AI The slick asphalt blurred beneath Harlow Quinn’s worn tactical boots. Rain lashed down, plastering her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair to her skull, a chilling contrast to the heat burning in her lungs. The suspect – a lean silhouette that moved with unnatural speed – just vanished around the corner of that boarded-up warehouse. He wasn’t supposed to be here, not in this labyrinth of derelict industry bordering the docks. Not chasing *him *.
Quinn pushed off the brick wall, her sharp jaw set. Eighteen years on the Met, more than she cared to count, and this kind of animalistic flight always set her teeth on edge. He’d made the mistake of looking back, just a flicker , enough for her to catch the wildness in his eyes. The kind of wildness that spoke of corners they shouldn't have turned, doors they shouldn't have opened. A faint metallic tang, sharp and unpleasant, cut through the ubiquitous scent of damp city grit. Not oil. Something else.
He ducked into a narrow alley, the opening swallowing him whole. Quinn didn't hesitate. She launched herself after him , the brick walls closing in, slick with grime and refuse. Water pooled around her ankles, reflecting the meagre light from distant streetlamps like fractured obsidian. Another turn. He was fast, a ghost on the wet concrete, but Quinn pursued with the relentless precision that had earned her commendations and a reputation for closing cases. She’d lost Morris three years ago, swallowed by something she still couldn’t name, and the scent of the unknown now clung to every chase like this. Every shadow seemed to hold Morris’s vacant stare.
He scrambled over a low chain-link fence, tearing at his worn jacket. Quinn vaulted it with practiced ease, rolling onto the other side. Not a dead end. Beneath a flickering, half-broken neon sign that once promised cheap lager, a metal grate lay askew, gaping like a missing tooth in the grimy facade of a derelict building. The suspect didn't pause. He dropped through it.
Quinn skidded to a halt, the rain plastering her uniform against her skin. The air that rushed up from the opening was thick, stagnant, smelling of mould, stagnant water, and something else – something like damp earth and old iron . A faint, rhythmic *drip... drip... drip * echoed from the black maw below, a mocking metronome. This wasn't a storm drain. Not a typical abandoned service tunnel. Her gut churned . This was the kind of place Morris would have warned her about, before... before.
She dropped her weapon, a standard -issue Glock, then hesitated. Not yet. The worn leather strap on her left wrist dug into her skin as she checked her watch . No signal reception down here, she’d bet her pension on it. The suspect was gone , swallowed by the darkness. Following meant stepping off the map, past the official boundaries of her jurisdiction, perhaps past any boundary the Met even acknowledged existed. This chase was personal, a phantom limb ache for a ghost she couldn’t officially acknowledge.
She knelt, peering into the hole. The suspect’s ragged form was already a smudge, descending a rough-hewn staircase that seemed to be carved directly into the earth and brick . The sounds of the city, the distant roar of traffic, the mournful wail of a lonely siren, faded rapidly, replaced by the unsettling quiet of the deep. This place was not on any of her maps, not even the supplementary ones filled with known gang territories and illicit fronts. It smelled of secrets, the kind that didn't stay buried.
*Morris.* The name was a phantom ache. He’d been chasing ghosts too, for years, before one finally caught him . The Veil Market. That was the whisper on the streets, a place that moved, a place for things that shouldn't be. Always before a full moon. Was this it? Had the chase, for the first time, led her to the periphery of what had truly taken her partner? The thought sent a shiver down her spine, cold and unwelcome as the ceaseless rain.
She gripped the rough edge of the opening. The suspect could be anywhere now, melting into a network of tunnels that swallowed light and sound. The risk was immense. Going purely on instinct and the phantom echo of Morris’s fate, she knew she had to. This was no ordinary criminal. This was the path that led away from the mundane, a path she’d deliberately avoided for three years. The scent of copper, of something ancient and wrong, was stronger down there, a siren call to her buried grief.
Taking a deep breath that did little to dispel the cold dampness clinging to her, Quinn swung her legs over the edge. She landed lightly on the muddy, uneven steps, her boots sinking slightly into the yielding earth. The grating snapped shut above her with a heavy clang, plunging her into near total darkness, broken only by the faint, almost imperceptible glow emanating from a cluster of phosphorescent fungi clinging to the tunnel wall. The air grew colder, heavier, pressing in on her.
The faint, metallic tang was more pronounced here, almost coppery, like blood and old pennies. A low, constant hum vibrated through the soles of her boots, not mechanical , but organic, like a vast, sleeping organism stirring in its slumber. And beneath it, a murmur. Voices, distant and indistinct, like wind whistling through a distant, cavernous space, carried on currents of chilled , fetid air.
She drew her weapon, the familiar weight a small comfort in her palm. Her senses strained, trying to make out shapes in the gloom . The tunnel twisted, the rough-hewn walls giving way to something smoother, lined with decaying, iridescent tiles that, in their original glory, might have been ornate. London's forgotten underbelly, yes, but this felt older, deeper, a place where the city’s foundations gave way to something more primal. The suspect was long gone, a shadow swallowed by this subterranean beast.
The passages branched, a disorienting maze that played tricks on her limited visibility. She could follow the faint scuff marks on the damp, packed earth floor, or trust the unnerving hum that seemed to draw her deeper, a discordant symphony pulling her towards an unseen centre . She chose the latter, the hum a relentless, inexorable pull towards a faint, pulsing light ahead. The rough descent had ended, and now, the market itself began to reveal itself, not with a grand unveiling, but a creeping, insidious emergence .
It wasn't just a market. It was a warren carved from the earth and the neglected arteries of the city, lit by makeshift, guttering candles that cast dancing shadows, and the eerie, unnatural glow of enchanted objects displayed on rickety stalls. Haps were hastily erected, draped with dark, heavy cloth embroidered with symbols she didn’t recognize, their patterns seeming to writhe in the flickering light. Along the curved walls of what must have been an old Tube station platform, figures huddled in alcoves, hawking wares that shimmered with an unhealthy light, their faces hidden in deep hoods or obscured by veils. The air thrummed with the low murmur of a crowd, but these weren't common shoppers. These were practitioners, dealers, predators. This was the Veil Market.
A figure darted past her peripheral vision, a blur of movement against the arcane tapestry of the stalls. It was the suspect, weaving through a throng of cloaked individuals with an agility born of desperation. He wasn't running anymore. He was seeking something, or someone, his head swivelling wildly. Quinn’s grip tightened on her Glock, her knuckles white. She followed, pushing through bodies that smelled of spices she couldn’t name, damp wool, and something acrid, like burnt sugar and abject fear.
She spotted him again, near a stall piled high with vials of glowing liquids and intricately carved bone trinkets. He snatched something from the stall owner – a heavy, dark token, shaped vaguely like a fossilised tooth. The stall owner hissed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone, but he didn't give chase, merely clutching his hand to his chest. The suspect shoved the token into his clenched fist , then darted towards a dark, arching doorway at the far end of the platform. A sign, crudely scrawled in phosphorescent paint, hung above it: 'THE VEIL'.
Quinn broke into a run, her boots echoing on the tiled floor, the sound swallowed by the market’s ambient hum. This was it. The dead end. The heart of the operation. The suspect reached the doorway, then stumbled, turning back with a desperate, cornered look, his breath misting in the chill air.
He didn't see the other figure that emerged from the shadows beside the doorway. A tall, cloaked woman, completely obscuring her features, her hand outstretched. Not towards the suspect, but towards Quinn . In her palm, cradled like a jewel, was a single, polished bone token. The same shape as the one the suspect clutched.
The woman’s voice, when it came, was a dry whisper , like rustling silk .
"You shouldn't have followed, Detective."
Beneath her feet, Quinn felt the low hum intensify, vibrating up through her bones, a palpable wave of power. The air grew thick, crackling with unseen energy, charged with a latent threat. The suspect froze, caught between his pursuer and this new, dark presence that seemed to emanate an ancient, chilling authority . Quinn’s breath hitched. The woman’s gaze, unseen but undeniably felt, locked onto hers, cold and appraising. And then, the woman’s hand tightened around the bone token, her fingers visibly whitening as the token pulsed with a faint, internal light.
The doorway behind the suspect flared with an unnatural, pulsing green light, bathing his terrified face in its alien glow. The suspect screamed, a thin, reedy sound that was abruptly cut short as he was snatched forward into the emerald glare, disappearing as if he’d never been. The green light flickered , then died, leaving only the dim, shifting shadows of the Veil Market. And the woman, still standing there, her hand now empty, her unseen gaze fixed on Quinn.