By the time the sun crests the hills, Clark and Billy are still standing guard. The air tastes electric. Sharp and thick, as though the veil between realms is stretching thin.
Anya's voice crackles through the comms like static charged with dread.
"Unusual Type 2 spike... It's starting," she says. "They're beginning to smell the Saint."
On the ground, the humans shuffle about, blissfully unaware that they're sitting ducks in a killing field no one else can see. The clinic is alive with soft laughter, the scrape of folding chairs, the hiss of boiling water for tea.
And overhead, just beyond human senses, the predators stir.
Clark watches the Saint—Dr. Aalto. The little wrinkles around his eyes that show when he greets patients with a smile. A man who carries kindness like a natural reflex. He's been here for days, staying in a place that can't be comfortable but there's not a hint of exhaustion in his face.
She hasn't seen goodness like this in a long, long time. Not in Hell. Not in the Elite Squad.
Her eyes then, catches something else.
Maggie.
Exactly as the files described, she looks like she walked out of a fairytale. Sweet face, soft voice, moving through the patient line offering hot drinks and sweet bread like some benevolent schoolteacher on a Sunday outreach.
Too good. Too perfect.
Her jaw constricts, irritated with the mere sight of her.
She still hasn't figured out why Clarence picked her that night. The way he held her and chose her over—she pushes that thought down. She must not be distracted; this mission is crucial. But Billy, ever observant in his own bumbling way, notices the shift in her mood.
He follows her gaze, spots Maggie, and whistles low under his breath.
"You don't like her very much, do you?"
"You see too much," she says curtly, brushing past him. "Let's check the south perimeter."
Billy obeys, but they don't get far as another distraction steps directly into their path.
"Morning," Francis greets, standing there with a tray balanced in one hand like some smug barista sent by the universe to test her patience. "Brought you breakfast."
Before Clark can even muster a no, Billy's already reaching for the coffee, sipping happily like betrayal means nothing when caffeine's involved.
Reapers didn't need food to survive, but Billy's always been one of those who never fully shook his mortal habits.
She glares at him. He just shrugs, mouthing sorry around a mouthful of bread before excusing himself with all the grace of a panicked rabbit.
Francis watches him go and chuckles, setting the tray on the nearest bench.
"You've been here all night." He observes. "Guarding someone?" His eyes slide toward the clinic. "The doctor, maybe?"
She doesn't answer, but internally she notes how he's not as clueless as he acts.
Francis's grin widens like he knows it too.
"I had to run all the way out to this... charming, rural nowhere," he continues, "just to get away from the mess you left me in. The press is still calling me a deviant."
He smiles, like he's still amused by it. Like it doesn't bother him half as much as it should.
Clark huffs out something between a sigh and a stifled laugh. "Don't blame that on me," she mutters. "That was all you."
He leans in, putting his hands in his pockets. "Fair. Still worth it."
She's about to wave him off, to tell him to get back inside, when his tone shifts—soft, almost uncertain.
"I dreamt of you," he confesses.
The words make her heart knocks painfully against her ribs.
Francis chuckles when he sees the flicker of surprise on her face. "Relax," he teases. "Nothing scandalous."
"I wasn't naked?" she buries the panic under humour.
"Wish you were." Francis laughs, "But no... you were just... happy. And you said my name. But not this one."
"What did I call you?" she asks.
"Laurie." he says without hesitation, "We have met before, haven't we?"
Her heart pounds so violently it almost hurts. As she locks eyes with him, something old stirs at the base of her spine. Francis remembers her from that life they shared.
She starts to answer, but the first syllable doesn't even make it out when the air behind them shifts. Heavy and cold—a pressure that she knows by instinct.
She turns and Clarence is standing a few feet behind. The sight of him hits her like another blow. But it's not her reaction that steals the air from the moment—it's his.
Clarence's expression shutters, then drains of colour. His gaze lands on Francis like a blade unsheathed. For one brief, terrible second, he looks as if he's seen a ghost.
They've already met. He realizes just how late he is.
Francis, oblivious to the centuries of buried history unravelling in front of him, tilts his head at the new arrival.
"Who's that?" he asks with a lazy smile. "Your boss or something?"
Clarence doesn't say a word about the human being able to see him. But Clark can see the calculation behind the captain's eyes. The slow, dawning horror.
Francis extends a hand to introduce himself.
Clarence ignores it.
"You should go," Clark pulls him away.
Francis opens his mouth to argue, but the look she gives him stops him cold. He raises both hands in surrender but still manages a smirk.
"Alright, alright... no need to get violent," he says, turning away.
He lifts one hand lazily in farewell as he walks off, like this is all some game they're playing.
Her eyes stay at him until he disappears back into the clinic with the other humans. When she turns, Clarence is already moving toward her.
There's something in the way he walks. His tight shoulders and his steps just a shade too quick to pass for casual.
She can't quite read the expression on his face. Not anger or confusion. Something in between.
He is supposed to ask her how the human can see Reapers. Not even those living with the gift can see them unless it's their time. Only, that's not what bothers him.
He wants to ask how she knows him because whatever that was, didn't look like a first meeting. It looked like two people halfway through a story he wasn't invited to read.
But before he can press, Clark speaks reading his mind.
"Remember that case we had in Halcyon Crown? He owns the building. I've seen him a few times, when I go there."
Few times. He tries hard to suppress the urge to hit something.
"You shouldn't be talking to the living like that," he says, trying hard to sound like this is about regulations.
"You sound like Anya," Clark answers dryly, already turning to scan the perimeter again. "And speaking of the living..." She hesitates, then continues, tone suddenly sharper. "The girl is here too."
Clarence frowns. "What girl?"
Clark turns her head slowly, like she's giving him time to remember. Then, she drops her name.
"Maggie Juilliard."
It lands like a rock in the middle of his chest.
"You remember that one?" she asks.
"Vaguely," Clarence lies, the word coming short and cold.
Clark lets out a laugh—bitter like the sound of someone kicking gravel.
"Really? Vaguely?"
She steps in closer.
"What... did you tell her you'd come back for your coat one of these days too?"
Her voice sharpens at the edges, a blade in disguise. She remembers perfectly how it happened. The night the captain had swept Maggie into his arms. How he'd wrapped her in his coat, bloodied and shivering, and disappeared with her like some tragic hero.
"I don't want you thinking—" He stops himself. No, too close.
"You sound mad," he says instead.
"I'm not," Clark snaps back defensive. "I don't feel anything."
Lie.
But neither of them calls it that.
She turns on her heel, already walking away, but—
"Clark."
He calls her softly that makes her stop. She turns, one brow raised, waiting.
"Let's keep this between us," he says quietly.
It sounded like a plea. A secret he doesn't want to spread.
"Don't... speak about her to Matthew," Clarence finishes.
She wants to ask why but she doesn't. Instead, she shakes her head, and glances behind him.
"Too late," she says, voice dry with something dangerously close to amusement.
He turns and there's Matthew.
"What's with this clandestine meeting?" he greets, "Well? Oh, scram now, sweetie. I don't think your captain wants you to hear this."
"Stop calling me that," she warns, then disappears—surprisingly, actually following an order.
"Out with it, Clarence." he says. "What's this thing with you and Maggie?"
Clarence's skin crawls at the remark. If he knew who she really was, he wouldn't be blabbering this nonsense. Clarence steps forward, his voice a warning.
"I erased her memory of that night. She won't remember anything, so it's best you keep your distance. And don't go showing yourself on a whim."
He shakes his head in disbelief. "I don't love rules as much as you, but I'm aware of them, thank you very much."
"Good, then."
"Did you really wrap her in your coat?" Matthew asks grinning. "She's a tad different from your type."
Clarence turns slowly, eyes narrowing. "Pray tell, what do you think my type is?"
Matthew doesn't flinch. "The dead ones."
—
It is the last night. The air knows it, the trees, even the dirt under Clark's boots seems to know it.
It lies there, heavy and unmoving, like the earth itself is holding its breath.
The saint sleeps inside, oblivious—still soft and breathing easy. The scent of him, however, is anything but subtle now. It clings to the air like honey on glass, thick and gold and utterly damning. Every rogue within the radius can taste it. And worse, they want it.
Clarence stands at one end of the perimeter, blade already drawn but held low, the way a wolf holds its teeth before the bite. His senses prickle, his forehead tight and back rigid.
Clark stands opposite him, her reaper blade slung lazy against her shoulder, but her eyes already gone sharp and cold. Her skin hums with restless energy, a cocktail of instinct and bad memories.
Somewhere beyond the tree line, Matthew and Billy are circling the perimeter. A hunting pair. One elegant, one eager.
Anya's voice comes out through the comms. Tinny. Tight. Barely masking her own rising pulse.
"Two Type 2s inbound. Grade A," she says. "No host. They're moving fast, Captain. Just raw energy. Full rogue form."
Clark clicks her tongue, already moving.
"There's more," Anya adds, voice dipping a little lower, like she's trying to keep her own breath steady. "Low levels popping on the scanner... Grade Cs, looks like. Scattered around the perimeter. Just... stalking."
The word hisses in everyone's ears at once and the night feels thinner.
The wind stops blowing. Suddenly, every sound in the night begin to cease. No hoots or chirps, a quiet that belongs right before something tears.
The first one appears at the tree line.
Mouth too wide, teeth like broken ivory, skin the colour of old bruises. It doesn't walk. It pours, like shadow made into muscle.
And the second follows—this one worse.
It smells like rot and old regret.
Clark moves first, no hesitation or ceremony. A blur of dark coat and silver arc.
The captain, half-step behind, takes the second one.
Their blades catch the air at the same time.
Metal sings against the shrieks too high for human ears. The impact of their attacks sends a ripple through the world around them.
The living can only feel it—the vibration that travels through wood and soil and bone. Inside the clinic, windows rattle in their frames. The lamps flicker, trembling like the flame knows fear too. And in one small room, a human man wakes.
Francis Fell, who shouldn't see things like these steps to his window. The glass is cold under his fingertips; fog comes out as he breathes close to it. He peers outside and sees two black-suited figures, fighting monsters that don't belong in the waking world.
Things that shouldn't exist. Beings pulled straight out of the collective human nightmare made of hunger and shadow and hate.
Francis watches, rooted in place, as Clark drives her blade through something that splits apart like ash and ink.
Clarence carves through the second with brutal, swift precision.
A soft, disbelieving sound comes out of Francis' mouth. It bubbles up in his throat before he can stop it.
"What are they?" he asks himself.
Suddenly, another one. It comes out of nowhere. It doesn't show on Anya's scanner. Not in the comm logs. Not even in the tremor in the air that usually whispers something wicked this way comes.
It just... is.
A hungry, snapping thing—something stitched together from shadow and grave dirt, moving too fast and too wrong.
Before Clark can react, it barrels into her with the force of a landslide.
Her back hits the dirt hard. Air leaves her lungs in a single vicious punch.
Somewhere across the line, Clarence curses—a sound like steel breaking in half. But he's still tangled with his own rogue, blade sunk deep into bone and hate, too far to intervene.
Francis sees her go down and before logic or fear can save him, he runs toward her.
Heroic, maddening, absolutely doomed idiot.
Clark rolls, planting her feet. She shakes off the weight of the rogue and drives her blade upward with a snarl, sending the thing screeching back.
But now it sees him.
Francis stills as the creature reaches for him, all long limbs, foaming at the mouth.
Clark lunges between them.
She's quick—but not quick enough.
The rogue's hand turns into a spike and rakes across her shoulder.
Clark's breath hitches but she stays on her feet. Blood runs warm and fast down her arm.
Francis stares at her, wide-eyed, chest heaving. On the ground now, scrambling backward, but still too close.
"Run!" she barks at him, squaring herself between him and the rogue.
Francis shakes his head. "Are you insane? I'm not leaving you here with that thing!"
"You fool!" She snaps back. "That thing will kill you!"
"I'm not going to let it kill you either!"
Clark almost laughs at the absolute absurdity of him.
"What the hell do you think you're gonna do? Hit it with your wallet?" she growls, eyes already following the rogue's next twitch.
"I'm already dead, Francis. There's no point worrying about me."
Her voice drops to something softer, bitter at the edges.
"Now run."
Her words hit him like a punch to the chest. What does she mean dead?
There's no time for answers. The rogue screams again and charges.
Across the field, Clarence sees them. Francis, the human, in the middle the fight. And Clark—still shielding him like he's something worth dying for.
The amount of profanity that detonates in Clarence's skull in that moment could peel paint off a cathedral.
He tears through his own rogue like he means to murder the air itself.
Somewhere beyond the tree line, thunder rumbles deep and low, like the earth is growling.
But no, not thunder.
Rogues.
Dozens of black smoke swirl and head towards them, and they drop out of the air like carrion birds.
Matthew and Billy emerge from the woods just in time to see the sky shift.
"Billy!" his blade appears in his hand. "Get to the clinic. Secure the humans. Now!"
He nods, his heart hammering on his chest as he bolts. Even as he runs, he glances back to see the Head Reaper drive two Type 2s into the ground with a ferocity that makes the dirt shake.
Billy has heard the stories, sure. He was a former vice captain of the Elite Squad, served at the same time with Clarence before he became captain. They were a dangerous pair, and the Veil thought they couldn't have two powerful reapers at the same team. So, they put one of them on Soul Management.
Seeing it now for himself, Matthew's strength and absolute cold violence, is something else entirely.
Billy runs faster.
—
Half a villa away, Maggie Juilliard has stepped out onto the porch, drawn by the sudden crack of shattering wood and the violent gusts ripping through the trees.
She sees nothing but swaying shadows and snapping branches, and on the ground, she finds Francis. She calls him out, but he is looking somewhere with confusion and fear.
That's all it takes.
Every rogue in a ten-meter radius shifts, their grotesque faces snapping toward her like wolves scenting a lamb. They swarm to her fast.
Maggie doesn't see them. Doesn't hear them.
The snap in the air catches Matthew's attention. He sees a familiar stranger and in less than the time it takes for her to inhale, he's there.
He appears at the porch right between her and the oncoming dark.
The wood beneath Maggie's feet splinters violently, as if punched from underneath by something massive. The porch boards crack like brittle bones.
She screams and Francis turns to the sound of her voice.
"Maggie!"
He sprints toward her.
Clark uses the distraction for what it is. Her blade finds its mark in the rogue that had struck her earlier. One clean slice, shoulder to sternum. The thing lets out a gurgling shriek before dissipating like bad smoke in the air.
Her shoulder burns but she remains upright, feeling the skin stitching back itself. But rest seems to be a luxury even for the dead.
The night is just about to reach a crescendo when the saint appears on sight.
Dr. Aalto steps out onto the opposite villa's small deck, rubbing sleep from his eyes, blinking out into the night.
The scent hits the air like a blood offering. Every rogue still standing halts mid-motion. And then, like a hive-mind flicking on, they turn to him.
Clark appears before him revealing herself.
The Doctor reels back, eyes going wide at the sight of her. A stranger in a suit and a blade wet with something black, dripping on the floorboards.
"Doctor Aalto," she says, calm and steady like death offering a gentle handshake. "It's not safe out here. Go back inside."
"Clark!" Billy reveals himself, "Go, I'll watch over him until Soul Management comes. Doctor, let's go."
The Saint nods. His legs tremble as he clutches his chest, panic rattling him. He stumbles backward, nearly falling as he scrambles for the door. Billy pulls him up.
—
Anya's voice buzzes over the comms, sharp and panicked.
"Captain! Clark! We've got... something... I'm reading a weird signature approaching fast from the northwest perimeter. Near the saint's vil—"
The comm line cuts off mid-static as the air in front of Clark distorts.
A ripple-like mirage and then it appears.
Unlike the others, this is no hulking beast with rows of teeth or a dripping, faceless maw. No, this one stood upright. Almost human.
Shoulder-length black hair hung sleek and damp, a pool of tar forming on the ground each time it takes a step forward. Its skin is patchworked, parts looking too smooth, others shrivelled like old fruit left to rot in the sun. One side of its face looked like melted wax; the other is that of a man with a wicked grin.
It slinks closer, cocking its head like a predator with no hurry.
Reapers, it hissed, close like a whisper behind her ear though it hasn't even stepped near her yet.
"Guarding saints..." Its eyes glimmered like oil over blood. "...You're not supposed to be here."
Her knuckles go white around her blade, heart pounding high and hard in her throat as the distance between them disappear.
The rogue turns its gaze past her, toward the villa where the doctor just went back in.
"I won't let you get in my way," it purrs. "Not for my saint. Not tonight."
It licks its cracked lips. "But you... oh, you'd make such a pretty skin on me..."
Fingers like barbed wire snap shut around her throat. The rogue lifts her off the ground. Her boots scrape the dirt uselessly. More limbs burst from its torso, grabbing her wrists. Two lock her blade in place, bending her arm enough that she can't swing.
Her comms device clatters to the ground.
"CLARK! That's a Type 3! I REPEAT—TYPE 3! Do not let it touch you! Clark, it can—"
The warning doesn't reach her. But she knows.
She can already feel what it is.
A type of rogue that can possess even Reapers. The kind that could wear her like a glove and use her for all its monstrous intentions.
"You're not like the usual suits... you have a scent in you..." it sniffs at her. "What is it?"
"Brimstone and sin."
A crackling sound, close to laughter, slips from its throat.
"Are you saying you're from Hell? Not a sinner... No, they don't let the damned walk... A butcher, then?"
Clark doesn't respond. She doesn't look away. The thing doesn't scare her.
"A scourge in the Veil? How entertaining..." It grabs her chin, its voice turning into a growl. "You must have the Sight; this will be quicker then!"
"What's it to you?" she spits.
The rogue jeers.
"You won't be able to stop the connection."
Possessing a human body, is easier for rogues. They push and subdue the soul inside and takes control of the shell.
A reaper is another matter. Possessing a soul, requires power. To control someone's essence, they must bind through the target's deepest desires… or their darkest memories.
Her eyes ignite against her will.
His sins come like flood. Blood covers everything, there's so much of it. He is a sinner. A monster in life, worse now that he's dead.
The Sight drags her to a cold basement. There, a girl is in shackles. Darkness creeps in and then a deluge of screams, begging for mercy.
Her broken voice sounds familiar. That girl, it was her, on her twelfth life.
A shadow appears with the face of the rogue. A face that now makes her remember how it loomed at her door each night.
Clark's stomach turns violently and the Sight shuts.
Her blade is still in her hand, but it hangs useless.
The rogue grins wider than human anatomy allows.
"What's this?" It hisses after connecting with her through the Sight. "We know each other... I seem to remember you but with a different face... and much younger... "
It starts laughing. A hideous sound, as recognition dawns.
"Milena... that was your name." He licks just below her chin, "I don't usually like the old ones but this new face of yours... it's appetizing."
Clark does not waver. She keeps his eyes on him, unafraid.
"You're not crying... not screaming? I loved it when you screamed. You're suddenly brave."
She scoffs. "They will love you in Hell."
It screeches next to her ear.
"You won't scare me with little taunts. Now—now I'll make you scream again. Let's open you up nice and slow this time..."
A claw digs deep beneath her collarbone, tearing through fabric and skin. Not a sound escapes from her mouth, she won't give the rogue the satisfaction. But when the venom spreads and black veins appear on her skin, her resolve breaks.
Somehow, all the discipline and control she acquired in Hell shatters...
—
Clarence hears a scream that makes him shudder.
It can't be her. Clark will never—
He stops when he sees a claw piercing into her chest like a jagged knife.
A single swipe of his blade sends a sonic burst down the field, obliterating every lesser rogue within a hundred feet—turning them to mist on contact.
He appears beside her like a pulled trigger.
In one stroke, he severs the claw holding her. The Type 3 wails and stumbles back, its extra limbs writhing like cut tentacles.
Clark crumples to her knees, coughing, clutching her bleeding chest.
Clarence doesn't stop to check her. His blade burns with fury, the edges hissing with the black blood of the dead.
The look on his face...
That cold, murderous thing hiding under every inch of him is finally, violently awake.
A low, guttural laugh escapes from it, curdling the air around them. Its cracked smile stretches wider as it turns its head toward Clarence, finally sensing the full weight of the captain's fury rolling off him like stormfronts.
"Finally," it croons, shoulders pulling back like a predator stretching before the kill. "Some fair game."
Clarence stands there, blade ready.
His eyes flick, just once, to the trembling figure crumpled on the dirt.
She's curled into herself, fingers clawing at the earth like she's drowning in a nightmare. That sight does something terrible to him.
His rage condenses into something lethal.
"I'll break you." he swears.
"There!" It sneers. "I like you reapers when you're trying to be... difficult."
It lunges, all teeth and claws, snapping in unnatural speed.
Clarence meets it head-on. No hesitation. Every strike from the rogue, he counters with brutal, calculated precision. Steel against claw, force against force, until the air between them vibrates with the speed and violence of their blows.
On the other side of the field, Matthew fights through the swarm of lesser rogues trying to come into the villa, blade moving with vicious grace. But even through the chaos—he feels it.
A chill, heavy and crawling down his spine.
That's not the rogue's energy.
The spiralling darkness is coming from Clarence.
He sees the scene. He's locked in with the Type 3, Clark still crumpled on the ground, shaking like a leaf in the storm.
Matthew swears under his breath.
This is bad.
The rogue sneers through bloodied teeth, still throwing itself at Clarence with reckless glee, speaking between strikes with the arrogance of something that's never known fear.
"Playing with vermin again," he says, "can't believe some of them get this far... that she managed to crawl her way up, turn herself into a reaper... when she was nothing back then... not even worth stepping on."
Clarence stops mid-strike.
That hits too close.
Is that why? The reason she doesn't crack under hellfire or rogue attacks, because she already lived worse.
The Chief told him; she's regained memories of her past lives. And this rogue, has been in one of them.
His wrath coils tighter, past reason and control.
The rogue keeps talking, revelling in it, voice like poison.
"You allow trash like her to wear that suit?" It hisses. "That thing used to crawl on my floor. A useless, broken little rug I used when I got bored. Nothing but a screaming meat."
It's the wrong thing to say.
Clarence grabs it by the throat so hard the vertebrae crack under his fingers. Then, he yanks out its tongue, slicing it off in a single brutal pull. The scream that follows is garbled and cut short as he swings his blade.
The rogue's head comes clean off.
Another brutal blow tears the body in half. Limbs sever, ribs split. Black blood splashes across the dirt, steaming as it hits.
Matthew arrives just in time to witness the carnage—what's left of it.
A hissing cloud of black mist where the rogue's physical shell used to be forms. The true face of the rogue's soul flickers inside the fog.
Clarence steps on it, grinding it into the earth before snapping the cuffs onto it with shaking hands.
But even then, he doesn't stop.
Boots slam into it over and over, until black ichor pools around his feet and the ground starts to crack beneath the weight of his fury.
"Clarence!" Matthew shouts, grabbing him by the shoulder and hauling him back. "That's enough!"
For one second, he looks like he might keep going.
Matthew's next words ground him, brings him back to the present.
"Go to her," Matthew says, almost kind. "Let your squad handle this."
A few yards off, one of the Vice Captains—Declan—appears on the scene. He stops dead, surveying the carnage. There's too much ectoplasm, too many broken rogues. He can't even manage a bow.
"Captain..." Declan starts but thinks better of finishing.
Clarence doesn't acknowledge him. He kneels beside Clark still curled tight on the dirt. Her hands are shaking, her breathing shallow and broken.
With more care than he's shown anyone in a long time, Clarence gathers her up in his arms.