The thing about the afterlife is that it should run like a well-oiled machine. Souls die, reapers collect them, and everything goes where it's supposed to. Simple, efficient, no unnecessary complications.

  Which is why, when rogue souls start slipping past the system, possessing humans, and generally making a mess of things, it tends to make the people in charge very grumpy. Or, in the case of the Chief of the Veil, deeply and unsettlingly amused.

  And so, an emergency meeting is called.

  It is a grand affair—if by grand one means a room full of powerful reapers all trying to pretend they aren't one bad report away from completely losing it. The Chief presides over the long, grim table like some benevolent deity of bureaucracy. On one side are the Senior Reapers, lead by Matthew, Head Reaper of Soul Management. The man responsible for making sure every soul is filed, sorted, and not actively breaking out of the afterlife to commit crimes. Opposite them are the Vice Captains of the Elite Squad, and in the middle of that line up is Clarence, the Captain. The one tasked with cleaning up the mess when Soul Management falls a bit short.

  The Chief sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose like someone who once believed in order but has since accepted that the universe delights in making her suffer. "Six last week?"

  "That is accurate, yes," Matthew replies, barely looking up from the report in his hands. His voice is smooth, effortless, like he's commenting on the weather rather than the troubling number of souls that have vanished under his watch.

  "And remind me, how exactly did you manage to lose six souls?"

  Matthew turns a page with agonizing leisure, the movement slow and deliberate, designed to test a man's patience. "No logical explanation, Chief. We lost them mid-transport. The guides arrive at the Veil, and the souls are just...not where they are supposed to be."

  Clarence, draped in his chair like a prince surveying a lesser kingdom, lifts a brow. "Did you tell them to hold tight?"

  One of the vice captains made an unfortunate choking noise. Another found the ceiling suddenly fascinating. The rest sit still, unwilling to become collateral damage.

  Matthew doesn't even glance up. "Don't start."

  Clarence steeples his fingers, the very image of judgment. "Six in just the last week, ten before that. You can't call this an accident anymore. At this point, your department must enjoy the paperwork that comes with explaining how you misplaced souls every week."

  Matthew lets out a low, impressed whistle. "That was almost a joke."

  Clarence doesn't blink. "It wasn't."

  Matthew finally looks up, sharp-eyed. "Alright then, why don't you tell us how many of these rogues your team actually retrieved, Captain?" He turns a page and hums in mock consideration. "Ah, here we go—three. Out of... twenty-four." He smiles in pure provocation.

  The senior reapers collectively tense. Some grip their chairs like lifelines. Others subtly glance toward the door, calculating escape routes.

  Clarence's gaze darkens, heat shifting from amusement to something more dangerous. "The trace on them disappears once they hit transport. Makes it almost impossible to track them—unless they manifest as a Type 2."

  Matthew tilts his head. "So what I'm hearing is, the great Elite Squad—the gold standard of efficiency—needs a tracking device to be competent?"

  "We are efficient," Clarence snaps.

  Matthew grins. "Your numbers say otherwise."

  "My team is swamped. Maybe if you give me some of your reapers, we could work something out."

  The senior reapers go utterly still. Some begin praying. Others attempt to sink into their seats like furniture has suddenly gained sentience. Because no one, no matter how ambitious, wants to be assigned under him. Yes, he's devastatingly attractive, but also terrifying.

  Matthew, seeing his team's barely concealed horror, speaks in gritted teeth. "I did give you three last week, and you sent them to therapy!"

  Clarence shrugs. "Then stop sending interns."

  The vice captains—loyal though they are—visibly struggle to contain their amusement. Because they all know exactly what happened to those poor reapers.

  "They were veterans." Matthew says.

  Clarence just shrugs and continue to mock, "Were they?"

  "Enough," the Chief says, rubbing her temples. "As much as I love watching this bizarre mating ritual—"

  "We are not—"

  "—flirting?" the Chief interrupts smoothly, eyebrow arching.

  "We're not," they say in perfect unison.

  "Sure," she replies, with the tone of someone who absolutely does not believe them.

  After an unnecessarily long discussion (which involves one reaper making a very enthusiastic PowerPoint presentation on The Sudden Rise of Type 2 Possessions: A Statistical Analysis), the Chief finally gets to her point.

  "I understand the Elite Squad is being stretched thin already, handling sinners and retrieving the lost ones at the same time," she says. "I'm creating a new sub-department. Special investigations. Rogue soul containment. Ghost crimes, if you will."

  Matthew lets out a low whistle. "Big move."

  Clarence frowns. "And who, exactly, is going to run this department?"

  "It is a pilot team, under the Elite Squad, so Captain, it will still be yours."

  Clarence fights the urge to groan, his expression barely shifting.

  "It will have it's own dedicated budget, and it comes with new reapers of skill, experience—"

  "And questionable morals?" Matthew adds.

  The Chief smiles. "Possibly."

  The meeting adjourns, and Clarence has barely stepped out the door before the Chief pulls him aside and shoves a folder into his hands.

  "Here's the list of candidates."

  Clarence flips it open. Most of the names are fairly standard. Then he sees it—one name, underlined, bolded, glitters and all, practically screaming for attention.

  He frowns. "You're not even pretending to give me a choice, are you?"

  The Chief smiles in a way that suggests she finds his suffering deeply amusing. "I found your second in command. Train her. In no time, she will take over this trial team."

  "I'm not hiring someone just because you say so."

  "Then vet her," she says simply. "She's stationed in Hell, which means she's already tougher than all your vice captains. I'm sure she's perfect."

  Clarence stares at the name again. He knows it. Everyone does. A saint—one of the rare few given the chance for a grand reincarnation who refused. She chose Hell instead.

  "How do you even know she's not a demon by now? She's been down there seven years—torturing sinners."

  The Chief shrugs. "Sounds like she can make the rogue souls obedient and follow the rules of the Veil."

  Clarence turns on his heel. No. Absolutely not. He is not going back to Hell to fetch some ex-saint-turned-torturer. Not because she isn't qualified—he just doesn't trust anyone who has willingly walked into the fiery pit and decided to stay.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  But then, just as he reaches the door, the Chief speaks again.

  "Clarence," she says, her voice unusually soft. "Go and see her. I don't want you to regret anything."

  That gives him pause.

  He doesn't know what she means by that. He doesn't particularly want to know. But he lets out a sigh, grabs the necessary clearance, and prepares to take a trip to the one place he never wants to go.

  Hell.

  —

  Clarence, who has spent centuries successfully avoiding Hell (a commendable achievement, really, considering how easy it is to get dragged into infernal business if you so much as glance in the wrong direction), is now being personally escorted into the underworld.

  As he descends into Hell, trailing behind his guide—a demon with a bit too much of a smile on his face for Clarence's taste—he tries not to think about his time here. But it doesn't work.

  Yes, he is a former resident of the estate—a sinner.

  And since he is no longer one of the damned, they do not go down by the usual flight of steps. Instead, they float.

  Clarence feels the weightlessness beneath him, as if the ground is unwilling to acknowledge their presence at all. His invisible wings—granted to reapers, or so they'd told him—extend just enough to keep him afloat. The demon's nonexistent wings, on the other hand, seem to have no problem holding him aloft as he glides ahead, grinning from ear to ear.

  "You cannot imagine the disgust on everyone's face when I told them I'd be escorting the traitor," he says. "The one who decided to run away with the suits instead of serving here after we had been so good to you."

  His past claws at his mind, a tight, suffocating coil of shame that he cannot shake. He has burned here once, and no amount of freshly pressed reaper clothes can change that.

  "And they say you are about to poach the golden rookie. Ha! If it weren't for that damnable clearance in your hand, demons would be flaying you by lunchtime because Red, the one you want, is a household favorite."

  They descend deeper into circles Clarence has not seen before. It looks like Hell has expanded.

  Which, if you ask me, is a bit much. I mean, wasn't the original blueprint enough? But no, humans—bless their rotten little hearts—keep outdoing themselves.

  "Ah, you wouldn't believe how disgustingly creative humans can be," he said with mock enthusiasm. "Every century, they invent a new sin. I don't even have to give them any credit for it anymore. They've got a circle for everything now. Things I didn't even think were possible." The demon grinned wickedly. "No offense, Clarence, but if you came down here now, you'd be an amateur compared to some of the stuff those humans have cooked up."

  "Do you ever stop talking?" Clarence asks trying to hide the discomfort in his voice as they pass by yet another newly constructed circle.

  The demon grins and keep on babbling about the architecture of Hell and its unholy inventory of fresh tortures.

  They are very deep now, and Clarence is beginning to feel impatient, but then they come to a stop.

  And then he sees her.

  Hell's prized torturer.

  Red.

  Now, there are many terrifying things in the universe. Old Testament angels. Bureaucracy. Whatever that thing was that crawled out of the Thames in the 1800s and still hasn't been properly identified.

  But her?

  Oh, she's something else entirely.

  Clarence's eyes narrow as they land on her, standing in a pool of blood, deep crimson dripping off her skin like a sickly sweet perfume. She wears nothing but a red leather apron, a few straps of barely-there clothing underneath, and the visible red thread—that gives her her namesake—is tied fashionably into her hair.

  In one hand, she holds a cleaver—crude, barbaric, definitely violates the health code, and belongs in a butcher's shop from a forgotten century.

  Her head—someone else's head—dangles from the other hand. A scream still frozen on its face. It is brutal and obscene.

  Clarence takes it all in with a single, overwhelming breath. But there is something else—something more—he cannot quite place.

  She moves with a languid confidence, holding the severed head like an accessory, a sickening trophy. Blood drips from her fingers, staining the ground beneath her. And then, her eyes find his.

  Clarence freezes.

  She is smiling now, wide and knowing, as if she has been waiting for this moment. But that isn't what catches him. It's the look in her eyes—familiar. It cannot be.

  Something stirs in his mind, like a memory trying to break through the cracks.

  No. Impossible.

  He has to be mistaken. She cannot look like her—but she does.

  His throat tightens. His chest constricts. Thoughts spiral out of control, and he cannot stop himself from staring. His mind struggles to catch up, reaching for something that has been locked away for too long.

  "Do you... do you know her?" the demon beside him asks, his voice carrying an almost gleeful edge, like he is privy to some private joke.

  Clarence doesn't respond. He grips the paper in his hand and forces himself to read the name again on the file: Clark Cornelia Parker. But she doesn't look like the former saint.

  "He knows me," she says sweetly, dangerously—like the sound of a forgotten melody played too softly. She tipped her head to the side, studying him with an air of amusement that chills him more than any torture could. "Or maybe not...I was wearing a different face when we first met."

  "Ah, you mean the saintly one?" the demon interrupts. "No one barely remembers that. But this new face," he nods toward her, "absolute crowd pleaser. You know, built for sin."

  She turns to the demon and smirks. "I need you to shut up."

  And then—just as abruptly as the nightmare begins—snap.

  The blood vanishes.

  The carnage is gone.

  They are no longer in a pit of suffering but in a white room, sleek, sterile, corporate office. Like Hell has an HR department now.

  And Red? Oh, she looks different. Clean. Polished. Dressed in a suit that is both too professional and entirely too indecent for actual professionalism.

  Inside the room, a square table and two chairs sit facing each other. Clarence remains standing, keeping his distance from her like she is the plague.

  Red—Clark—lifts her lips into a wicked smile, her eyes glinting with knowing mischief. In the suffocating stillness of the room, she steps closer, tilting her head.

  "You look confused," she says, her voice lilting. "Don't worry, I understand." She pauses, as if she can hear his thoughts. "Before I went down to Hell, they let me keep one of my saintly privileges—I can choose any face from one of my older lives." She points to her cheek. "I took the prettiest one."

  Clarence swallows. His heartbeat thuds in his ears as the realization creeps in.

  The woman in front of him is indeed Clark. A saint who crossed over, forsaking the purity she once held for something darker, more powerful.

  She leans in toward him, so close, almost too close, making his skin crawl in ways he cannot quite articulate. Then, involuntarily, she runs a hand over her smooth, blood-free face. The transformation from a butchered mess of gore to this—this immaculate creature—is almost too seamless.

  "You have something for me, I believe." She reaches for the folder, but Clarence snatches it back.

  "Sit down, Clark," he says, finally regaining composure.

  Clark drags the other chair and sits across from him, propping her elbows on the table. She eyes him like he is fresh meat she is about to mutilate.

  "The Veil is considering you for a position in a sub-department of the Elite Squad," he states. "A pilot team, which will be led by me. The job is to investigate and capture rogue souls committing crimes by possessing humans."

  "Oh, good," she purrs. "I was getting bored down here. And, you know, I do love a good exorcism. Ripping souls out of people? So satisfying. Very therapeutic."

  Clarence gives her a look that could curdle milk. "You're not ripping anyone out of anything, Clark."

  She pouts, an expression that might be convincing if he hadn't already read her file and known, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she is fundamentally incapable of remorse.

  "Not even just one? A tiny little soul? A low-level one that nobody even likes?"

  "No."

  "Oh, come on." She sighs dramatically. "I've been stuck in Hell for seven years, Clarence. Do you know how boring it gets down here? Do you know what I did to pass the time?

  "I have a very good idea," he mutters.

  "I got creative." Her eyes gleam. "You know, once I figured out the rules, Hell was actually a lot of fun."

  There it is. The thing that unsettles him. The thing that makes his stomach twist in a way he refuses to acknowledge. That cold nothing in her eyes that was once an untouchable light in the dark, now something else entirely.

  She has changed. Not just in the way one might expect after spending seven years in Hell—because honestly, most souls don't change at all down there. They just...solidify. Become more of whatever they already are.

  But Clark? She is rewritten.

  And the worst part? He is not sure if it has been Hell's doing... or her own choice.

  "You are going to work under me," he says, voice steady, unaffected. "Which means you follow my rules."

  Her brows lift. "Oh? And what exactly do your rules entail?"

  "No killing, no unauthorized torment, no creative interpretations of divine law—"

  "Alright, alright." She waves a dismissive hand. "But one little punishment here and there? Just to keep things interesting?"

  "No."

  "Half a soul?"

  "Clark."

  She sighs. "Fine. Zero souls. Happy?"

  Not even slightly.

  She leans across the table, voice dipping lower, silkier. "You're really no fun, you know that?"

  He does not dignify it with a reaction. Does not let himself acknowledge the way the air between them feels heavier now, charged with something unreadable.

  Instead, he holds her gaze and says evenly, "You step out of line, and you won't be able to get back in."

  For a flicker of a second, something crosses her expression. A shadow of something old. Something almost familiar.

  And then—just as quickly—it's gone.

  She pauses, eyes locking with his. The amusement is still there, but with an edge—an undertone that makes the words sting more than he expects. "You know," she whispers, "this is the longest anyone's lasted trying to tame me. I think I'm starting to like you."

  Clarence doesn't yield.

  "I'll say it again. If you are in my team, behave," he warns, voice low. "Or we send you back to Hell."

  Clark surveys him, calculating. Then, with a soft sigh, she crosses her arms, lips curling into a grin.

  "Fine," she says with a snap of her fingers. "I'll behave. For now."

  Clarence doesn't believe her for a second. But he nods.

  "So." She says, "Let's talk terms."