You'd think that someone as well-decorated as Clark—the kind of torturer who's earned every wrinkle on her soul by making Hell look like a luxury resort—would have a few demands when asked to leave her cozy little corner of perdition and clean up someone else's disaster.

  Gold bars? Naturally.

  Unlimited reaper credits? Absolutely.

  A private island, perhaps, just to watch the world burn in style? Oh, the possibilities.

  But no. My darling bestie doesn't go for any of that. Instead, she happily accepts three months of probation, doesn't care a lick about dental packages, and the only thing she asks for is a meeting with the Chief of the Veil. One meeting. Not even a plush office chair or fancy lunch. Pfft.

  Now, Clarence—oh, sweet, suspicious Clarence—tries to say no to this absurdity. But, well, we all know he's the type who holds back, like a dog on a leash. So, there he is, back in the Veil, contract in hand, ready for a final stamp of approval.

  Except—surprise, surprise—when he arrives, he expects the Chief, but what does he find instead?

  Me.

  Oh, the look on his face is absolutely priceless. He manages a quick bow—clearly trying to play it cool, though there's that little twitch in his eye that screams, "I was not expecting this." Adorable, really.

  "Where is the Chief?" he asks.

  I can't help myself. I grin. "Unavailable. Off doing some 'official Veil business.' Probably too afraid of the retaliation from you, so she made herself, you know, scarce."

  Clarence doesn't hide his frustration as he clutches the contract like it's his lifeline. "I need her to sign—"

  "Newbie's employment contract? Hand it over, pretty boy. She lets me borrow her stamp. I'll sign it for you."

  Reluctantly, and I do mean reluctantly, Clarence lays the paper down on the table. I glance at it—everything's in perfect order, i's dotted, t's crossed, and all the little seals looking celestially official.

  I take the moment to enjoy the silence, before breaking him. "She's pretty, isn't she?"

  A remark that tenses up all the reaper muscles in his body. It is so subtle that one who does not have my keen eye of scrutiny could have missed.

  He straightens up, face a little too perfect, and says, "I did not notice."

  I smirk. "With the way you practically ran to this office, I almost thought you were planning to file a complaint."

  "Can I file a complaint?"

  I raise a finger to my lips, feigning deep thought. "No."

  I keep my eyes on him longer while I hit the button for Clarissa. "Tell Reaper Resources the contract's signed. I want the face of our new recruit in the newsletter by midnight."

  Unfortunately, he does not give me more reaction to make fun off. He just bows his head, but I know he's not done with me yet.

  As he turns to leave, I can't resist. "Oh, Cla...rence..." I sing his name like it's a favorite tune, and he stops.

  "Did you really think that when they pulled you out of Perdition, that would be the end of your suffering?"

  He looks back and the shock on his face is priceless. Utterly priceless.

  "Welcome to your new Hell," I say, before I disappear, leaving him to stew over just how deep his suffering is about to go.

  —

  Clarence has dealt with all manner of creatures in his long, long existence: angels, demons, lesser gods, eldritch horrors that slipped through the cracks of reality when no one was looking. But Clark? Clark is different.

  Because Clark was once human.

  And in Clarence's experience, nothing is more dangerous than a human who decided that morality is just another set of chains to be broken.

  He half-expected her to be late because she is a wildcard in a system that prided itself on order. But when time on his watch hits the mark, the shimmering light of the Veil splits open, and she steps through, just in time.

  But Clarence does not pop the champagne yet, she maybe punctual but Reaper Resources is about to send a memo after they see her.

  She has a black suit on, one that doesn't look company-issued at all. In fact, it appears custom-made for her with a neckline as deep as the pit from whence she came. The skirt is a tight, rich black, hugging her hips in a way that is far too revealing for any professional environment. Her knee-high leather boots gleam, the heels clicking as she strides toward him with unflinching confidence. And this full dark attire makes the red thread tied in her hair pops out, it is almost glowing.

  Clarence feels his eyebrow twitch. The first thought that comes to mind is, What is this, some kind of joke?

  The other Reapers in the Veil are usually practical in their attire—suits, simple uniforms. But Clark? She is walking right into his already-irrational irritation with a flair for the absurd.

  "You are not wearing that." Clarence says, unable to mask his disdain.

  Clark glances down at her outfit, angles her head with a shrug. "It's Givenchy, you do not get to judged."

  But he already is, judging. The skirt is barely long enough to be considered proper, and the suit doesn't leave much to the imagination. Their assignment requires them to occasionally appear before humans and blend in. For someone who is supposed to be unnoticeable, Clark is doing everything wrong.

  "It's negative four outside in the mortal realm and you're wearing that?"

  She takes a step closer, the tapping sound of her heels aggravating the tension between them. Clarence can feel her eyes on him—sharp, knowing, as if she is weighing him with her gaze. She is always so damn confident, even in the face of criticism. And despite himself, Clarence can't help but notice that she looks quite dangerously pleasant.

  "Try spending seven years in Hell, Clarence," she says voice sultry, almost mockingly sweet. "Even this winter can still make you sweat."

  Clarence huffs, his jaw tight. Hell, of all places. He knows she isn't exaggerating, a day in there is already a lifetime and she was there for years. But the imagery still sets him off. The way she stands there, so unapologetic, so unaffected by the elements outside, only makes him more frustrated. And as much as he hates it, he feels a weird, tight feeling coil in his chest—something that is far too close to something complicated.

  "Fine," he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm letting this go for now." He pulls out something from his breast pocket, "Your employee ID, I don't care how you put it on just wear it at all times, it will give you access to the Veil and its resources."

  Clark beams at him. Actually beam, as if he just handed her a shiny new murder weapon and not a highly regulated, divinely sanctioned position of power.

  "I'll even wear it in the shower." she purrs.

  Clarence ignores that. He is very good at ignoring things.

  Then, he snaps his fingers and a stack of papers appear. He pushes the pile to her and watches as her expression shifts from amusement to mild horror.

  "What," she says, turning the stack over like she expects it to be laced with poison, "is this?"

  "Your onboarding paperwork." Clarence's voice is as dry as parchment. "You're an official Reaper now. That means protocols. Documentation. Compliance agreements. A handbook, which I highly recommend you actually read."

  Clark lets out an exaggerated sigh, flipping lazily through the pages. "I thought the job comes with a scythe and a dramatic cloak, not homework."

  "We don't use scythes, we use Reaper Blades that you get after the paperwork," Clarence deadpans. "If you don't fill this out, I'll have to process it for you, and I promise, Clark, you do not want to owe me a favor."

  She perks up at that, eyes glinting with mischief. "Ooooh. A favor? That could be fun."

  Clarence does not respond, for the sake of his own sanity.

  Instead, he leads her through the main hall, then to the left wing occupied by the Elite Squad. The doors open and the reapers bow once they see the face of their Captain. And when they see Clark, it is a bad cocktail of jealousy, disdain and suspicion.

  The female squad members already start writing her name in the Burn Book, because they've been trying to get the Captain's attention for who knows, centuries maybe, but this newbie from hell is getting side eyes from him on her first day. The vice captains, on the other hand are sizing her up with deathly stares, because she is now named as Clarence's second-in-command. And then there are the others who are just so awestruck by the fact that she is a former saint, who survived hell, and she looks like a freaking celebrity.

  Clarence goes into one of the meeting rooms and before Clark follows him, she drops all her paperwork to one random table like throwing trash.

  The captain sits on the far end away from the door and Clarks sits across him.

  "Captain." A perky female appears inside and bows her head in respect, "I'm Anya, from Squad 2, thank you for selecting me, Sir." she bows again.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  "I'm the one who should thank you for joining us. Your vice captain, Callahan, does not want to let you go, I'm glad you convinced him." he does not smile but he gives her a look close to admiration.

  Anya flashes him a mischievous smile. "Blackmailed, really," she admits cheerfully. "But seriously, Sir! It's a dream to work with you. Truly an honor."

  Clark snorts, unable to resist teasing. "Got a crush on him or something?"

  Anya shot her a mock glare. "What? No—no! That's not... ethically allowed," she sputters, then looks directly at Clarence. "Not that I'm saying you're not attractive, Sir. You are! Like, a solid ten!"

  "I'll tell you two to get a room, but I like to watch."

  Matthew, the Head Reaper, strolls in. Anya, sees him and immediately drops into another respectful bow.

  And then another reaper appears, "Good morning, Captain." he bows and hands Clarence some folders, "I made copies for the case today, that's from the Soul Management database of rogue souls." He turns and waves at Clark.

  Clark studies his face and remembers, that's right, he is one of the reapers who collected her soul, seven years ago.

  "Brownie, right?" she says.

  Billy immediately sits to the chair next to her, "It's Billy, but you can call me anything you like." he says, "You're even prettier than your photo in the newsletter." He takes one card from his pocket, "call me anytime you need anything."

  Matthew takes the seat on her other side. Clarence glares at him as he did so, uninvited and clearly more than comfortable. But Matthew does not care, he gave Clarence a quick, dismissive glance before his attention returns to Clark.

  Matthew rarely follows protocol. He has no business being here, especially not at a briefing on an Elite Squad case. And Billy—Billy is just too damn friendly with everyone.

  "Don't you have a realm to manage?" Clarence says sharply, giving him a pointed look. Matthew shrugs and leans back in his seat, eyes locked on Clark.

  "Just here to see how the Elite Squad operates," Matthew grins at Clark, "and the new recruit."

  Clark's eyebrow flicks up, her smirk widening at his clear interest. "Aren't you charming? How kind of you to join us, Matthew."

  The Head Reaper's grin becomes fuller, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well, I couldn't let this briefing go by without seeing for myself who's causing such a stir. I have to admit, I hardly recognized you." He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, but his eyes remain locked on her. "I think breaking your halo is not so bad, sin looks good on you."

  Clarence shots them both a sharp glare. He can see where this is going. It's not just the job Matthew is interested in; it is her. And he isn't about to let Matthew get too comfortable.

  "Anya, please pull up the slides, before Casanova here makes me regret my breakfast." Clarence orders.

  A profile flashes up on the screen, showing his rogue status. The face of a man, mid-forties, with dark, messy hair and a weathered face.

  "Our first case." Anya said, her voice low and steady. "His name is Travis Carver—died last month and escaped mid-transport. Former Investigation team detected his activities last week when he appeared as a Type 2. He is currently inhabiting a twenty-year-old male, Alexander Chekov—rich, good-looking, and using his body to lure women to their deaths and consume their souls."

  Anya presses a button, and a series of crime scene photos filled the screen. Each victim was young, attractive, strangled and brutally stabbed.

  Clark's eyes scan over the photos, her non-existent heart rate slowing as she takes in the familiar pattern. All the women have the same stamp on their right wrist.

  "What's the name of the bar?"

  Clarence gives her a side eye, she's quick, he says to himself.

  "Cloud Luna." Anya flashes another photo of an expensive looking club. "I advise you try to get in the old fashion way, using your wings might spook him if he detects there's a reaper on ground."

  The old fashion way, Clark is amused. "Good thing I'm dressed for the party."

  —

  Clark and Clarence stand outside Cloud Luna—a hotspot for the rich and beautiful. There is a line of well-dressed men and women, all waiting to get in.

  "You will shadow me today," Clarence starts, "Don't—"

  Clark walks to the front, her heels clicking on the pavement with every confident step before he can even finish.

  He follows her already irritated. The visible line of humans glaring at them because they are about to cut in is making Clarence uncomfortable.

  But Clark, does not care. She proceeds to approach the bouncer, a huge guy who look like he can lift a car with one hand. Smiles up at him, her body language effortlessly seductive. She takes off her jacket, letting it fall to the floor and revealing a top that is closer to a lingerie than actual clothing.

  The bouncer looks her over, his jaw tightening slightly, his eyes tracing her curves and her pale smooth skin. Without a word, he lifts the rope, stamps her wrist and lets her pass. Clark tosses a glance over her shoulder at Clarence, pointing a finger at him. "He's with me."

  "Clark, you need to tell me where you shop." Anya blurts in the earpiece.

  "Anya, don't encourage her." Clarence interrupts.

  "Sorry, Sir."

  The bouncer glares at him seeing him talk to himself before stepping aside. Clarence follows Clark in, unsure if he should be impressed or annoyed.

  Inside, the club is alive with music, flashing lights, and the chatter of wealthy patrons. Clark scans the floor, purposely bumps into a blonde and took something inside her bag before looking back for Clarence.

  "Let's split up." Clark says.

  "No."

  "Come on. I'm the bait. You're back up. Deal with it." Clark takes out what she lifted from the blonde, it is a bright red lipstick and puts it on with such ease.

  She's thorough, Clarence says in his head. He has noticed that detail as well in the photos, the victims all wear that bright red color. Which means the rogue has a type and Clark has figured it out.

  

  

  Before he can protest, Clark is already by the bar. A man who looked exactly like the rogue soul in the photos appear, sliding onto the stool next to her. He is tall, with dark hair and a dangerous glint in his eyes. He smiles at her, his flirtation obvious.

  "That's a good color on you," he says smoothly, his voice rich with charm. "Makes me want to take it off your lips."

  Clark grins, "Buy me a drink first, maybe I'll let you."

  "Damn...She's good." Anya comments on the earpiece.

  The man laughs leaning in closer. "Sure, what's your poison?"

  "Manhattan."

  "Perfect, like you." He signals the bartender for the drink.

  "I know." Clark stretches her hand mildly brushing a finger to his wrist.

  Clarence, watches the flirtation in the distance with discomfort. He can see the way Clark handles herself—she is playing him, manipulating the situation, luring the rogue soul right into her trap.

  And minutes after Clark finishes her drink, the man leans in again, his voice lowering. "Want to get out of here? I can make another Manhattan for you in my suite."

  Clark grins, a knowing look in her eyes. "Sure. Lead the way."

  The two of them slips out into the back of the club, and as they pass through the darkened hallway, the man suddenly pins her to the wall, his hands tight around her throat. He begins to strangle her, and the crowd outside remains oblivious.

  But Clark smirks, unperturbed. "I don't even let a guy strangle me not until second date...and you didn't even buy me dinner."

  The rogue soul stops, confused, his grip loosening. He stares at her, momentarily stunned.

  Clark's hand shoots out, and in one fluid motion, she throws the rogue soul against the brick wall. Her target is powerful, but even the possessed human staggers under the force of her strike. However, the body doesn't stay down.

  Clark's lips curls into a feral grin as she steps forward, ready to finish what she started. She let her fists fly again, hitting the rogue soul's human host harder this time, but it isn't enough. No matter how many blows she lands, it feels like nothing is sticking. The body is bruised and bleeding but he keeps on coming back up.

  She is frustrated, her wispy patience evaporating.

  Clarence suddenly appears behind her, grabs her arm and jerks her back before she can strike another blow.

  "Clark, are you trying to kill him?" he growls, his voice tinged with exasperation. "We can't kill humans! Extract the rogue first, and then you can beat him all you want."

  Clark gave him a look that says it all: How the hell are we supposed to do that?

  Clarence's eyes widens in disbelief. "You didn't read the freakin' reaper manual, did you?" He is angry now—disappointed. The fact that she is supposed to be a professional and still has not bothered with the basics stung him more than it should have.

  He pulls away, his gaze hardening as he takes a breath, trying to reign in his frustration. "You were supposed to carry a Veil-issued reaper blade with you—one with a stamp on the end of the hilt. You hit a human with that, and it pushes the rogue soul out for three hours. You—" He pauses, waiting for her to make sense of what he was saying. "But you didn't bring your damn blade, did you?"

  Clark snorts. She has no time for the protocol. "I don't need a blade," she mutters under her breath, her eyes glinting with defiance. "I'm more than enough to deal with this."

  Clarence shakes his head, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.

  The rogue soul, meanwhile, is becoming agitated, enraged. It lashes out, its human host's body moving in unnatural jerks as it prepares to fight back.

  Before Clark can react, the rogue grabs her, flinging her across the alley. She hits the brick wall with a sickening thud and slumps to the ground, unconscious, leaving Clarence standing there, fists clenched and heart pounding.

  He grits his teeth. "Shit."

  The rogue soul turns to face Clarence. Its eyes burn with the heat of pure malevolence.

  Clarence releases his reaper blade—a short sword of moonlight silver slides out of his coat sleeve. In a quick move, he appears in front of it and slams the hilt on its forehead. A mist-like form immediately separates from the human body. It falls to the ground and screams.

  "Captain!" Anya calls in the earpiece.

  "What?"

  "Something is wrong—the rogue's energy level, it's unusual. It's rising."

  Clarence can feel the shift in the air. It seems it has consumed more souls than they know about and is transitioning to a Type 3–a far more powerful, feral version of a Type 2.

  An extracted rogue cannot come back to the human vessel for hours. But a Type 3 has the power to possess even a reaper, in which case the closest host available is now lying on the ground.

  "Clark!" Clarence calls, quickly jumping to where she is, he raises his guard a second too late and the rogue lands a solid blow to his shoulder.

  Before he can recover the rogue hits him again. The force of its attack knocks him away, and his blade slips from his grasp, skidding across the ground.

  "Captain, Should I call reinforcement?" Anya's voice cracks in the earpiece.

  The rogue grins, its feral eyes glinting with pure malice as it moves toward him with a speed and strength far beyond anything Clarence has faced in a while. It pins him against the wall, its claws digging into his chest as it lifted him off the ground.

  Clarence's breathing is labored as the rogue's grip tightens around his throat. The air is thick with the sting of failure and desperation. He cannot move, cannot think. Every muscle in his body screams for release.

  But then, out of nowhere, he hears a shift. A rustle of movement. And suddenly—Clark.

  He looks up just in time to see her—alive and kicking.

  Clark is already grabbing the reaper blade, and with a quick, practiced motion, she launches herself into the air, landing directly on the rogue's back. The impact sent it stumbling backward, off-balance. Without hesitation, she drives it straight into the rogue's chest.

  It howls in pain, a vicious screech that echoes off the alley walls as the creature begins to immobilize and retreats back to it's original form—the face of Travis Carver appears.

  Clark grabs the rogue by the collar, it's unconscious.

  Clarence marches over to her, snatching his reaper blade from her hand.

  "Next time, follow protocol and bring your own damn blade," he says, his voice clipped with irritation. He points the tip of the blade to the rogue's hands and cuffs made of light binds themselves to it.

  But Clark isn't bothered. She simply cocks her head, eyes flashing with playful defiance. "Is that how you thank me for saving your ass?" Her voice drips with sarcasm. "Next time, maybe I'll just let it rip you apart. How's that sound?"

  "I don't need your help," he mutters under his breath, but it is a lie. He won't say it out loud, but Clark—the fact that she has jumped in to save him, even after everything that has gone wrong—means more than he cares to admit.

  That small shift in his demeanor does not escape Clark, the way he pauses before walking away, as if something inside him is unsettled. She smirks. So, maybe he isn't as cold as let on.

  "For the next one," she said teasingly, "you'll be glad I'm around." She follows him, the playful tension between them thickening with every step.