She is sprawled across the massive conference table like a Renaissance painting—one leg draped elegantly over the side, the other bent just enough to suggest she is either lounging or about to commit a crime. Her arms stretch wide, claiming space with the kind of confidence only someone completely unbothered possess. Her hair—artfully fanned out—looks as if some meticulous, unseen force has arranged each strand just so, and between her lips, she lazily blows a blue bubble gum bubble, watching it expand and contract with supreme indifference.
She has been here for twenty-one hours.
Clarence walks in.
His new suit—a fresh, crisp black, not the one previously ruined by ectoplasm thanks to Clark—is an unspoken declaration of his ability to maintain composure. A reset, of sorts. A way to erase whatever has happened before.
Clark ignores him.
Clarence, naturally, returns the favour.
And yet, the silence between them isn't empty. It is filled with the kind of tension that makes the air palpitate. Neither of them acknowledges it, neither of them so much as flinch at suddenly occupying the same space again, but it is there, coiled beneath the surface like an unspoken dare.
Clarence moves toward his office. Clark remains beautifully sprawled, still chewing, still waiting.
They both know why.
Anya will be back any minute now with the results. The spirit core—the one Clark has so kindly ripped from a rogue soul earlier—is the missing piece in Anya's tracker program. If the upload works, they will have their very own Type 2 Rogue Tracker. A game-changer.
Once Clarence is alone, he prepares to feign normalcy, only to be stopped by a single, out-of-place object on his otherwise meticulously organized desk.
A stick of gum.
Powder blue. Unopened.
It stands out starkly against the blackness of everything else—his pens, his files, the sleek obsidian desk itself. A tiny, ridiculous contrast.
The same gum Clark has been chewing just moments ago.
He stares at it, the smallest flicker of something unreadable passing through his features. If this is supposed to be an apology for earlier, it is a strange one. But then again, Clark doesn't do normal apologies. She does not do apologies, normal or otherwise. Period.
Not that she needs to. She is right.
He is a reaper, tainted with sin.
Clarence picks up the stick of gum, rolling it between his fingers. His expression doesn't shift much—not quite a smile, but there is a softness to it. A subtle, quiet thing, like the distant memory of something that has once been warm.
"You still favour blue," his voice barely more than breath against the quiet.
Blue.
The colour of House Highcourt—sky on silk, storm in velvet. A house as old as dust and twice as stubborn.
She wore it once, always. Marion of Highcourt—a sword more than a rose of Dargery Hall, before she became wife to the Duke of Lansforth.
His wife.
Bound in ink and blood, the duchess must take the colour of House Cardall: Black.
And Clarence remembers, almost too vividly, her in Cardall black. A dark vision of grace and power, that can raise legions and break a kingdom.
Clark wears her face, bears her fire. The same proud tilt of chin, the same mouth that can make one sin.
Except she's not her; she cannot be.
He hovers over the bin. Tempted. It will be so easy to drop it, to hear it hit the bottom, to prove it means nothing.
But he doesn't.
Instead, he slips it into the breast pocket of his suit. Tucks it away like a relic. A quiet, pathetic act of preservation. Right above where his heart used to beat.
Outside, he hears the door open.
Anya is back.
—
"I got it!" she announces, eyes bright with the kind of manic energy only achieved through caffeine and breakthroughs.
"Finally," Clark mutters, peeling herself off the table with a languid stretch, as if she had personally endured all the long hours of scientific labour herself.
Clarence emerges from his office as well, still maintaining his dignified policy of ignoring Clark, though not entirely—he keeps a careful distance from her, just in case she gets any ideas. Ideas, in Clarence's experience, often resulted in trouble.
Anya gets to work. She initiates the program, sliding into the console with a flick of her fingers, keying in commands as glowing blue runes and futuristic diagrams hover around the screen. The tracker interface hums to life, and she uploads the newly analysed data from the spirit core, the system whirring in response as it begins processing.
The room falls into a solemn pause. All eyes are on the screen.
The progress bar climbs—almost there...
Then.
Error.
The upload stops at ninety-six percent.
Anya stares, aghast. "No, no, no, what?!" She immediately begins rattling off a stream of technical nonsense, hands flailing as she tries to figure out why, exactly, the universe had chosen to betray her today. "Okay, it could be a corruption in the data packet, or maybe the soul signature frequencies are out of sync with the Veil's relay—but that doesn't make sense because I calibrated it! Unless—oh God, what if—"
Clark, without so much as a word, casually lifts her boot and kicks the processing unit under Anya's desk.
There's a sharp thunk.
Anya whips her head around, ready to attack her. "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH—"
And then—a satisfactory ding.
One-hundred percent.
The upload completes.
Anya stares. Clark blows another bubble with her gum.
The program initializes.
And... nothing happens.
The tracker screen remains empty. No blinking signals, no alerts, no triumphant display of success.
Anya's face falls. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me." She groans, hands in her hair, spiralling into an existential crisis. "This should be working! The energy parameters were aligned, the soul frequencies matched—unless the spectral grid is rejecting the—ugh, no, that wouldn't even—"
Clark, still without a word, kicks the processing unit again.
Anya screeches. "STOP KICKING MY BABY!" She looks like she's about two seconds away from committing murder when—
The screen flickers.
Then—
Four. Blips. Appear.
Four rogue souls. Traced. Located.
"There they are, just beautiful." Clark says smirking.
Anya gapes at her. She looks at the screen. Back at Clark. Back at the screen. She is visibly, painfully torn between kissing her and cursing her.
Finally, she settles for a quiet: "I love you."
Clark exhales, mockingly pleased. "Excellent work. You tech god."
She snorts and continues typing with a sinister smile plastered on her face, "Yeees...I'm a goooood..." Anya whispers as she downloads the coordinates.
Clarence watches them from behind, their blasphemous banter feeling almost too uncanny. She has always been a bad influence on her.
But he expected this.
They were bound by friendship once, in a life before. And it seems the echoes of what was, still hold, as they will be friends still in this afterlife.
Anya proceeds to swipe the data onto another hovering screen and turns to Clarence. "Captain, these are our locations. Four rogue Type 2s, confirmed."
Clarence leans in, scanning the list of addresses. His sharp eyes settle on one in particular.
A hotel—Halcyon Crown.
Familiar. He has a file with this name on his desk. Cases of missing humans that are later found dead after being tortured.
"Give us the worst one," Clark demands. She always wants the lowest of the scum, just like when she was in Hell. She thrives on punishing the worst kind of humans God ever breathed life into.
Anya starts to cross reference the locations to the human case files in their database.
"This one." She points to the marker on the farthest right on the screen. "According to the file from Investigations, there are case reports of missing and murdered humans, and they all trace back to this hotel—Halcyon Crown. So far, eight bodies. Two still missing."
"Captain, thoughts?" she turns to Clarence finally acknowledging his existence. "Don't make me beg." she adds playfully.
He cannot deny that the thought of Clark on her knees stirs something unexpected in him. But he'd be damned before he ever acknowledges that—especially with Anya in the room, with her sharp eyes catching every detail. The one thing they can agree on, however, is their mutual disdain for rogues—those twisted souls who shatter the balance and wreak havoc on the innocent.
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"Pull up the full dossier on Halcyon Crown. I want a tactical brief in fifteen. Dispatch the other coordinates to remaining squads."
"Yes, Captain."
Clarence turns to leave, but Clark steps into his path, close enough that he can smell the faint sweetness of her gum.
"Did you get my gift?" she asks, her voice smooth, lips curling around every word like she's tasting them for his benefit. The gum clicks between her teeth with lazy confidence.
"You mean that pathetic stick of sugar you dropped on my desk?" he replies, dry as ever—but his gaze falls, just for a second, to the way her mouth moves.
Clark smiles, agonizingly slow, drawing even closer until the air between them goes tight. "A piece of my heart..." she murmurs, pressing two fingers against her chest in mock sincerity.
"Like you even have one," Clarence snaps, but the bite in his tone doesn't reach his eyes. They're locked on her now, waiting.
"Hmmm..." Her fingers trail down the front of his suit again, light as smoke as they brush the lapel like she owns it. "That's to celebrate our first fight." She leans in, lips parted as she blows another bubble—a sensual display—and pops it with a perfect, practiced snap.
Clarence stands his ground, jaw tight, breath steady only by sheer force of will. But this—this is a game to her, and he knows it. Knows she plays it to win. And maybe...he's tired of playing defense.
His hand shoots out, leather-clad fingers closing around her wrist—firm, not rough. Clark stills, and the air swirls with something undefinable.
"If you really want to give me a gift," he says with a voice low enough to slide under her skin, "you're gonna have to blow something else besides that gum."
The words hang there, heavy. Her eyes flash with heat—surprise, maybe even amusement—but before she can respond, his other hand lifts, and with precise timing, he flicks her bubble mid-pop.
The sticky mess bursts, splattering across her cheek, her lips. She gasps, stumbling back a step as she chokes on gum and shock.
Clarence doesn't wait. He steps around her with infuriating calm, his voice silent but smug in the space he leaves behind. He doesn't look back.
And Clark stands there, gum-smeared and breathless, with a pulse that doesn't quite settle. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, slow and thoughtful. That bastard.
Across the hall, Clarence disappears into the shadows of the corridor, his expression unreadable—but his mind isn't quiet. His glove still carries the faintest trace of blue gum and heat.
As much as he tries to ignore it, he can't help being stupid—especially when she looks exactly like Marion. Just grazing her lips earlier—even through the leather—almost knocks the sense out of him.
And she's getting bolder in her taunts. He can't be certain how long he can take it before he does something that might send him back to Hell.
—
Clarence comes back for the briefing after the much-needed respite to clear his head and finds Matthew, yet again, in their office.
"Anya, are we ready?" He asks taking his usual seat and ignoring Matthew's unwanted presence.
Clark sits across him, and Matthew stands by the door, like a casual onlooker.
"The tracker program we just launched detected a Type 2 in this area," Anya shows the geo-satellite map of the city. She expands it revealing a pinnacle of architectural elegance and luxury. "Halcyon Crown—fifty-nine-storey, five-star hotel. Human case files shows that this location is connected to eight unsolved murder investigations."
Anya clicks to the next slide, and the room is smothered in the kind of silence that has weight to it.
The screen flares with the crime scene photos—two bodies, broken and butchered, slumped in alleys like discarded furniture. Their faces are ruined, slit and shredded into anonymity. Slashes map their skin like someone was trying to carve out the soul by hand.
Anya flinches. It's small, but it's there—her eyes dart away before the second photo finishes loading. She presses her lips together and adjusts something on her tablet she doesn't need to adjust. She should be numb to this kind of rot by now. But she's still the girl who cries when dogs die in movies. And this cruelty on humans is uglier than anything she's seen.
Clark, on the other hand, leans in. This carnage is just another Tuesday.
Clarence, too, remains steady and unshaken.
Neither of them says it, but they don't see victims on that screen.
They see the thing that did it.
And they're already thinking about how to take it apart.
Matthew watches from the side, silent. It's unsettling how alike they are in moments like this—two sides of the same brutal coin, and neither of them seems to realize it.
"The—", Anya inhales for courage then continues, "The victim's gender are male and female, ages ranging from 18 to 25 years old. There is nothing common tying them in particular except they all joined an audition for a model casting in Halcyon Crown, weeks before their murder."
And despite the investigation, a second round of casting calls is still taking place inside the hotel.
"So, someone is killing pretty people." Clark says.
"Yes, you can say that. Also, the coroner's report says the bodies exhibits signs of confinement, which led them to believe that these two missing person reports are connected, likely being held captive by the same killer."
Two photos of brunettes flash: Nicole Sutton and Tracy Palvin. Both have auditioned for the casting and never made it back.
"What's the interval for every victim?" Clark asks.
"The first few victims are taken four days apart. The new ones, every other day."
Matthew blows a low whistle. "That is a very fast escalation. Your rogue is getting greedy in consuming souls, but why subject them to torture when it can just easily take away their souls?"
A Type 2 can consume a soul as long as they killed the human vessel. There's no need for such theatrics, really.
Clarence's eyes slide over to him. "Souls burn brighter under fear. Pain makes them taste...sweeter. Ask Clark, she's the expert."
Her expression tightens. "You saying that to piss me off?"
"Stating a fact. I thought you'd appreciate it—given your history."
"I don't exactly eat them," Clark answers with a bite then shifts her focus to Anya. "Now tell me," she says, "what's in their hand?"
Of course she catches that.
"Each victim's right hand is clenched tight; they are holding something." she continues.
Anya blinks clearly caught off guard. She'd barely skimmed the crime scene photos, but Clark, with a single glance, already has it.
"R—right." Anya looks down at her tablet, scrolls through the images, and stops on the next slide.
A tarot card: Death.
"Always placed in the victim's hand. No fingerprints. No DNA. Just that. Authorities already called it as the work of a serial killer."
It is in a word, accurate. Only the authorities are not aware that their unknown subject is possessed.
Anya takes out two tiny scanners and lays them on the table.
"Tracker's still in the early stages. It can give us a general area, but not the host. These are re-calibrated scanners. You need to get closer. Close enough to scan the frequencies, it will upload to the program, and I can give you the rogue."
"Field surveillance," Clarence says already uneasy, the thought of spending some alone time with Clark, even if monitored, feels like a bad idea at present.
But the hell spawn is already pocketing the other scanner before he can even order her to not come with.
It only takes a flash before they landed on the hotel's marble floors. They are greeted with an air rich with the scent of wealth. In front is a concierge that smiles with teeth too white to be honest, and has eyes alert for any incoming VIP. Business as usual, news of the place being linked to a series of murders did not even halt operations.
It is because a young billionaire owns this place, with a name as old as the city, and a family richer than God. And the laws rarely apply to such.
They move without speaking. Scanners out. No one can see them. Reapers aren't made to be seen by humans, not unless they will it to.
The ballroom that holds the audition is on the seventh floor. The casting call is in full swing—models preening, nervous assistants clinging to clipboards, someone shouting for more light. It smells like perfume and desperation.
They raise their scanners, subtly checking faces. Some shimmer right. Others don't. One kid has a flicker in his aura like a static glitch.
"No, false alarm." Anya confirms through their comms.
Then they hit it.
The ballroom threshold.
Clark reaches for the door. Her fingers bounce back.
The way is blocked.
Clarence presses forward. Nothing. No entry. No welcome.
A ward.
Anya's voice crackles in their earpieces. "You're not gonna like this."
"We already don't." Clark sulks.
"There seems to be a field. Old magic. Veil-repelling type. Did you tell anyone we're coming?"
Clark's breath catches in her throat.
The tarot card suddenly means something else.
"Occultist," she mutters. "Looks like the rogue knows we'll come knocking." she turns to Clarence, "Tell me you have some counter-spell stashed somewhere in that suit of yours."
—
Clark and Clarence return to the Veil like dark clouds—quiet, heavy, and brimming with the tension of a plan derailed.
Matthew, lounging with the ease of someone who's never had to punch a clock, notices the storm brewing immediately. "Back so soon?" a crooked grin gleams on his face. "And here I was, thinking you two would party till sunup."
Clark doesn't even pause. "Someone pulled a reversed-Alohomora on us."
Anya cackles quickly getting the reference. "Okay, that was a good one!"
Clark smirks, proud of herself.
Matthew and Clarence just blink at them, mutually baffled.
"What, you never heard of the boy who lived?" Clark starts.
"You mean, 'The Christ'?" Matthew asks.
Anya grabs Clark by the sleeve and pulled her to a corner. "They're not like us." She whispers in gritted teeth.
"Fine." Clark pivots back to business. "Check, the rogue soul database. I want a list of any souls with occult backgrounds. Dark magic. Curses. You know, anyone who went to Hogwarts."
Anya brushes her hair behind her ears and smiles sheepishly at her, "They're gonna hate us if you don't stop." she points her lips to the two confused reapers watching them.
"Muggles." Clark grins.
Anya is still giggling when she starts tapping her keyboard. But the fun stopped when the screen showed zero matches.
Clark's face begins to darken too, veiled by something that can actually scare someone. "So, it's not the rogue."
Matthew shakes his head following her meaning. "It can't be."
"It's the host," she says, the words slick with satisfaction. "A human willingly helping a rogue? Someone just booked a one-way to the pit."
Anya starts typing again. She runs the name of the casting team. One match.
Bingo.
"Amy Moore, writes a wiccan blog. Ooh she loves cats and works as an assistant for one of the casting directors: Thaddeus West. And get this, occasionally does fortune reading." She turns back to them, "We just need to scan her for discordant frequency—but we still...can't go in." Anya's lips fall into a frown.
Clark groans, frustrated.
Then Clarence speaks up, voice calm, deliberate. "There's another way. Call the Tech team. Tell them I want PRX-9. Sanction it under Elite Squad authority."
Anya's fingers hover above the keyboard, but she looks up. "Seriously? That's—okay. You got it."
Clark eyes them both. "Alright, what the hell is PRX-9? Sounds like a detergent."
"It's what we call the 'human pill,'" Anya explains, grinning now, as if this is her favourite bit of mad science. "Developed for deep undercover ops. Makes any reaper completely human for twenty-four hours. Blood, pulse, squishy organs. The whole fragile package."
Clark scrunches her nose like she just heard the most absurd thing. She looks at Clarence. "So the plan is... make someone human, sneak into the audition, pretend to be hot and clueless, and try not to die?"
He doesn't blink. "The scanner won't be blocked once someone's inside. We'll get facial scans of every person involved," he continues. "And we might confirm if this Amy is the rogue's host."
"But that won't be enough," Clark says, following the logic now. "There are still two humans missing. The rogue has a nest. Whoever we send in... they'll have to get kidnapped."
Clarence nods. "Bait."
The room goes quiet.
Clark doesn't hesitate—she leans forward, confident smirk already gracing her lips. "Well, let's not kid ourselves. I'm the obvious choice. Young. Hot. Victim vibes on command."
Clarence indulges her a little and takes a step closer.
She straightens slightly, expecting the pitch.
"Clark," he begins.
"Yeah?" She's already trying not to grin.
"Move," he says flatly, brushing past her.
"What the—?"
"I need to get Matthew."
Clark chokes on her own pride. "You're kidding me."
But Clarence is already standing in front of the Head Reaper, wearing the thinnest veil of tolerance. "Since you insist on interfering with this case, you might as well be useful."
Matthew raises both eyebrows, then beams like he just got invited to a red carpet. "I do enjoy putting my handsomeness to good use."
He throws a wink at Clark. "Sorry, rookie. Pretty privilege."
Clark groans. "This is bullsh—"
Clarence cuts her off, already strategizing aloud. "You need to lure it, Matthew. Make sure you get its attention. It cannot take another innocent human. It has to be you."
Matthew stretches lazily, already acting like he's in a spy film. "Charming rogues, this is going to be fun."
But Clark does not think so. "If you get yourself killed, I'm not dragging your dumb soul out of the dumpster."
Matthew laughs at the ridiculous quip, "I'm a lot harder to kill than you think."
Clarence just mutters, "I'll bring the body bag, just in case."