One can hardly notice the transition after Matthew pops the human pill.

  He clearly has done this before.

  As part of his cover, his black reaper suit is replaced with something livelier. A suit in a kind of deep-blue that Clark has never seen.

  She watches him closely. "You know, I never thought I'd see you as the pretty boy type." she says as they walk him to the entrance of the ballroom.

  Matthew quirks an eyebrow, smirking. "You should've seen me before I became a reaper, Clark. Had the world eating out of my hand."

  "Mm-hmm." Clark's voice is dripping with annoyance as she crosses her arms. "Yell, if you need a rescue."

  Matthew stops on his tracks to pull her close. "You really think, I'm just gorgeous and fragile—aaw!"

  Clark steps on his foot, "Fragile and human."

  The raucous makes Clarence glare over his shoulder. "Focus, both of you."

  The two exchange a glance that borders on amusement, then settle into silence as the moments tick by. Anya looks up from her screen. "Alright, everything's set. PRX-9 has taken effect. Sir, you're officially human for twenty-four hours. You'll need to act like it."

  Matthew rolls his shoulders. "Understood." He takes a deep breath, a moment of silence, before his gaze turns sharp, focused. "Alright, enough prep. Time to do this."

  Clark leans against the wall, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watches him. "Make it like you."

  "I can even make you like me, if I try hard enough." Matthew says with a confidence of a victor.

  Anya, ever the efficient technician, brings up the live feed outside the ballroom. "Okay, Sir, ready when you are."

  Matthew gives her a mock salute and heads for the entrance without a second glance at anyone. Clark turns to Clarence.

  "You really trust him to pull this off?" she asks, the question edged with doubt.

  "He's pretty enough to bait the rogue, if that's what you're worried about."

  Matthew crosses the ballroom threshold successfully. "I'm in." he signals.

  "Perfect. Sir, I need you to release the Eyes." Anya answers on his earpiece.

  He pulls out two black orbs from his pocket and when he opens his palm, they float and roam inside the room.

  "Eyes deployed." Anya's fingers hover above the keyboard, waiting to adjust the feed.

  Suddenly, the live feed flashes to the ballroom of Halcyon Crown. The atmosphere is buzzing with activity as the auditions begin. Matthew, fully immersed in the human guise, strides into the room with the ease of someone who's lived a lifetime pretending to be someone else.

  "That's our cue," Clark mutters under her breath and they are back at the Veil now watching the feed on Anya's screen.

  --

  The moment Matthew slinks into the ballroom—because creatures like Matthew do not simply walk—the very air seems to remember its manners. There's a subtle shift, like gravity just got bored of holding everything down equally and decided, "You know what? Let's all orbit that one."

  People—humans, mostly, but also a few souls wearing human skins like ill-fitting coats—turn to look. Heads tilt. Eyes track. The music doesn't skip, but if it had, nobody would've blamed it.

  Clark watches it unfold with a level of simmering disdain. A kind of reaction that comes from someone, who thought she was the best bait. It's a bitter pill, alright—especially when Matthew hasn't done a single bloody thing yet. He just exists. And somehow, that's enough.

  An assistant, not the assistant they actually want, approaches. She asks for his name, clipboard at the ready. Matthew, who has the casual arrogance of someone who's been complimented since the womb, simply scrawls Matthew. No last name. Like Beyoncé, but smugger.

  The assistant stares at him the way small woodland creatures might stare at fire. Fascinated. Slightly terrified. Entirely enchanted. She doesn't even notice when he says he's finished. Just hands him his number with the kind of shy smile that says, I will absolutely be writing about this in my diary later.

  Professional that he is (and make no mistake, Matthew is a professional, even if the profession happens to be flirting with danger and scanning for rogue souls while pretending to smoulder for a camera), he discreetly palms the Veil-issued scanner. It's tucked into a device that looks like a prop—sleek, black, and humming with low-level divine energy. Very on brand.

  He spots her. Amy Moore. The potential lead. He begins gliding through a sea of hopeful cheekbones and weaponized jawlines. Anya, chirping in his ear, says, "You're still too far."

  He moves in. Closer. Within scanning range now. His voice is low, calm, terribly pleased with himself. "Tell me we got her."

  A soft static buzzes on the comms as data trickles in, lazy and cruel.

  Negative.

  Damn.

  Clark, predictably, isn't surprised. Things that look this easy never are. If a soul this bad was just sitting in the open, it'd be suspicious enough to raise both eyebrows and the dead.

  Matthew's number is called. He steps forward, the very picture of reluctant grace—like a man being forced to accept his third modelling award of the day. The casting directors look like they just discovered fire again and it's dressed in a three-piece-suit.

  The photographer is nearly vibrating with joy. He's shouting directions like a general in the middle of a very glamorous war. Matthew, of course, delivers. Poses, smoulders, glides—he's doing things with his jawline that probably count as witchcraft.

  And Clark? Clark can hear his thoughts gloating. Loudly. With fireworks.

  Then, a flicker. A twitch. Not on Matthew's face—he's too good for that—but in his eyes. The scanner in his pocket is blinking. Rapidly.

  The photographer, bless him, thinks it's a pose. "Hold that! Yes! That's the one!" He bellows as Matthew channels his inner-Clarence.

  Matthew, still smiling like sin in silk, speaks softly into the comms. "Are you seeing this?"

  Back in the Veil, Anya's screen lights up like Christmas in hell. "Affirmative, Sir. Center seat. Thaddeus West. That's our rogue."

  Matthew's grin sharpens. He locks eyes with the rogue, and there's a glint there. The kind of look that says: I know what you are. And worse—I know what you want.

  And Thaddeus West? He shifts in his chair like a predator scenting blood in the water. Only, unfortunately for him, the blood smells suspiciously like cologne and danger. Matthew has become the snack. A very shiny, very smug Grade-A snack.

  The casting continues, though everyone knows it's a formality at this point. Matthew is it. The assistant calls a five-minute break.

  Thaddeus West moves with the kind of grace that only comes from consuming people who didn't see it coming. Polished shoes. Smooth stride. That smile.

  To the casual observer, he's just another overly groomed socialite with a suspiciously symmetrical face. But to Matthew—armed with the scanner, the comms, and the usual rogue-detection instincts that come with dealing with the worst of the Veil's paperwork—he might as well be wearing a neon sign that reads: Hi, I eat souls.

  "Mind if I sit?" Thaddeus asks, already sitting. It's not a question. It's a declaration, like "I'm toxic" or "I sell NFTs."

  Matthew doesn't blink. "Please," he says, all polite poison. "I was just thinking I needed a break from being adored."

  Thaddeus chuckles. Low. Smooth. The kind of sound that, if personified, would sell you a haunted painting and then convince you to thank it.

  "You're quite the spectacle," he says. "Everyone's watching you."

  Matthew flashes a smile that has probably gotten people excommunicated, knighted, or both, depending on which side of the Vatican they were standing on. "It's the cheekbones. I had them installed last century."

  Thaddeus laughs. The kind of laugh that's rehearsed in mirrors and probably comes with a receipt. "And you're funny too," he says, reaching into his coat pocket with the smoothness of someone who's handed out business cards right before someone goes missing.

  "I'm meeting some film producers next week," he adds, sliding the card across the table like it's not dipped in sin. "You've got something. I think you'd be perfect for acting. I'm planning to be an agent. And you... you're exactly what I'm looking for."

  Matthew takes the card, barely glances at it. It has a name—Thaddeus West—and an address that probably doesn't show up on Google Maps unless you're using Dark Mode and blood magic. He smiles graciously. Because of course he does.

  In his ear, Clarence's voice crackles like an angry storm cloud in a tie. "We got him."

  Yes, they certainly did. Thaddeus has taken the bait. And judging by the look on his face, if no one was watching, he'd eat it whole—platter, garnish, and smugness included.

  —

  After the Halcyon casting, Matthew shows up at the address dressed like the forbidden fruit after a personal consultation with GQ. White shirt, top two buttons undone (because modesty is for people who aren't traps), sleek coat tossed casually over his shoulder like even his outerwear is flirting.

  Clark and Clarence are already watching the live feed from the "Eyes" planted inside Thaddeus' swanky-but-creepy apartment. One of them probably groaned when Matthew leaned into the camera angle just right. It was that kind of outfit.

  Inside, Thaddeus pours a drink. Something dark, expensive, and predictably spiked. Matthew accepts it with a smile that says: I know. I just don't care.

  They talk. Small, glittery words. The kind you use to distract, to fill the silence before a scream. And then, the haze sets in. His head gets heavier. Eyes start to flutter. The room tips slightly.

  Of course it's drugged. Yes, Thaddeus roofied him. It's cliché. It's pedestrian. Honestly, Matthew's offended at how unimaginative it is.

  In any other scenario, he'd never allow himself to be knocked out by something as basic as a sedative. But tonight? The plan is to get kidnapped. Find the dungeon. Find the girls. Play helpless. Spring the trap.

  There's a loud thunk as Matthew hits the floor.

  Even unconscious, he's graceful. Like a model fainting into a Vogue editorial spread.

  —

  Thaddeus lifts him like he's nothing. Type 2 rogues have that kind of strength—the cursed, soul-eating variety. He loads Matthew into the car and drives into the night like a man transporting very expensive meat.

  Back in the Veil, Anya's voice chirps, cool and alert. "Rogue on the move. Wings up."

  Clark and Clarence don't waste time. A sound of wings, a flick of power, and they're through the Veil into the living realm. They keep their distance—Anya's orders. They're shadows with badges.

  The rogue arrives at a cabin. Middle of nowhere. The kind of place where serial killers vacation.

  He drags Matthew's unconscious body toward the door. The cabin creaks open, revealing a staircase descending into the dark. A subtle scent of blood, rust, and regret hangs in the air.

  Below, two women sit in separate cages. One of them—Tracy—starts sobbing the moment she sees Thaddeus. The other stays quiet. Stoic. That's Nicole, the fighter. Her face doesn't move, but her hands curl into fists.

  Thaddeus smiles like a spider welcoming dinner.

  "Tracy, darling," he croons. "You sound ripe. You're up next, sweetheart."

  He throws Matthew's body into the cage with Nicole and binds his hands. Neat, efficient. Then he grabs Tracy by the hair and drags her, screaming, into the chamber at the end. The door closes with a sickening finality.

  Nicole watches the new guy in her cage.

  And then, slowly, like a god remembering he's late to a miracle, Matthew blinks. His eyes open. He sits up with a groan, as if waking from a nap he allowed to happen.

  He glances at her in the dim light. Sees the ropes. The bruises. The dirt clinging to skin too soft for this place.

  "You're not Tracy or Nicole," he mutters confused.

  The girl stares. Shocked. "How—how do you know those names?"

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Matthew frowns. "So, he's taken another one before me..."

  He studies her. She's been here maybe two, three days. Not long enough to break her, but long enough to scrape hope from her bones. She's stunning, even like this. Tangled hair. Dirt-streaked skin. Fire still flickering behind scared eyes.

  Matthew doesn't fall for every pretty face. He's not that kind of reaper.

  But something tugs at his chest. Something distinctly human. Some connection, faint but unmistakable. A thread. A whisper of familiarity where there should be none.

  "I'm Matthew," he says softly.

  She hesitates. Then, voice trembling, she answers.

  "Maggie. Maggie Juilliard."

  Even her name is beautiful. Just his luck.

  He offers her a smile. Slight. Calming. The kind that tells someone they are already safe.

  And in the distance, behind that closed door, the screams start.

  --

  A cry cuts through the silence like a jagged knife through silk. The sound echoes off the grimy stone walls, bouncing into their bones. It's Tracy. The scream is raw, cracking at the edges—there's no performance in it. It's the sound people make when something is being taken from them.

  Maggie flinches. Her voice, when it comes, is flat—shattered-glass flat. "Nicole is dead." She doesn't look at him when she says it. "Yesterday. He threw her body somewhere—I don't know where." Her lips tremble. She bites down, trying to stop the quiver, trying not to cry, but she's only human. And no matter what the movies tell you, humans aren't made to be brave for long in places like this.

  And nothing, nothing, breaks Matthew more than pretty girls crying.

  "Maggie," he says gently. His voice goes soft, like light through curtains. "Hey—hey, look at me." He shifts, bound hands awkwardly reaching out.

  She turns to him, tries to hold herself together. "I'm going to be next." Her voice cracks. "He's— I'm going to die next."

  "You're not going to die." Matthew says it like a vow carved into stone. "I'm not going to let that happen." And there it is: a reaper, promising life. Sacrilege, if you asked the higher-ups. Heresy, if you asked Clarence. Heartfelt, if you asked me.

  "No one's coming," she whispers. "No one is coming to save us."

  Matthew slides closer to her. He can't explain the impulse, the need to hold her hands, to anchor her. He just does it. His fingers wrap around hers, bound and trembling.

  Something's wrong with him.

  Or right.

  The human pill's side effects are in full swing now, infecting him with things like empathy and tenderness and rage that isn't just professional. He's feeling things, unfiltered and dangerously real.

  "I am going to get us out," he says again, firmer now. "Trust me. You're going to be okay."

  He shifts. Carefully, he raises his arms. "I need you to reach into my coat," he says. "Left side. Thaddeus didn't check."

  Maggie blinks. There's doubt and fear. But she nods, inching closer. Her hands, still shaking, brush against his chest. She searches—and there it is. Cold metal. Not just a blade, but a Reaper blade. The kind that can slice through the Veil and through souls like they're made of paper.

  She pulls it out, stares at it.

  "You're not really a model, are you?" she says.

  Matthew grins, because of course he does. "Only part-time. Hold it." He tells her, voice hushed. She grasps the blade. He maneuvers his bonds against the edge, sawing carefully. A few tense seconds pass—and snap—his hands are free. Then, slowly, gently, he takes the blade from her and cuts her bindings.

  The ropes fall away, but not before revealing the angry red grooves on her wrists. Matthew sees them and something in him shatters. Not visibly. But deep down, where the Reaper in him stores his grudges.

  He shouldn't care this much. He shouldn't feel like this.

  But I know why.

  Because he loved her once.

  In another life. Before the Veil, before the soul-counting, before the title and the blade. And love like that... it leaves echoes. Little soul-residues that never quite wash off.

  He takes her hands, warms them between his own.

  "You'll be alright," he says again, like he's trying to convince the universe.

  He turns to the cage door. The lock's simple. Child's play. He's picked worse in less flattering outfits. Two twists, a click, and they're out.

  They creep up the steps, quiet as breath.

  At the top, Matthew halts.

  The room is wrong. He feels it—like walking into a painting that's watching you. His eyes catch the blood runes scrawled across the walls. Symbols etched in pain and power. Wards. Thick and ugly. Smart, too. Which means even if Clarence and Clark are standing outside, they can't get in.

  Matthew takes out his blade again.

  The tip gleams, catching the flickering light like it's eager.

  He steps forward and scratches through the first rune. Sparks hiss, and the symbol dies.

  They cross the threshold; they are out. Fresh air—icy and biting—rushes at them like a welcome slap. Trees stretch above them like dark sentinels, and the night is suddenly too bright after all that time in the shadows.

  Matthew grabs Maggie's hand. "Run," he says, low and urgent. "Don't look back."

  She hesitates, still breathless, her gaze flicking to the cabin. "And you?"

  "I will get Tracy."

  "No!" Maggie pulls him back, "He's going to kill you! He's—he's a monster. He'll kill you."

  Matthew smiles. Not the charming smile. Not the cheekbones smile. No. This one is sharp, quiet, and wicked. "Help is coming. Don't worry about me. Now go."

  She still doesn't want to leave. But she does.

  She runs like hell.

  Branches whip past her. Bare feet pound against dirt and leaves and regret. Behind her, she hears nothing but her own heartbeat—and somewhere in the silence, a door opening.

  Back at the cabin, Matthew's face hardens. Something dark passes over him, like a shadow remembering what it was like to be whole. He can still hear her footsteps, distant now, thudding against the ground as she escapes. He hopes she doesn't look back. Because what's about to happen in that cabin... it won't be pretty.

  Inside the Ghost Crimes' command post, Anya's voice crackles through the comms. "Ward's broken. He's moving."

  Clark and Clarence are on the ground in seconds. They transport into the treeline, eyes on the wooden structure ahead.

  Then—a sudden impact.

  A small, wild thing crashes into Clarence. He instinctively catches her.

  It's a girl.

  No shoes. Ripped clothes. Tear-streaked cheeks. She looks like she's escaped a horror film—worse, she looks like she belongs in it.

  Clarence doesn't move.

  It's not fear. It's recognition.

  Even with nothing but moonlight and trauma to dress her, her face hits him like a memory clawing its way to the surface. It doesn't make sense. She's not Nicole. She's not Tracy. She's not on the list.

  But he knows her.

  A lump forms in his throat, thick and inexplicable.

  Clark notices. Of course she does. She's watching the cold, emotionless Captain clutch this girl like she's something fragile, like he doesn't want to let go.

  Irritating. That's the word. Irritating, infuriating, and what-the-hell-is-happening inducing.

  Then Clarence, still not looking at Clark, takes off his coat and wraps it around Maggie's shoulders.

  Clark wants to stab something.

  He speaks with a command, "Get Matthew and the rogue. I'll handle this." his eyes still on the damn girl.

  He's giving her the lead. Her. Not because she's ready. Because he's staying. With her.

  Then—before Clark can ask anything—Clarence sweeps the girl into his arms.

  Invisible wings flap and they disappear.

  Silence.

  Clark's mouth is still open.

  Anya's voice bursts in, screeching in disbelief. "What just happened?! Who was that?!" she is more offended than Clark.

  Clark doesn't have an answer. But what she does have is a blade. And a rogue soul somewhere in that cabin who is definitely about to get stabbed.

  She draws her reaper blade, frustration and confusion tangled in her grip and storms inside.

  —

  Matthew strides through the hall like judgment wrapped in silk. He's all slow swagger and boiling fury.

  He reaches the torture room and doesn't knock.

  He kicks the door clean off its hinges.

  Thaddeus spins around. The tool in his hand (a hook, by the looks of it—he's nothing if not cliché) clatters to the ground. Tracy is tied to the chair, sobbing, her skin already marked with the beginnings of torment.

  Thaddeus' eyes narrow. "You—how did you escape?"

  Matthew smiles.

  The kind of smile that's more blade than expression.

  "I told you I had potential," he says. "But you're not exactly the kind of agent I need."

  He draws his reaper blade, and the shadows in the room seem to withdraw as it gleams.

  Thaddeus bares his teeth. "You're not human."

  "Not for the next ten minutes," Matthew replies, voice like steel wrapped in silk.

  Because what he's about to do—isn't sanctioned. It's vengeance, not procedure.

  With a speed that betrays his supposed humanity, Matthew lunges. He grabs Thaddeus by the collar and slams him into the wall with a crack that splinters wood and bone alike. Dust and blood fill the air. The lights flicker.

  He turns, eyes already finding the girl. Tracy. Still bound, bleeding but alive. With swift movement, he cuts her bonds and asks her to stand up.

  Tracy nods through tears still trembling.

  With a cold gaze and an even colder voice he tells her to run.

  She stumbles upright and bolts, leaving behind a trail of blood and broken sobs. The door slams shut behind her.

  And now, there are only two left in this hellhole. The roles have reversed.

  The torturer is about to meet someone far worse than himself.

  Clarence didn't pick Matthew for this mission just because of the charm—or the face that had even angels leaning in closer. No, he chose him because when things go bad—and they always do—Matthew doesn't need his reaper abilities to wreck someone.

  Even in his human form, he remains formidable.

  Matthew rolls his shoulders, easy, like he's about to step into a bar fight, not a bloodbath. He cracks his knuckles like he's killing time.

  He circles, then steps on Thaddeus' face. "See, they think I'm the charming one. The one who likes to flirt. All true." His heel digs deeper. "But most of them forget I'm just as ruthless as Clarence. Only I do it with a smile."

  He kicks him in the gut. Countless times.

  Screw the damn protocol.

  Thaddeus unreluctantly abetted in the torture and murder of humans.

  Filth like him, deserves a little beating.

  It's gone now.

  That visage that everyone knows. What's left is raw and terrible and wrong in all the right ways.

  "Sir—" Anya's voice cuts through the comms, worried.

  He doesn't let her finish. "Close your eyes, Anya."

  Click. The earpiece is gone.

  His reaper blade disappears back into his coat. Not needed. Too clean.

  Instead, he lets his fingers trail across a tray of tools—rusted, crusted, hungry things. He picks up a hammer.

  He lifts Thaddeus by the collar, lets him sit up, then slams the hammer into his jaw. The crunch is satisfying. Teeth scatter across the floor like dice.

  Thaddeus coughs blood and panic, crawls like a slug trying to escape fire.

  Matthew laughs and runs his fingers to his hair.

  The fight isn't fair.

  He sits on the table and throws away the hammer. He waits for him to get back up.

  Thaddeus lashes out with a snarl, dark energy pulsing from his hands. It slams Matthew into the wall. The sound is brutal—a body hitting concrete. Dust rains down.

  Blood trickles from the corner of Matthew's mouth and he snickers fully amused.

  He drags his hand across his face, wiping the blood off with the back of his palm like it's wine at a party. "You humor me."

  Then he moves. He ducks under the next blast, slams his fist into Thaddeus' gut and lifts him off the floor. He spins, slams him onto a table, tools crashing everywhere.

  "W—what are you?" Thaddeus asks. Because even if he bleeds like a human, he does not move like one.

  Matthew walks over and blood drips down from his head to his handsome face. Then, a slow, horrifying grin paints his mouth.

  "Reaper." he answers.

  Thaddeus panics. He mutters another chant—paralyzing Matthew's limbs.

  Then he grabs a long carving knife and drives it straight into Matthew's shoulder, deep and hard. The sound is wet and sharp as muscle and flesh are sliced.

  Matthew doesn't scream. He stares at the rogue, that frightening smirk still on his lips.

  Thaddeus falters.

  "You're not afraid," he whispers.

  "No," Matthew breathes, voice like ice. "But you are."

  He yanks the blade out himself—blood pours, but he doesn't care. He tosses it aside and, slowly, deliberately, stands.

  Before they promoted him to management, he was one of the guards—a member of the Elite Squad.

  Clark only sees him as tease, completely unaware of how dangerous he can be.

  And Thaddeus is about to find out the hard way.

  Matthew stands over him, while he writhes on the floor, blood pooling beneath him.

  His blade appears in his hand and he plunges into Thaddeus' chest. But it clashes into another blade instead of flesh.

  Clark just arrived.

  She looks at Thaddeus all bloodied, teethless.

  "Did you try to extract the rogue with your fist?" Her voice sharp as a whip, the sound of it echoing off the walls.

  Matthew's eyes darts to her, wild, untamed, the darkness still in them as his body tenses. The air is thick with unspent violence, his hands twitching with the need to finish what he started.

  But Clark's cold glare keeps him in check for now.

  For a heartbeat, neither of them moves. The only sound is Thaddeus' labored breathing.

  "Why do you have a blade?" Clark's voice is dangerously low, eyes flicking to the weapon in Matthew's hand—his reaper blade.

  Soul Management doesn't carry blades.

  It's a detail that hasn't escaped her—the way his fingers grip the hilt, like he's been holding it for years. Like it's a part of him.

  Matthew looks down at the weapon, his lip curling into a dangerous smirk as he hides it inside his coat with fluid ease. "That's for old times, when I was—vice captain."

  "What?"

  Nobody told her that.

  Matthew retreats, collecting himself.

  She takes a step forward, finally pushing the still trembling Thaddeus out of the way with the toe of her boot. Her eyes scan the room, the blood-soaked floor, the pile of tools. Everything about this place feels like it was built to break bodies and—souls.

  "What were you thinking?" she snaps, turning back to Matthew.

  He stares at her, blood streaked across his face, a smile still curving his lips, though it's something darker now. "I was giving him a lesson."

  Clark's brows furrow in disbelief. She reaches out to grab his shoulder, her fingers digging into the soaked fabric of his shirt. "I'm supposed to be the troublemaker. You're gonna give Clarence a heart attack."

  She bends down, taps Thaddeus in the face. He groans. Then, she flips her blade and stamps the hilt to his forehead. A mist comes out, the spirit of the rogue.

  It doesn't even fight.

  It doesn't even look monstrous like the other Type 2s after extraction, it is a helpless soul now, lying next to Thaddeus.

  Her comms cracks a sound, "Anya, can you identify the rogue?"

  An Eye immediately flies in and focuses on the soul.

  "Jeremy Pucker. Died a year ago. Escaped mid-transport. According to his files, he has been bullied when he was young by popular kids at his school."

  Is that why...he targeted the models? Clark asks in her mind.

  "I wanted to punish them...for their vanity...I wanted them to know...what it feels like to be ugly..." the rogue whispers through the pain.

  Clark points her blade to the rogue's hands; a cuff of light binds it. "By ruining their faces? They are not the people who hurt you."

  "They're all the same."

  "You killed innocent people, who did not wrong you. Hell will make you—"

  The rogue tries to rise to grab her but Matthew is faster. He slams a boot into its chest and pins it down.

  "Stop talking to it, Clark."

  "I got it," she says without looking at him. Then she turns—and he's still there, unmoved.

  "I said I got it."

  Matthew finally steps back.

  "You look like shit, by the way."

  He smirks, tips her chin up with one bloody finger. "Still bet I could take you out to dinner. Maybe even two."

  She can feel the heat from his body, the undeniable pull that he's emitting despite the blood loss. He stands so damn close, his breath warm against her skin. But her focus doesn't waver. "The Captain's not going to like this one bit."

  Matthew's smile shifts, a slow curve with teeth just shy of wicked. "You gonna snitch on me, rookie?"

  "I'm thinking about it."

  The comms crackle again, "Police are on the way, looks like Tracy managed to call for help. You need to get out of there."

  Clark grabs the rogue by the collar and with her other hand grabs Matthew by the cuff.

  "By the way," he mumbles, "Where's Clarence?"