Right. So. A mission.
The sort of mission that makes seasoned operatives look as though they've developed indigestion from nothing stronger than black coffee and bad fluorescent lighting. One of the missing sinners—the ones that look particularly untidy on the Elite Squad's otherwise shining record—has turned into a Type 3. Not your usual shrieking, slobbering, foaming-at-the-metaphysical-mouth Type 3 either. No. This one was, in life, a serial killer. A good one. And that's not a compliment.
He was the sort who left law enforcement with headaches, empty coffers, and a trail of neatly wrapped corpses. Blonde wives, mouths stuffed with sand. He liked red tape—literally. Tied his packages with it. Charming hobby.
Death didn't stop him. It just gave him an upgrade. Now, as a Type 3, he's doing what clever psychopaths do best: organizing. Herding other rogues like a man with a whistle and a clipboard. Type 2s, lesser rogues, all pulled along in his wake, like ducklings with knives. Bodies wrapped in red started dropping in the living world again. Dumped with the same flourishes and tucked inside the grit—lines from Paradise Lost.
(If you're keeping track, that's an overachieving serial killer with a Milton fetish. Which, in the circles of Hell, is something between a parlour trick and a dinner-party horror story.)
Naturally, the humans are confused. Some insist it's a copycat. Others know better. The little detail about Paradise Lost, after all, has never been made public. Someone is carrying on the exact signature of a killer who is very much dead.
The victim pool too, is all wrong. Still blondes, but the targets don't all come with wedding bands. Young and old. Random. Like several killers acting under one hand. Which is when one of the Elite Squad mutters the word, Shepherd. A rogue that controls other rogues.
Anya, ever the genius, maps the energy spikes and overlays them with the police files. Red dots flare on her screen like a rash. Every one of them tied to the same MO.
Squad 2 has been on this for weeks, and now they finally pin down a location. A place the Shepherd might actually be.
Anya is mid-briefing the captain when Clark walks in. She hasn't seen him properly since the Saint-and-Rogue incident. She knows what it means, of course. He's kept her busy with paperwork, left her out of the field. Probation dressed up in polite excuses. But at least he didn't hand her over to Reaper Resources. That would've been crueller than Hell.
Clark notices Anya's screen, the red blips. She pieces it together in seconds and volunteers to "lend a hand".
Anya mouths a horrified no at Clarence. He ignores her.
"You'll be working with Squad 2," he informs. The way he says it makes Squad 2 sound like a death sentence. "With Callahan."
"Fine," Clark replies, with the lightness of someone who's about to walk into fire barefoot.
"You understand he's vice-captain. He outranks you. Which means—"
"I can follow orders," she cuts in.
Clarence studies her. He can't bench her forever. And Matthew's training should count for something. She needs a win. This case could be it. Still, the idea of her being anywhere near the Shepherd knots his insides in a way that is not strictly professional.
He nods once. "Brief her, Anya."
"Captain!" Anya protests, desperate.
"Just do it."
So, Anya obeys, muttering darkly under her breath. Clark reassures her, insists she's fine.
"Tell me what happened, then," Anya demands, softer now. "I'm your friend, Clark."
Clark blinks. Friendship isn't a word she's used to. Not in life, not in Hell, or here. It sits strangely in her chest, like a bird she isn't sure how to hold. She smiles faintly, pats Anya's head.
"You know I'm a reformed psychopath, right?"
Anya scrunches her nose. "I wouldn't use 'reformed'. You've still got questionable habits that lean criminal. But I like you."
Clark laughs. "Tell you what—let's finish this case, then go for drinks. I'll tell you everything."
Anya hesitates, then taps her screen. Red dots bloom brighter. Case files spill forward like coffins on parade.
--
Callahan hears wings first—soft, efficient, purposeful—and groans. He doesn't even have to look up. Of course it's her, the wild card. He pinches the bridge of his nose as Clark approaches with all the nonchalance of someone who's just crashed the world's most exclusive dinner party.
"Not you," he sighs, like the universe has betrayed him personally.
"Yes, me."
Clark produces a sheet of paper like it's a winning lottery ticket. Clarence's signature at the bottom. The captain's blessing. Divine proof that she is supposed to be here.
Callahan snatches it from her hand, scans it, then scans it again, triple-checking, making sure she hasn't forged it. Or pulled one of her little pranks. Frankly, he wouldn't put it past her.
"He couldn't come himself?" Callahan adds, still bargaining with fate.
"Nope."
Callahan groans, shoulders sagging in defeat.
She notes his disappointment with a grunt. "Look, you want someone from Ghost Crimes. I hate to tell you this, but your options are limited."
"He could've sent Anya," he says quickly, like a drowning man pointing at driftwood.
Clark promised Clarence she'd behave. That she'd follow orders, no matter how much the vice-captain makes her want to commit mild homicide. Callahan, with his suspicious eyes and permanent scowl, is more work than the rogue they're supposed to catch. She can't even tell if it's personal hatred or if he's just allergic to her.
"Tell me what you have." She folds her arms, biting down on the urge to give him hell.
He blinks. Surprised. Pleased, even. Like a man who's just discovered his least favourite dog can sit on command. A grin pulls at his mouth.
"Right." He points over her shoulder.
Clark turns. An English manor—turrets and grandeur, sprawled and smug—sits on the hill with every light blazing. It's Versailles on a tech-bro budget: chandeliers glinting, music spilling faintly out the windows. An expensive crime scene.
"Shepherd's camping in the owner of that place," Callahan explains. "Scanner caught the last spike right here."
"Inside a royal?" Clark asks, half in awe, half in disgust.
"Tech billionaire," he corrects, sharp. "Apparently money buys the same amount of tasteless architecture no matter the century. And the Shepherd—that's what we call a rogue who can control others. Just in case you didn't know. Or maybe Hell has a different term for them. Does it?"
"Bastards," she says flatly. "That's what."
Callahan ignores the remark, even though it's meant for him. "There's a party. And we're getting in. Fortunately, now we have the perfect bait."
His grin sharpens into something wicked. He looks her over, up and down, with a smug satisfaction.
"How do you like to be blonde?"
Clark blinks at him. Slowly. The kind that suggests she's two seconds from lodging her blade somewhere creative.
"You'll stand out just enough to draw eyes. Especially his."
"I stand out enough without peroxide." She snaps.
"Yes, but you stand out in the wrong way." He produces a tiny glamour vial from his coat pocket, the sort of contraband Veil alchemists produce when they've had too much coffee and no oversight. "One drop, and you'll look like every billionaire's idea of dessert. Blonde, sparkling, utterly harmless."
Clark stares at the vial as though it's a live rodent. "You know what the last glamour potion did to me? I had elf ears. For a week."
"That's because you tried to drink it with whiskey," Callahan shoots back, unamused. "This one's been tested."
"On what? Rats?"
"On Anya," he says.
Clark glances at the manor again, its windows glowing like watchful eyes. Her skin prickles. Type 3 inside, controlling God knows how many lesser rogues. She hates being his bait, but it beats sitting idle at her desk back in Ghost Crimes.
"Fine." She snatches the vial and walks away.
--
Clark stops short just outside the surveillance tent while waiting for the dress she's supposed to wear. The flap hangs open a crack, enough for voices to spill out like smoke.
"Why did the captain send her?" one of them mutters, low but not low enough. "On the last mission with a low-level Type 3, she flaked out."
Another voice—sceptical, cautious, but agreeing all the same. "You heard that too? She should be in debriefing. If she screws up this mission, it's bad for all of us."
Her molars press together until her jaw aches. She bites the inside of her cheek, sharp enough to taste blood, the sting steadying her. Her fingernails drum once against her thigh before she stills them. Not here. Not yet.
Then a different voice cuts through the chatter—Callahan's. She can almost see his scowl without looking.
"Vice, are you really letting that rookie join the hunt?"
The tent goes quiet for a breath. A shuffle of boots.
"Yes," comes the clipped reply.
"But Sir—"
"Unless one of you clowns want to wear a damn dress, she's going to be part of the operation." Callahan's tone is dripping disdain, but there's no mistaking the finality of it. Chairs creak. No one volunteers.
Clark is about to step away—she's heard enough—when his voice comes again, sharp as the snap of a whip.
"And it was a Grade A."
There's a collective inhale, nervous, uncertain.
"Vice?" one of them hazards, confused.
"She fought a Grade A, Type 3," Callahan growls. "Next time get your facts straight."
The silence that follows is absolute. He doesn't wait for them to recover. She hears his boots thud across the tent floor, then the flap jerks open and he strides out the other side.
He stops short. Because she's there, leaning against the pole like she'd been waiting for him all along. His eyes narrow.
"What are you blocking the way for?" he snaps, shoulders squaring as if to bulldoze past.
She doesn't answer, doesn't move. Just watches his back as he pushes on. The echo of his words lingers, heavier than the taste in her mouth. He's supposed to hate her.
Why did he do that?
--
Callahan is already swearing under his breath.
The bow tie sits wrong, too tight, and the cufflinks—don't get him started on the cufflinks. He's a leather jacket and trench coat kind of man, not this penguin suit nightmare. Yet here he is, standing stiff among his squad, fingers fumbling with the small, polished pieces of silver like they're some kind of cursed artifact.
The flap of the tent rustles.
"Fuc—" one of the reapers starts, but Callahan's hand snaps up lightning-fast to clamp over his mouth. Because there she is.
Blonde. Not the sun-kissed kind, but molten gold under lamplight, flowing down to frame a face made sharper, more dangerous, by the black dress she wears. She looks devastating in a way that steals the breath out of a room. The kind of blonde that turns heads and ruins nights.
One of them offers her the reaper blade, almost reverently. Clark takes it, unbothered, and without hesitation lifts the hem of her dress just enough to reveal the leather garter belt strapped high on her thigh. She slides the blade into place with practiced ease.
Callahan drops his cufflink. It hits the ground like a gunshot.
Clark looks up at the noise, catches the way all of them are staring. Her mouth twists, sharp with annoyance.
"What—you've never seen a blonde before?"
"Not this kind of blonde," one whispers, too smitten to stop himself.
Callahan drives an elbow into his ribs hard enough to make him grunt.
She strides over, heels tapping sharp against the earth. Callahan bends instinctively, reaching for his cufflink, but she's already there. Her hand gets to it first. She doesn't hesitate—just catches his wrist, firm, deliberate, as though she's done this before in another life. The cool metal slides into place, her fingers brushing along his skin as she fastens it.
"I got it," Callahan mutters, too quick, his voice rough. He hates how it sounds, like it caught on the edge of something softer.
"Right." Clark's eyes flick up, catching his. There's the faintest curve at the corner of her lips, like she knows exactly what she just did to him.
Callahan swallows, suddenly hyperaware of the bow tie choking him.
"You—well, you look weird," he says at last, trying to mask his awe with spite.
Clark bares her teeth. "Say that again and I'll gut you with a martini glass."
He smirks, undeterred, and gestures toward the path. "Try not to gut anyone yet. There's a party to attend."
—
The party hums like a hive—crystal clinking, laughter loud and hollow, perfume so thick it could strangle a man. Clark drifts through it all, champagne flute in hand, trying not to think about how she looks like an advertisement for yacht season.
The rogues are here. She feels them first—small pulses of wrongness, like splinters under her skin. It's the guards. The whole security team of this place are rogues in disguise.
The men in tuxedos with smiles stretched too wide, the women whose eyes don't blink enough. Lesser rogues. Controlled. Herded. All circling.
Callahan sidles up beside her, a grin pasted across his face that looks like it hurts him. He doesn't look at her. He looks past her, like a husband who'd rather be anywhere else.
"Smile," he mutters, through teeth.
"I am smiling," she mutters back, lips curled in something between a threat and a promise.
"No, that's you preparing to murder me. Do the other kind."
Before she can retort, a hostess in sequins and pearls swoops in. "And you must be?"
Callahan doesn't miss a breath. His arm slides around Clark's waist—too close, too convincing. She stiffens instantly, but his grip only tightens. "Mr. and Mrs. Callahan," he says smoothly, and the words taste like poison to both of them. "From Florence."
Clark freezes. "Missus—"
"Yes, wife," he says, his voice so sweet it could rot teeth, "We spoke about this."
Her nails dig into his side, hidden under the tailored fabric of his jacket. "We did not."
The hostess beams, oblivious. "Ah, of course! Mediterranean, I see. And donors, yes? To the foundation?"
"Donors," Clark says flatly, before Callahan can invent something worse. "Big ones. Very generous."
The hostess giggles and floats away, leaving them glued together. Clark twists her head up at him, whispering between clenched teeth. "If you ever touch me like that again—"
"Play the part," Callahan whispers back, all smile. "Or do you want the rogues sniffing us out?"
She hates him. She hates more that he's right. So, she smiles. Soft, fake, dazzling. A smile that could win over any millionaire widower at the bar.
Across the room, the Shepherd slash billionaire has noticed. His gaze cuts across the champagne fog and lands on her. No one else feels it, but she does. A quiet demand. Come closer.
The lesser rogues adjust their orbit. Men in tailored suits glance her way. A waiter carrying a silver tray tilts his head just a second too long. One by one, they shift, hemming her in.
"How many of them are there?" she whispers.
"All the staff apparently, based on the scanner," Callahan murmurs, his smile never faltering. "Are you scared?"
Clark laughs laced with poison. "Make yourself useful and get me champagne, princess."
--
They continue mingling with the living. Callahan's hand hasn't left her waist. His grip is steady, irritatingly steady. His grin—the one stretched wide enough to fool the crowd—is starting to earn him wrinkles.
"Closer," he mutters, teeth bared in his pretend smile.
"Closer and I'll stab you," Clark whispers back, just as sweet.
"Do what I say."
Her lips curve, saccharine and false. "Mr. Callahan," she says aloud, tilting her head onto his shoulder with such convincing affection that the guests nearby coo. Her nails, however, are still digging into his side.
Outside, in the tent serving as Squad 2's operations nest, a half-dozen voices are buzzing through the comms.
"Holy hell, is that Clark?" one snickers.
"Mrs. Callahan, you mean."
"Look at her—she's smiling. On purpose."
"Ooh, Vice. Someone's living the dream."
Callahan grits his teeth, ignoring the chorus of cheers flooding his earpiece. Clark's reputation is well-known—half terror, half fascination. She's the kind of operative you don't trust but can't help staring at. The fact that she's willingly on his arm is making Squad 2 giddier than children at a circus.
"I hope you're enjoying your fan club," Clark murmurs.
"They're idiots," Callahan mutters back, jaw tight. "Ignore them."
"They sound thrilled. You should bask in it."
"I'd rather set myself on fire."
Before she can reply, the orchestra shifts into a waltz. The chandeliers drip light over the polished floor as couples drift gracefully into position. Callahan exhales slowly.
"They'll expect us to dance," he says.
"Fine," Clark mutters. "But if you step on my foot—"
"You'll gut me. I know."
He leads her onto the floor, and to her surprise, he doesn't stumble. Not once. Callahan moves with a practiced precision she never expected from a man whose default setting is irritated paperwork. He guides, his steps flawless.
Clark blinks. "You know how to waltz."
"You say that like I'm not cultured enough," he replies, voice taut with concentration.
"I pegged you more for... I don't know. Standing in corners and glaring."
"Both can be true."
She huffs out a laugh despite herself, and for a moment she forgets the rogues watching. The orchestra swells, the crowd swirls around them, and she realizes he's not as unpleasant as he tries to be.
Callahan, for his part, is fighting the urge to admit the same. She's too close, too warm, and the glamour's blonde hair brushes his cheek when she turns. She's smiling—not the knife-smile she usually wears, but something softer, meant for the ballroom. For one dangerous heartbeat, he thinks she's actually charming.
Then he remembers who she is. And shoves the thought down deep where it belongs.
The rogues are still watching, eyes bright in their borrowed faces. But one presence cuts through them all: the Shepherd. His frame slides effortlessly onto the dance floor, his grin elegant and predatory all at once. He steps straight into their orbit, movements confident, deliberate.
"May I?" he asks smoothly with voice rich as velvet and twice as suffocating. His eyes, sharp and wrong, fix on Clark.
The Shepherd is looking at her like she's his favourite kind of sin: blonde, young and—most deliciously—already spoken for.
He extends his hand to her, waiting.
Clark can feel the weight of the lesser rogues around them tightening, expectant.
Callahan feels it too. His hand at her waist tenses, grip steadying her as though daring her not to do something reckless. The comms are hissing now, Squad 2's peanut gallery barely containing themselves.
She tilts her chin upward and regards the Shepherd with the sort of polite disdain usually reserved for tax collectors. She doesn't take it.
Instead, she leans a little closer into Callahan, her hand tightening at his shoulder, her lips curving in something dangerously close to affection. "I'm afraid not," she says sweetly, the words sharp as glass under honey. "My husband and I are rather attached."
It's the first time she's called him that, and Callahan almost misses a step. Almost.
The Shepherd's smile doesn't falter. But his eyes flicker—sharp, calculating, narrowing with interest. Around them, the rogues shift, restless. The hook in Clark's mind pulls tighter, colder, as if the Shepherd is amused by her resistance. Testing her.
"You'll forgive me," he says smoothly, still holding out his hand. "But you remind me so much of someone. It would be a shame not to have at least one dance."
Clark smiles, all blonde hair and false sweetness. "I'm afraid I'm terribly loyal." She lets her fingers stroke over Callahan's shoulder as she says it, making sure the Shepherd sees.
In the tent, Squad 2 loses their collective minds.
Callahan's jaw works, tight. He forces himself to keep the rhythm, keep smiling, keep playing his part while his insides are burning with embarrassment and a strange, unwanted flicker of something else.
The Shepherd lowers his hand at last, but not in defeat. His grin spreads, like a man who enjoys a chase far more than the capture. "Loyal," he repeats, as if tasting the word. "How rare."
He steps back into the crowd, blending seamlessly among the glittering bodies, but Clark feels it—the hook still there, the pressure in her mind twisting. The Shepherd hasn't retreated. He's stalking.
Callahan exhales through his nose. "You're enjoying this."
"More than you."
"You just painted a target on your back."
"That was the point." She flicks a glance at him, the smile briefly genuine.
After a few conversations with their fake charities, Clark excuses herself with a sweet laugh, one that doesn't belong to her. The laugh of a woman bred for garden parties and gilded cages, not the reaper who once gutted a demon in a back alley of Hell. She slides her hand off Callahan's arm, leaving behind the faintest ghost of her perfume.
"If anyone asks," she purrs for the room, laying her fingers against Callahan's lapel, "I'll be powdering my nose."
Callahan almost rolls his eyes, but he plays along, lowering his head to brush her knuckles with his lips. "Don't keep me waiting too long, wife."
The squad outside is practically vibrating in their tent, their voices muffled but not enough to hide their delight.
"Angels above, Sir—was that a hand kiss?"
"Man deserves hazard pay."
A few chuckles crackle over the line, and Callahan's forehead crinkle in irritation as he trails after her at a careful distance. His men are no help—they're already treating this like a soap opera instead of a mission.
Clark doesn't look back. Her heels click down the corridor, past ornate gold mirrors and heavy velvet curtains, into the quieter wing of the manor where the music thins into a faint echo. Her hand brushes the carved doorframe of the powder room, but she doesn't step inside.
Instead, she lingers, eyes flicking toward the mirror. Waiting.
The Shepherd moves in silence, weaving behind guests who are far too wrapped in their own indulgences to notice. He watches every line of her back, every turn of her golden hair, the glint of her wedding ring catching the chandelier light. His grin widens. A loyal wife. His favourite game.
He appears then and moves to her. He's handsome enough to pass. Well defined features burnished by candlelight, a smile sharpened just so, a cut of suit that whispers money rather than shouts it. But there's something wrong with the way his eyes move. Too deliberate. Too careful. Like a predator letting its prey think they've wandered free.
"You left him so easily," he says, voice warm and low, carrying the weight of an invitation. "Your husband. I thought perhaps you were the sort who clings tighter."
Clark tilts her head, feigning surprise, feigning innocence. "You noticed?" Her lips curve, but her gaze is razor-edged.
"I notice wives. Especially the loyal ones." He steps closer, leaning his shoulder against the wall near her, close enough to breathe her in. "They try so hard to keep their vows, don't they? But a vow is just a rope waiting to fray. A woman like you... deserves something more than duty."
It's a line he's rehearsed before. A snare wrapped in velvet.
Clark lets her lashes lower, playing the part. Inside, every nerve is coiled tight—because she knows this man's pattern. He tempts, and when they bend, even an inch, he kills.
And he likes it.
In her ear, the comms fizzle faintly with Callahan's mutter: "Here it comes..."
The rogue leans in, his hand almost brushing hers where it rests against the wall. "Tell me, do you really love him? Or is it just a role you're tired of?"
Clark lets her shoulders slacken—an expert mimicry of weakness. She closes her eyes, as though the weight of the question is too much.
He moves to kiss her.
That's when she flips it.
"No." Her palm presses flat against his chest—firm enough to stop him, light enough to sting—and then she's gone, walking briskly back toward the ballroom without looking back.
He watches her, jaw tight. The more she resists, the more the want burns inside him. Perfect. She is perfect for ruin.
Clark slips back through the double doors and finds Callahan exactly where she left him, standing in the centre of the dance floor while the music shifts to a modern, upbeat rhythm. Everyone around him sways and spins—except him. He's a lone figure in the storm.
She slides a hand around his neck, pulling him down to her level, close enough to pass for lovers.
"Did the bait take?" Callahan whispers, his hand finding her waist as naturally as if it belonged there. His gaze flicks past her shoulder. The rogue has entered the ballroom; eyes locked on Clark like a wolf that's scented blood.
"Hook, line, and sinker," she murmurs against his ear. For a split second, she almost lets herself smile—until she realizes.
The music plays on, bright and sharp. But the guests have stopped dancing. They stand utterly still, staring at her.
Her chest tightens. "Callahan," she says low, "something's not right."
They break apart just as the rogue steps forward, smile widening.
"I wondered when the suits would intervene," he says, voice carrying unnaturally over the still room. "I've been expecting you. What I did not expect—" his gaze sweeps them both, hungry "—was for you to bring me both a meal and a skin to wear."
Clark's hand drops to her thigh, fingers brushing the hilt of her blade.
"I'm tired of this husk," the rogue continues, plucking at the lapel of his borrowed body with disdain. "I want something like you. Callahan, isn't it? Wives will offer themselves gladly with that face. And you, my blonde siren—" his teeth glint, sharp in the lamplight "—I can't wait to eat you."
In the tent outside, scanners scream to life, red dots flaring across the ballroom layout. The "guests" flicker crimson on the screens. Every single one.
A heartbeat later, the squad bursts through the doors—steel, silver, and black coats colliding with bodies. Human skins deform, as Type 2 rogues start to reveal themselves. The ballroom erupts into chaos.
Reapers stamp hilts against foreheads, forcing the rogues from their stolen shells. Screams drown beneath the swell of battle.
The Shepherd bolts. Clark and Callahan break pursuit, chasing him out into the courtyard.
They corner him under the pale wash of moonlight, blades drawn. "Give it up," Callahan snarls.
But the Shepherd only laughs.
Then his body contorts. His hands hook into his scalp. With one sickening pull, he tears himself open, ripping skin and skull from crown to sternum. Flesh splits, spilling wet sound into the night. A pale, glistening figure claws free, discarding the husk like soiled cloth.
Bald. Slit eyes sewn shut. The seams twitch, then rip open, oozing yellow gel that glistens across his raw, humanoid frame.
The Shepherd roars.
"That—" Callahan grimaces, "is disgusting."
Clark shoots him a glare but launches forward. They move in tandem, blades flashing. One stroke each, and the Shepherd's arms hit the ground.
Except the arms don't dissolve.
They wriggle. Muscles split, bones snapping outward. New torsos blossom from the severed flesh, wet and wrong.
"Callahan—" Clark spins, but he's already moving, blade tearing through the Shepherd's legs in a clean arc.
Both limbs drop.
"What?" he asks, almost bored.
"You shouldn't have done that," she snaps, pointing.
Because out of the severed parts, bodies are forming. Four. Five. Each one identical to the Shepherd.
The courtyard fills with their laughter, echoing off the stone like a choir of jackals.
It splinters into threes, maybe dozens, every time their blades meet its limbs. Callahan curses under his breath, boots grinding against the cobblestone as he cleaves one in half—only for two more to bloom out of the cut like weeds.
"They're multiplying," he growls, chest heaving. "It's like hacking at shadows."
Clark moves beside him, hair wild in the wind, black dress torn at the hem, reaper's blade shining faintly in the dim courtyard light. She's faster now. Her steps are quieter, sharper—Matthew's training laced through every motion. She anticipates Callahan's swing, slips past it, turns her strike not at where the Shepherd was but where it will be. For a moment it looks like they might overwhelm the tide.
But the tide doesn't end.
Soon the ground is crowded with glass-eyed, brittle-boned bodies that all breathe the same jagged hunger.
Callahan's voice tightens. "We can't cut our way through. This thing wants us to lose track, drown in copies."
Clark halts mid-swing, blade angled, chest rising quick. She knows he's right. It isn't about strength. It's about precision. About finding the one thread that holds the fabric together.
Her knuckles whiten on her blade. Think, Clark. Faster than rage. Faster than fear.
The Shepherds sway and gnash and grin, and all of them look the same. All but—
Her eyes sharpen. She remembers. The fragments of Milton the rogue stuffed inside each victim's mouth like tokens for the dead. Its obsession wasn't violence. It was words. Always the words. He believes in them.
Her lips move, low at first, then steadier:
"So shall the world go on,
To good malignant, to bad men benign,
Under her own weight groaning—"
Every Shepherd freezes. Every grin is identical. Except one. One tilts its head, lips pulling ever so slightly, as if savouring the passage.
Clark doesn't hesitate. She pounces forward, dress snapping at her legs, and drives her blade through its stomach, pinning it against the stone wall. The wail tears from its throat, ragged and wet, and the other Shepherds melt like wax in fire—dissolving into nothing.
Callahan stares, a hint of awe softening the iron edges of his face. She did it in one precise strike, no hesitation.
She twists the blade free, but her hands tremble as the Sight ignites behind her eyes, flooding her with the Shepherd's sins—its murders, its lies, its endless hunger. The fury claws at her ribs, demanding to be let loose.
She breathes sharp, once, twice. Then tempers it down, biting it back into the cage.
The rogue gurgles nonsense, twitching, throat rasping with words it can't form. Clark steps closer, drives her blade through its neck to silence it. She leaves the steel lodged there and turns to Callahan, eyes burning with violence she did not unleash.
"You wanna do the honour?"
Her voice is low, controlled, but he hears what it costs her to keep it steady.
Callahan steps forward. For a moment, they're close enough that her tremor brushes against him. He doesn't remark on it. He doesn't need to. Instead, he meets her gaze, nods once, and finishes the rogue cleanly.
--
Still in the living realm, the reapers decide to taste some of life.
The place is called The Last Drop Inn, which is either a terrible joke or a brilliant one, depending on how many times you've died. It doesn't look like much from the humans' perspective—brick sagging under ivy, a crooked lantern swinging in the breeze—but once Clark follows Callahan in, the room unfolds like some impossible trick of perspective: low-ceilinged and smoke-stained, yet endlessly deep, filled with the clamour of laughter, clinking glasses, and a piano that seems to be playing itself.
Everyone knows the owner. A Veil undercover operative that has almost gone native. Royce is behind the counter, sleeves rolled, grin sharp. He looks about Callahan's age, but something in his eyes makes you think he's been here since the first hangover and will still be here when the world dries out. He nods once at Callahan and pretends to not see Clark.
Squad 2 has already claimed a cluster of tables near the back, raising glasses, half-buzzed already on ectoplasmic fumes. When Callahan pulls out a chair for her (with all the ceremony of a man about to seat a bomb), the mood in the room stirs. A few elbows jab ribs. A few not-so-quiet whistles. Clark's blonde disguise still clings to her like perfume, and it seems the vice-captain sitting across from her is enough to keep the rest of them at bay.
"I can't stay long," she warns, smoothing her skirt as she sits. "I'm having drinks with Anya."
Callahan smirks. "Already planning your escape? We haven't even started." He taps his comm. "I'll call her. She can join us."
The server drops two bourbons on their table. Clark eyes hers like it's a dead insect in amber. "This won't do anything to me."
Callahan just raises a hand. Royce glances over from the bar, reads the signal like a gambler sizing up a bet, and comes over with a black bottle that looks like it was bottled in the dark, for the dark. No label, no words, just trouble. He pours. The liquid isn't brown, but silver, almost alive.
"Who's the new girl?" Royce asks, nodding to her.
"Ghost Crimes," Callahan replies. "That's Clark."
Royce's lips twitch. "Oh. That Clark." He pours her glass and slides it forward. "Didn't know you were blonde."
Clark arches a brow. "Why, what did you hear?"
"Not blonde," Royce says with a smile that refuses to explain itself, then flicks a look at Callahan.
"Not what you think," Callahan says quickly, taking a sip.
"Better not," Royce says, and leaves them with their bottle.
Clark swirls her glass. "What was that about?"
"Nothing." Callahan answers.
"Didn't seem like nothing."
He pours himself another. "You're the captain's rookie which means—"
"What?" Clark looks at him expectant.
"Means—I can't get you drunk." He covers the lie with another sip.
They don't call her that, not where she can hear. But Clark catches it anyway in the half-smiles, the exchanged glances, the way conversations shift when she steps close. As if some invisible mark hangs over her, warning them off.
She takes a cautious sip. It burns like frost, like memory. "This tastes a lot better than the one I had at Clarence's."
Callahan nearly chokes. "You had a drink with the captain? At his house?"
Clark blinks at his sudden spike of hostility. "What, you don't?"
"We're not exactly—" He glares at his glass. "He doesn't even drink much. Has the tolerance of a squirrel."
She remembers Clarence carefully pacing himself that night, sipping like each mouthful was a negotiation. Maybe that was why.
"He never goes to this after party drinks, not even once?"
"Not really." He quietly says before taking a sip. "But just because we're dead, doesn't mean we don't know how to live." He clinks his glass to hers.
"Yeah, he's no fun." Clark says now starting to eat the free peanuts on the table.
"He's not." Callahan agrees, "But there's no one fitting to be captain of the Elite Squad. He's got the right temperament for it and he's the only one who can make unruly reapers to listen. I mean, just look at you."
"You sound like you like him a lot." Clark says, watching him.
Callahan shrugs. "I respect him, if that's what you mean." He pops a snack into his mouth. Then, as if the words slip out before he can stop them: "How about you? Do you like him?"
She pauses, mid-sip. "I respect him... sort of."
Callahan tries not to grin, fails. "You're funny."
"Really? Thought you hated me."
"I don't—hate you," he says slowly. "There's just this thing about you that irks me. Can't explain it."
"Maybe we had history," she jokes.
"Oh, God. No!" he blurts, and she laughs so loud the nearby squad table goes silent, heads turning. For two people sworn to mutual dislike, Clark and Callahan look dangerously like they're enjoying themselves.
Callahan leans in, lowering his voice. "Go easy on him."
"Clarence?"
"He's a good man. I know you've got... feelings about him being an ex-sinner. And as an ex-scourge, I hear you're bound to despise him."
Clark goes quiet. The silver liquor shimmers in her glass.
"You know what he did?" she asks at last.
"No." Callahan's gaze is on the table. "Whatever it was, there must've been a reason. A terrible one."
Before she can push further, the tent of tension collapses—because cheers erupt near the door. Anya's just arrived, glowing like she belongs here, and the whole squad lights up to see her again.
"Oh great," Callahan mutters. "The prodigal returns."
Anya grins, weaving through the tables until she spots Clark. "We have a date," she announces, sliding in beside Callahan with mock authority.
"Right. All yours." Callahan drains his glass, gets to his feet, and slips out, leaving Clark with a slight tap on her shoulder.
Anya watches him go, then turns back with a conspiratorial gleam. "So... what were you two talking about?"
Clark takes a sip of her silver drink, eyes unreadable. "Sins."
--
Clark's blonde glamour lingers, refusing to fade for another half hour. She steps up to her house and freezes. Clarence is sitting on the steps, long coat draped casually, no tie, looking impossibly relaxed, a silver flask cradled in one hand.
"We need to stop meeting like this," she says.
He looks up, finally noticing her. "You're blonde."
Clark perches beside him on the steps. "You like it?"
He lifts the flask, takes a slow sip. Clark smells it—distilled ectoplasm, no doubt. His face is faintly flushed, half from the alcohol, half from whatever memory-call haze Callahan had warned her about: the captain's famously low tolerance.
"I don't like blondes," he mutters, not meeting her eyes.
Clark snickers, a soft, teasing sound. "You know, if you're going to drink here by yourself, you should've come down to the bar. The squad had drinks."
He shrugs, eyes distant. "If Callahan asks you to join, it means you did well."
She tips her head, letting that sink in. A quiet acknowledgment. No grand declarations. Just the half-smile of someone who's been tested—and passed.
She reaches for the flask and takes a sip. "Then I guess I did."
For a long moment, they sit in companionable silence, the night stretching around them as they share a flask.
After a while, Clarence reaches for her, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "That's better."
Clark blinks. The blonde glamour has vanished; her hair falls in its familiar black waves. She studies him for a moment, surprised at how natural it feels to see him looking at her like that—like he's holding a piece of her steady, even after everything.
"Gimme that," she says, reaching for the flask.
Clarence smiles, shaking his head. He's been smiling ever since she sat down, a slow, easy curve that softens the sharp lines of his face.
"You're smiling a lot. That's when I know you're drunk," she teases, and he doesn't even flinch, just lets the corner of his mouth twitch in quiet amusement.
She snatches the flask anyway, tilts it back, and drains it. Her throat burns with the familiar silver tang of ectoplasm, and for a moment she savours it—not the taste, but the rare quiet between them.
"You look good, though... when you smile, I mean," she adds, setting the flask down.
Clarence runs a hand through his hair, a gesture she's seen a hundred times but somehow it looks different now—looser, defeated, almost vulnerable. "You finished my stash."
"I don't want to drag you when you pass out."
"I'm not gonna pass out," he mutters, but the tension in his hand against his face betrays him.
"You're five seconds away from hitting the pavement," Clark says.
Then he laughs, deep and almost tender. And it's the kind of laugh that feels like a secret shared only with her. He leans his forehead down to rest on the top of her shoulder, eyes closed. She feels the warmth of him, and she doesn't move. Doesn't say a word.
She lets him stay there, resting whatever fatigue is wearing him down. Then she reaches up, her palm finding the curve of his cheek.
Clarence savours the touch—it almost feels wrong. He feels her fingers slipping to his lips and catches her wrist to stop her.
His eyes open and he sits upright. "I should go."
A smirk plays at her lips despite the ache of missing the closeness. "Can you walk?" she teases lightly seeing him almost stumble.
"No." He lets a soft smile paints his mouth. "But I can fly."
Before she can respond, he disappears into the night, leaving only the whisper of his coat in the breeze.
Clark exhales, fingers curling around the flask still in her hand. She sets it on the step beside her, staring at it, at the faint silver sheen catching the lamplight.
"He keeps leaving his things here," she murmurs, and even in the quiet she almost wants him to come back—though neither of them would ever admit that.