Run: 2026-05-27-01KSMEN9FT1B2221X4VNVXJMSD

The pour of rain was relentless, a grey curtain that blurred the edges of the city into watercoloured shapes of frustration and near-blinding white light. Quinn's lungs burned with the cold November air, sharp against her wet clothes. She swore under her breath, watching the figure ahead of her—Tomás Herrera—slip into an alleyway, the dark curly hair and olive skin disappearing into shadows like a ghost. “Come on,” she muttered, wiping water from her face as she ran. Eighteen years in the force and here she was, chasing phantoms in the storm. Not phantoms, she corrected herself grimly. Since Morris's death, the line between what she knew and what she could believe had blurry at best. Supernatural origins, her report had finally noted. It had gotten her laughed at by Internal Affairs, transferred from Homicide, and ultimately isolated in her pursuit of the same people who had taken her partner. The alley opened into a busy street, people with umbrellas moving like comical mushroom-topped creatures. Tomáš was fast, but Quinn was faster, her long legs pumping as she cut across the road against the lights, angry horns blaring at her back. She caught a glimpse of the Saint Christopher medallion he kept around his neck, glinting faintly in the streetlights before he turned the corner of another narrow passage. She had done her homework on Tomás. Paramedic, lost his license after treating supernatural patients—whatever that meant in practical terms. Working for whatever they were now, the same organisation her notes pointed to over and over. They called themselves nothing official, just a network, a clique of people who operated beyond conventional law enforcement. And they were corrupt. Or more than corrupt. The rain Balkan just kamisado soaked bank the ground as Quinn's boots splashed through increasingly deep puddles. The scent of burnt ozone and damp cobblestones filled her nostrils. Up ahead, a green neon sign—The Raven's Nest—was blinking furiously in the downpour, casting a watery glow on the chipped paint of the doorway. That was one of their haunts. Silas's bar, with its hidden back room that provided no doubt covert meetings. Too public. If Tomáš wanted sanctuary, he wouldn't go so obvious. Not now. She skidded to a stop just short of the bar's entrance, breathing heavily. Crossed the street instead, doing a full 360 to spot any side exits. Her eyes landed on an iron grate at the end of the alley, half-covered with trash and rotting leaves. The kind that led below street level. People avoided trash-filled alleyways in pouring rain unless absolutely necessary. But not Tomáš. He had known where he was going the entire time. “Hell with it,” Quinn muttered, straightening her coat and adjusting her pistol at her side. The metal was cold and solid, a simple comfort in the absurdity of the night. She approached the grate, finding the cast iron cold against her palms as she pushed experimentally. It lifted silently, revealing a dark drop down into what must be the converted Tube level. A single bare bulb hung down below, casting an eerie glow on damp stone and support beams. Quinn pulled her gun from its holster and checked the chamber. Dropping into darkness wasn't her ideal choice of operations, but she had followed morons into worse situations. This felt different, though.OLD The stairs groaned under her weight but held. Below, the air changed—warm, humid, filled with a myriad of smells she couldn't identify but somehow recognised as belonging below the city. Spells gone wrong? Alchemical residues? Her imagination was running wild with Morris's ghost still haunting her sleep. Strangely culled accounts and reports that hinted at the extraordinary still haunted her waking hours. At the bottom of the stairs, the passage opened into a vast, bustling space. The Veil Market. She had researched it too, hearing whispers among the city's junkies and conspiracy theorists. A marketplace for those who operated outside normal society. And apparently, according to files she'd stolen, outside normal physics as well. The changes came in waves—elven dignitaries in crystal headdresses, bespelled leatherwork fitted to giants disguised as humans, people she couldn't even classify doing transactions with small bone engraved tokens that must be some form of entry fee or currency. Every inch of her cop's senses screamed at her both to shoot and to get out. This defied everything she had been trained to believe. It wasn't just about criminal activity anymore. It was about another layer entirely. In the centre of the market, Tomás stood with three men and a woman all dressed in what Quinn supposed normal clothing that might cloak their otherworldly presence. Tomás wasn't looking at her but seemed to be monitoring the entrance where she stood, his medallion catching the overhead light. His eyes met hers and widened almost imperceptibly, then shut briefly as if in dismissal. He knew she was there. Knew and wasn't running. That spelt confidence—or a trap. Either way, Quinn squared her shoulders, holstered her gun under her coat, and moved forward, Marshal who enlisted lawful means in the face of the lawless unknown.