There are days in the Veil that tick over nicely—clean, mechanical, predictable. Days where paperwork is filed on time, patrols come back unbloodied, and souls, like obedient children, stay exactly where they're meant to stay.
Today won't be one of those days.
A saint is about to die.
Saints, unfortunately, are in short supply these days. A dying breed. Like typewriters, or good manners, or the kind of love that doesn't end in dramatic personal ruin.
As with all things that send a quiet ripple of dread through the upper floors of Veil Administration, the problem lands squarely on the desk of two people who make teamwork look like a competitive sport.
The captain is already seated when Matthew enters the briefing room carrying a bag of candies on one hand and on other hand—dragging Clark behind him.
He pulls out a chair for her and pushes her down to sit next to him. She tries to stand up, but he brings her back down. "Sit down, Clarkie." propping an arm over her chair to make sure she doesn't try again.
Matthew drops the clipboard in front of Clarence with a kind of flourish that suggests he once took fencing lessons and never really got over it.
"Interdepartmental cooperation," he says brightly, like it's a flavour of ice cream.
Clark cranes her neck forward to read the memo with much disdain.
Operation Halo: Joint Field Operation Authorization (Ghost Crimes Team x Soul Management)
"No."
"Yes," Matthew answers, pointing at the form with a pen that, like everything else about him, probably costs more than her entire monthly allowance.
Clarence reads the paperwork, stiffening like he can already smell trouble coming. He can see Matthew smiling at him, looking pleased with himself.
"Prepared it and got it signed myself," he informs, letting him know that nothing is amiss and all celestial seals are in order.
It is, in all sense, perfect. Not one single dot is misplaced. And there's no way for him to complain, the Chief of the Veil stamped it herself.
Billy hands the files to Anya as he sits beside Matthew, who is still guarding Clark with his arm like she might run away.
Anya flicks through the holoscreen with the practiced flair of someone who has too much caffeine and not enough respect for her superiors. The Saint's profile flashes up across the dark briefing room like a wanted poster for the unbearably good.
Salazar Aalto. A man in his mid-sixties. Salt-and-pepper hair cropped military short. Face lined not from age, but from the kind of living that carved itself deep—war zones, sleepless nights in field tents, too many last breaths held in his hands.
A decorated army doctor. Medals gleamed brighter than most people's futures. A pension that could've bought him a small house in the city or at least a few very bad life decisions. Instead, year after year, he disappeared into the corners of the world no one else wanted to go—treating the poor, stitching up strangers, giving away whatever he had left.
And now... on his last week of life... he was a beacon.
Anya flips to the next slide, zooming in on the energy map.
"Rogue activity started small. Background noise," she says, clicking to the next set of data points. "But now it's escalating. Spikes are consistent. Type 2 and higher. Strong enough that the field sensors flagged it before Billy could even finish the intake report."
A scatter of red signals blooms over the satellite image like infected wounds.
"They're already circling him," Anya adds, quieter now. "Drawn to him, like flies to sugar."
Billy shifts awkwardly in his seat. Even he knows what that means.
Rogues like saints.
They smell them from miles away. There's something about a pure soul—clean, fragrant, like warm bread and sunlight. It drives the rogues mad. Makes them hungry. Makes them want to crawl inside and ruin something good just because they can.
Matthew sits with casual disinterest, which is a lie. A beautiful, well-practiced one.
Because he knows the case already. He's memorized the details before even setting foot in this room.
But he isn't watching the screen.
He's watching the captain.
It's subtle—but to a man like Matthew, trained in the quiet language of power and weakness, it might as well be screaming.
The way Clarence shifts, almost unconsciously, every time Clark leans in closer to read the data on the screen. His gaze lingers when she talks—tracking her movements, her voice, the little furrow of her brow when she asks Anya about rogue detection range.
It has now become a habit he can't break.
Matthew's grin flickers at the corner of his mouth. The fool doesn't even know he's doing it.
Instinct. That slow, inevitable gravitational pull toward a person you're not supposed to want.
So, he taunts him. Leaning in closer to his prized rookie trying to explain to her details of the plan for containment.
Billy watches his boss with the caution of a man who's learned to read danger by the shape of someone's smile.
This is nothing new. Matthew flirts with everyone. He smiles the way politicians kiss babies—frequent, charming, utterly calculated.
But lately... it's different.
He's been here more. Hanging around Ghost Crimes like a cat waiting at a mousehole. Making excuses to stop by. Leaning against doorframes that weren't his.
Even now, this whole thing has been orchestrated by him. You can't even get him to sign forms or reports when he's not in the mood. But he made this request formally to the Chief himself. Billy is surprised he even knows which form to fill out for something like this.
It's as if, he's doing whatever to keep Clark within arm's length.
Anya's voice cuts through the tension. "We're not just catching rogues here, we're running a race. If we don't secure the perimeter fast, it won't just be one possession. It'll be a nest."
"We'll need a scout team in the area ASAP." Clarence orders.
Matthew stretches, rolls his shoulders like a man waking from a nap. "Perfect. I'll take Clark." His words drop like a stone into deep water.
Clarence's head snaps up so fast the air shifts with it.
"No," his refusal immediate and sharp.
That only makes the Head Reaper's smile deepen. "Come now, Captain. Field rules allow interdepartmental leads to select their scout when an active Saint protection case is on the line."
Clarence's expression stays cold, but there's a twitch at the corner of his jaw. "Fine. I'll go with you."
"But you're no fun." Matthew hums under his breath, gaze slipping to Clark. "Besides... I like my scouts pretty."
Clark turns, staring at Matthew like he's just suggested they all jump off into hellfire for team-building purposes.
"Did you eat something weird today? Like some radioactive pancake?" she suggests, remembering that horrible thing he made her eat.
Matthew laughs. "I haven't touched that kitchen since you slept at my house."
Across the room, Anya makes a noise that's halfway between a gasp and a laptop crash. Her new Type 2 Energy Spike Monitor wobbles in her hands like it's contemplating a dramatic suicide.
Billy, poor soul, freezes in his chair. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
Clark is aghast, colour drains from her face. She tries to explain herself seeing everyone's reaction. "It—It wasn't like that!"
But Matthew is on a roll now, words lazy, curling at the edges like smoke. "I distinctly remember you wrapped in my sheets. And I'm fairly certain there was kissing involved. Before, of course. Not after. I'm not entirely heartless."
Anya makes a tiny squeak in her throat. Billy drops his pen pink in the ears.
If it were possible for reaper skin to spontaneously combust from sheer mortification, Clark would be ash by now.
His gaze slides sideways to Clark. "Are you alright there, sweetie?"
She makes a strangled affront as her reaper blade blooms in her hand, "I will stab you, if you don't shut that mouth."
"You see, I even know how to push your buttons," Matthew does not stop, "We have such undeniable chemistry."
She slams her hands on the table and stands, colour rising fast in her face. "I'm done here. Brownie and I will do the scouting." She jerks her thumb at Billy, who looks like he's aged a decade in thirty seconds. "Captain?"
Clarence remains quiet, eyes on the files in front of him.
She doesn't wait for confirmation. She stomps out of the room, grabbing Billy by the sleeve like a misbehaving golden retriever.
Anya follows fast behind—but not without keeping one ear cocked, eager to hear how this particular brand of disaster will escalate.
The door to the briefing room shuts with a click.
For a few seconds, the air between them stays still. Weighted. The kind of silence that builds when two men are too proud to start the fight but far too restless to let it die.
Matthew stands by the window, hands in his pockets, gaze trailing out over the Soul District. The sunset is turning the skyline into rust and bruises. Fitting, really.
Clarence stays in his chair, palms flat against the table like he's physically restraining himself from throwing it across the room.
It's Matthew who breaks first.
"I'd say 'hugging it out' isn't really your style," he says, still staring at the horizon. His tone light, but sharp enough to cut if it wanted to.
Clarence doesn't answer. Not right away.
Instead, he flips through the mission parameters piled in front of him. A hollow gesture. He's read them already. Twice.
Matthew turns then, still teasing.
"Or is it?" The smile he wears is all teeth. "I've seen stranger things this week."
Clarence sets the papers down with a little more force than necessary. "If you're done wasting time, we should finalize the deployment schedule."
But Matthew doesn't move toward the table. Doesn't sit back.
He crosses the room in easy and lazy steps, but there's steel in the way he plants himself just close enough to make it clear: this isn't about paperwork.
"You've been sloppy," Matthew says quietly.
Clarence looks up. The shift in his eyes is subtle, but it's there. "Sorry, what?"
"You heard me."
The change in his tone is less drawl, but more command. The former vice captain in him surfacing like a blade pulled from its sheath.
"Whatever this is with Clark," Matthew says, motioning vaguely toward the door she stormed out of earlier, "It's bleeding into your work."
"I don't know what you're talking about." He answers with the same vigour when interrogating Type 2s who beg for mercy.
Matthew laughs—short, humourless.
"You really expect me to believe that?"
The silence stretches. Presses against the walls.
"You're seeing things that aren't there," Clarence says finally. But there's a tightness in his throat when he says it.
Matthew cocks his head. Watches him. Studies him like a man reading the fine print on a contract he already intends to break.
"Am I?" he says softly. "Because from where I'm standing, you seem awfully invested in one particular rookie. I heard what you did at the assembly. And seeing your reaction just now when I wanted to take her with me, made things a lot clearer."
Clarence's hands curl into fists on the table; he can't even fight back with a response to that.
"You know," Matthew continues, smiling without humour, "as much as I enjoy watching you unravel, I'm here to remind you that you're a Captain. And she's your subordinate. Whatever little... whatever-this-is that you're dancing around, it's frowned upon. Technically sanctionable. Against policy."
The room chills.
Clarence meets his gaze with slow steadiness. "That's rich," he says. "Coming from you."
"Oh?"
He leans back in his chair, arms crossed now, like a man daring someone to swing first. "Let's not pretend you've been a paragon of professional distance. The little stunts. The comments." His glare sharpens. "You're the last person who gets to stand there and lecture me about lines and rules."
For a moment, Matthew says nothing.
The accusation lingers in the air, heavy as lead.
Then—without warning—Matthew's smile fades. The playfulness drains from him like lustre from a dying sun.
What's left... is something cold. Unreadable. Almost—
Protective.
But he swallows it down. Masks it like he always does. Behind protocol. Behind his usual brand of bureaucratic disdain.
"It doesn't mean anything when I do it," Matthew responds. Calm. Too calm. "It's different with you."
Clarence rises from his seat, in a deliberate pace, until they're standing eye to eye.
"I told you already," his voice edged with something dangerous buried beneath the words, "There's nothing happening."
Matthew holds his gaze for one long, unbearable beat. Weighing his honesty, like a scourge searching for the sins of the damned.
Then he smiles again. The real one this time—knife-bright and weary.
"Keep telling yourself that."
Without another word, he leaves him standing alone.
The room feels smaller suddenly, even when it can sit an entire squad. Like the walls themselves are watching. Waiting for him to do something. To break, scream or confess.
But he does none of those things.
He keeps still, fists tight at his sides as his gaze is fixed on the door. His posture is carved from control, but the storm churns just beneath the surface.
Matthew is wrong.
Whatever he thinks he saw... wasn't real.
He's spent too long building walls to let them crack now.
And yet, the seed of doubt digs in.
Clarence's eyes drop to the chair Clark occupied earlier. A quiet panic rises, unbidden, as he thinks of the patrol route she and Billy took. He's not there—and if something goes wrong—
You bloody idiot. He tries to stop the thought from going any further.
He slumps into the chair, burying his face in his hands. She told him to trust her. He knows she can hold her own. She doesn't need his help, or anyone else's. But it's getting harder not to care.
This is what Matthew was talking about. He is losing it.
—
On the scanner, the energy spike appeared like a heartbeat.
One violent pulse. Sharp.
And then it's gone. Vanished like it had never been there at all.
Anya's voice crackled over the comms back at base. "We had it for five seconds. Grade A-Type2. Energy signature off the charts. It's close. Then nothing."
Clark stares at the fading blip on her handheld display. Static hums in her ear.
That wasn't just a rogue. It was a clever one, expected for a grade A. It's smart enough to mask itself, and to wait unlike their usual hunts.
A most dangerous kind... patient.
Somewhere out here, among the rusted fences and crumbling roads of this rural nowhere, it was biding its time. Observing the Saint that had just arrived in town. A doctor on borrowed days.
The air around feels strange. There's a weight in it that only reapers can feel when a soul is about to be collected.
Billy walks a few steps behind her, scanning the perimeter with a kind of nervous excitement that makes Clark's stomach knot.
"Do you think it disappears?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.
Clark slows her pace, glancing back at him. "What?"
"The scent," Billy says, scratching the back of his neck, still grinning like this is a school trip and not a potential death trap. "You know... Saints. You're—you were—one, right?"
She stops walking. Her spine goes rigid for half a beat too long.
Then she rolls her eyes, forces her feet forward again like the question didn't crawl under her skin. "I'm sure whatever scent I used to have got scrubbed off clean."
Her voice tastes like copper on her tongue.
Hell does that to people. She suddenly wants a lollipop to wash it off.
Billy, blissfully unaware of the crack in her composure, just laughs and jogs to catch up.
Clark keeps her focus ahead, on the broken road leading toward the temporary clinic where the Saint is stationed. Still, the conversation leaves a sour taste in her mouth.
Purity. Fragrance. Light.
Things she no longer gets to claim.
Not after what she did to her soul to get here.
A flicker of movement in the corner of her eye breaks her train of thought—two reapers from Soul Management approach from the far end of the road. Uniforms crisp. Expressions anything but welcoming.
Billy greets them with an easy wave. They answer him with tired smiles. But when their eyes land on Clark, the shift in the atmosphere is immediate.
And though not a word is said, Clark feels the same old burn of silent judgment crawl across her skin like oil. They never forget she was from the Cellar. Not even when she wears a suit now.
But really, it's not her soul that needs deliverance. It's their faces that need fixing.
They brief Billy like she's not even there. Minor disturbances, they say. No real danger—just low-level rogues testing the perimeter and slipping back into the dark when the reapers got close.
But they don't say it to her. She doesn't flinch, but she listens anyway.
And when they finish their report and prepare to leave, she speaks loud enough to force them to acknowledge her presence.
"Brow—Billy and I will take the next watch. If something happens, better you have someone from Ghost Crimes nearby who knows how to use a blade."
It's a pointed comment. She knows it.
The guides exchange a glance but only nod at Billy before turning on their heels and heading off without a word to her.
Clark watches them go, her stare flat and steady. Their backs retreating like proof that she's still fighting a war they won't let her win.
Beside her, the young reaper chuckles softly.
"They're scared of you," he says, half-admiring, half-teasing.
She quirks a brow at his remark. "You're not?"
Billy grins, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets like this is all a game. "Nah."
"Why?" she asks, almost intrigued despite herself. "Because I used to be a Saint?"
He shakes his head, that wasn't it. "I know what you really are."
For a breath, Clark's chest tightens. Expecting something dramatic. Something heavy.
A goddess. A monster. Something worth fearing.
But Billy just shrugs and says it like it's common knowledge:
"A good reaper."
Clark stares at him.
Blinking once.
Before she lets out a dry and a little bitter laugh. "You're worse than Matthew."
He puts his hands on her shoulders and gives her a playful massage, beaming at her compliment.
Clark flips open her comms again, calling Anya back at base.
"We'll set up here. Watching the Saint from a distance. Let me know if the scanner picks up another spike."
There's a pause on the line, and then Anya's voice comes through, sly and singsong:
"Copy that... But when are you going to tell me that you are sleeping with the Head Reaper? I mean, you don't even sleep!" she accuses.
"Anya—" she's trying to stop her before she makes a whole narrative in her wicked head, "we did not sleep—"
"I know you did not sleep! Are you kidding me? Reaper Resources will throw you back to Hell! And I don't want you back in Hell and I—"
"Anya!"
"Y—yes?" her voice cracks, she's crying already.
"We didn't sleep together." She clarifies. "I needed a bed, and he offered."
Anya sniffs, "Why don't you have bed? Are you poor?" she starts sobbing again.
"I'm not p—" Clark pinches the bridge of her nose, she gives up. "Stop crying."
"Okay." She does not stop, "The captain is angry, Matthew also comes out scowling. I don't think they hugged it out."
She does not know what to feel about that.
"Don't think so much about it." She tells her, "Clarence is just... upset that I broke some rules. You know how he is."
That's right, he is disappointed because she made bad decisions that could make Reaper Resources send a warning letter to their department.
And that's a hit to the good captain's stellar reputation. That's all that there is, she keeps reminding herself.
—
Night falls thick and slow over the village.
The kind of evening that feels like the calm before the breaking. Crickets hum nervously in the grass. The clinic windows glow warm, yellow light bleeding into the dark like a fragile shield. Clark and Billy remain stationed near the tree line, eyes sharp for rogue movement, senses wired for even the slightest spike in the energy scanner.
And then...
Headlights.
A convoy of black off-road vehicles rattles down the dirt road, kicking up dust as they roll to a stop near the clinic gates.
Clark stiffens the moment she sees them.
The logo on their shirts—the same as the medical mission's NGO partner. Of course. She should've guessed. New volunteers, new humans coming in to "help."
But it's not just that.
No. Fate is never that kind.
Because as the doors swing open, she spots him.
Francis Fell.
Stepping out with that familiar confidence like he owns the land they are standing on. Beside him—that sharp-eyed assistant whose name Clark can never seem to remember. And trailing a few steps behind them, wearing a volunteer badge and a T-shirt two sizes too big...
Maggie Juilliard.
Clark's stomach turns, revolting on its own at the sight of her.
Of all the damn people.
Billy, cheerful as ever and still new enough to not recognize half the faces, glances over at her. "Friends of yours?"
Clark doesn't answer. She just exhales slow and low, like a woman biting down on a headache.
On the clinic porch, the Saint—the doctor they're here to protect—looks up from his notes. His face breaks into a warm, genuine smile.
"Miss Juilliard! Good to see you again," Dr. Aalto greets, standing to shake her hand.
Maggie grins wide and waves like this is just another episode in her personal feel-good documentary.
"And Mr. Fell..." the doctor adds, turning to Francis with grateful eyes. "Your generosity... it's really too much. I wasn't expecting your support."
Francis lifts one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, smiling in that soft, practiced way Clark remembers far too well.
Something tugs loose inside her at the sight of it.
That smile.
The kind that used to be for her.
It was the warmest thing she remembers, in all her cruel lives. She pushes the memory down hard. Buries it. Not now.
Francis waves off the gratitude with a flick of his hand. "Don't thank me," he says, voice smooth as ever. "You should thank her." He nods toward Maggie. "She's the one who dragged me out here. Said it'd be good for the soul."
They all laugh. Warm. Human.
Clark doesn't.
Instead, she watches like a hawk, every inch of her alert. This is the last thing she needs—civilian interference. Distractions.
Liabilities.
As the group files inside the clinic, disappearing behind the glow of cheap fluorescent light, Clark makes a mental note to stay on the perimeter. Keep distance. Reassess.
But of course...
Because the night never lets her breathe...
Moments later, a voice calls out from behind her.
"Well, I'll be damned."
Her shoulders tense instantly.
Francis.
Walking toward her with the ease of someone on an endless holiday. Which is probably the truth, he makes scandals as much as he makes money. He's probably here in this secluded place hiding from the press.
Billy stiffens beside her, eyes going wide as he registers what's happening. The human can see them. See them. Even through Veil masking protocols.
Clark lifts a hand slightly toward Billy. A silent signal: Stand down. Let me handle this.
And though he hesitates at first, he nods and stays back.
Francis stops a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, looking her up and down with open curiosity.
"Not a school uniform this time," he says with a low whistle. "What's the look now? Security detail? Secret agent?"
Clark steps toward him, closing the space with practiced calm that hides the burning irritation under her skin.
"You should go back inside," she says, voice quiet but firm. "And maybe—" she tips her head at him "—pretend you don't see us. For your own sake."
Francis only smiles wider.
"I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me," he says. "You disappeared on me. Twice now, if I'm counting right."
Her patience thins like stretched wire as he's trying to drag this meeting longer than it should.
"I'm working," she says, keeping her voice low. Controlled. "And you're making this difficult."
"You know..." Francis tilts his head, pretending to think. "I was supposed to leave after a day. Quick charity visit. Cut a check. Shake some hands. But now?"
He shrugs, grin widening. "Think I'll stay a little longer."
Clark steps away like the air around him stings.
No use talking him down. No point wasting more breath.
She turns on her heel. "Billy," she calls over her shoulder, "we're repositioning."
Billy stumbles after her, still throwing nervous glances back at Francis who stands there with his hands in his pockets, watching her disappear like smoke into the trees.
They reappear a few hundred yards off, near the far perimeter, just within range of the clinic but far enough to give themselves room.
Billy adjusts his comms unit, still glancing back toward the lights.
"So... uh... that human," he says, voice uncertain, "he's not supposed to see us, right?"
"No," Clark answers, crossing her arms, eyes still fixed on the clinic windows like she's waiting for something worse to happen. "He's not."
Billy hesitates. "What is he then?"
Clark exhales. The night feels colder now.
"I'm not sure," she says at last. "But whatever he is... he's going to be a problem."