, and had tried to follow them, and now…
A figure, tall and gaunt with eyes like polished obsidian, turned from a stall laden with what looked like dried animal parts, their head cocked as if sensing her presence . Their cloak rustled, revealing an arm that seemed to bend at too many joints .
Harlow froze, her weapon aimed but her mind reeling. This was beyond her jurisdiction, beyond anything she had ever been trained for. The suspect was already melting deeper into the throng, becoming one with these unnatural beings.
She remembered the codex, the whispers she’d caught between interrogations: *bone token *. An entry requirement? She had nothing, only her badge, her gun, her worn leather watch , and the relentless ghost of Morris driving her.
To turn back was to admit defeat, to concede that the world was stranger, more dangerous than she could ever comprehend. To turn back was to leave Morris’s memory to rot in an unmarked grave of cosmic indifference.
Her sharp jaw hardened, a line of grim determination. Her brown eyes swept the alien chaos, taking in the impossible faces, the bizarre wares, the casual strangeness of it all. Logic warred with instinct. Her police commissioner would crucify her for this. But the truth… the truth felt close enough to taste, sharp and dangerous.
She lowered her weapon fractionally, a silent concession that force alone would be useless here. This wasn’t a foot chase down a familiar London street. This was a jump into the unknown, a dive into the deep end of the impossible.
The murmuring crowd parted slightly , revealing a path forward, a silent invitation to step fully into the realm of the unbelievable. She took a breath, the strange smells filling her lungs once more. Her hand tightened on the grip of her pistol, but it was a comfort now, not a threat. She stepped fully into the purple glow, the sounds of the living city above fading completely , leaving only the hum of The Veil Market.