The captain of the Elite Squad is marrying the antichrist—I mean, Clark. Today.

  Funded by the Veil, the expensive high-risk containment op disguised with fondant and florals will be attended by at least fifty human guests. All actors under the afterlife payroll, briefed with standard protocols of dealing with rogues and are now exiting their hotel rooms for the pretend wedding.

  Meanwhile, the future Mr. and Mrs. Black survey the ground in their reaper form for one final check, calculating exit strategies, exorcism choke points, and whether holy water can be served as champagne.

  But then a commotion springs inside the ballroom.

  A woman, hysterical, screaming to the security telling them it's her wedding day and that he needs to find her groom. She is wearing white, but not the type of gown you will expect, hers comes with a logo on the right breast—of a psychiatric ward.

  Clarence recognizes her, Shirley Gottfried. Killer Bride Number Three. The Hopper's final joyride. She killed her groom with a cake knife shaped like a swan and swore she was innocent between sobs and arterial spray.

  "I didn't do it!" she howls. "I loved him...it's the devil...the devil made me do it!"

  (Technically, a rogue. But it never helps to correct them at this stage.)

  Security's holding her down. She thrashes like a soul that almost made it out of Hell but forgot their passport.

  Clarence walks toward her. No rush. The air parts around him like it's slightly afraid, as he places a hand on her forehead.

  There's a flicker of silver beneath his skin. The Reaper's mark glows, quiet and precise. He reaches in—not with hands, but with something colder—and plucks out the memory. The screaming. The red. The moment she realized her fingers didn't let go of the knife.

  Reapers can do that. Edit a soul. Tidy things up. They call it mercy, though it rarely feels like it.

  Shirley blinks. Her eyes clear and she stops screaming.

  The guards lift her gently now. An ambulance is called. The story they'll tell is one of tragedy, medication and a woman who got lost on her way to closure.

  Clarence straightens his collar calmly like he didn't just erase a murder.

  Clark joins him, her eyes on the retreating ambulance.

  "Have you ever loved someone like that?" she asks, soft and sudden. "To the point of insanity?"

  He turns.

  She's not teasing. Not now. She's looking far off, like she's glimpsing something he can't.

  He stares at her for a moment that might be a century.

  "...Once," he answers.

  She tilts her head to him. "What was it like?" Her voice barely above breath, like a prayer in a wrong language.

  He looks at her, not with affection, not even with fear, but with the weight of someone who remembers and wants to confess.

  "It felt," he says slowly, "like falling from Heaven with your eyes open."

  He had fallen before—for her. And he can still feel every inch of the descent. He loved her deeply and destructively, so much that it cost him everything he was—and he watched it happen, fully aware.

  Clarence had always known the price of loving her, but he couldn't stop. Didn't want to. Not really.

  It's love as damnation. Love as conscious surrender.

  The kind that turns angels into monsters, and men into weapons. The kind of love that burns kingdoms and leaves claw marks on the soul.

  "Can you explain that to me like I'm five?" she pouts, "I lost all my Shakespeare in Hell."

  "Why are you suddenly asking this?"

  She holds his gaze with eyes that might as well be divine, honest and true, "Because I don't know what it's like. To love someone."

  That has broken something inside him. It can't be, she has been reincarnated many times, surely there has been someone—

  "Maybe you just forgot. Reapers' memories are taken once they don the suit. To allow them to carry out duty to the Veil without distractions."

  "I kept mine. The memories of my last life." She taps her temple, "All here. Part of my...saintly privileges."

  Her words carry a tint of something close to sadness, making it sound more like a curse than a blessing.

  "And you recall yours too." She observes. "You remember her, whoever she was."

  "It's my punishment." Clarence finally says, "To never forget."

  Just like her, he isn't forged in the Veil. He is delivered from Hell—some rules don't apply to him, and one of them is memory retention. They have pulled him out of the fiery pits, but that doesn't mean his sins are expunged. He still has penance to serve. And no matter how many years pass, he remains irredeemable.

  Clark moves closer, the softness he saw earlier now gone. She tugs his tie and pulls him down until she's staring straight into his eyes.

  "What did you do?" Her voice is cold, no longer that of a reaper, but of a scourge. "Still nothing. The Sight doesn't work on you. I can't see your sins, Clarence."

  She tried before—when they were interrogating a rogue, when she pulled him close like this, trying to break in. But no matter how hard she looks, she can't. It's unheard of, a scourge who can't see through a sinner.

  "I was a sinner. That's all you need to know," he says, grabbing his tie and yanking it free from her grasp.

  She smirks, beautiful in the way wildfires are beautiful, "How fortunate of you to get out before I got into Hell."

  Clarence glares at her.

  "I would've done things to you," she says sweetly, "that would make God cry."

  I would've let you. He wants to tell her. Because of all the people he has wronged, it's her forgiveness he wants the most.

  "Too bad." His voice almost cracked, "I'll see you at the altar."

  --

  "Containment charm in place. Eyes deployed. Your go signal, Captain." Anya announces on the comms.

  "Let her in."

  "Bride, you have the green light. Smile a little if you copy that."

  Clark scowls as they pull down her veil, "I'll smile when I gut that rogue."

  "Always the font of crankiness and bloodthirst." Anya comments, "Doors open in three, two..."

  The strings begin the wedding march the moment she steps through the double-leaf panels. The guests rise and beam. Clark doesn't know any of them, but they're here to play the parts—cousins twice removed, meddling aunts, uncles insisting on a pre-nup, and doting parents of the groom.

  She prefers the backstory of an orphan—no one to walk her down the aisle. It's safer that way, fewer casualties if the rogue shows up. It also works well to get the priest who performed the last ceremony. Though traumatized by that wedding, hearing Clark's sob story—future Mrs. Black—gave him the courage to agree to officiate again.

  All the fake smiles around her make Clark uncomfortable beneath her veil, yet she walks with the grace of someone who has done this before—moving down the long ancient aisle, dressed in the standards of two old families and as the future wife of an honourable man.

  A time deeply buried in the past, but her body still remembers the pride and posture of that bride, even if her mind and heart have forgotten.

  But there is one, who looks at her true. That softness in his eyes as he gently waits. And those lips, that she swears are almost smiling while watching her walk. It does not feel fake, does not feel like part of a mission.

  He offers his hand this time, not his arm and he isn't wearing any gloves. She takes it, heart tightening at the unfamiliar warmth. There's no recoil, no flicker of pain when their skin meets. Instead, his thumb rubs gently over her knuckles, almost—she doesn't want to say it—lovingly.

  And when he lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it, a soft gasp ripples through the congregation.

  "You look lovely, if it isn't obvious yet."

  Kill those butterflies, Clark. This isn't real. She tells herself.

  "Well, you're marrying a catch, my darling."

  A small grin touches his lips before he hooks her arm through his, and together, they begin walking toward the dais.

  An almost-demon and a former sinner ascending the steps to be blessed by a holy priest—I can hear the nervous cackles of the seraphs at the sacrilege.

  "Keep going, Type 2 energy has been detected. Containment now activating." She presses a button and the wards are up, "Remember, do not engage until the rogue hit the energy spike. If you spook it too early, it'll bury its signal and go dormant. We won't be able to trace it after that."

  The ceremony runs smoothly. Vows are spoken; rings exchanged. Any moment now, the rogue will try to possess the bride.

  Clark is on high alert. Clarence, as always, is maddeningly calm—even as he lifts her veil and pulls her close. There isn't a trace of worry on his face.

  When he places his hands on her face and stares, she exhales softly. She feels so fragile in his palms, like she might shatter if he holds her any tighter. And Clarence remains infuriatingly serene, as if the distance means nothing. His eyes slowly fall to her mouth and her lips part.

  He tilts his head and moves in. Clark can already taste the warmth of his breath, they are too close that if she moves even slightly, their lips will touch. She closes her eyes and whispers a silent prayer to no one in particular.

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  Kill him.

  Her eyes snap open.

  But Clarence is faster.

  His blade is already in hand, the hilt a blur as it slams into the priest's forehead. There's a sickening crack—and then it happens.

  A black mist tears itself free from the host's body, writhing like smoke that learned how to hate.

  This isn't like the other rogues.

  It's fouler.

  It slithers in the air, a grotesque mass of shadow with wriggling arms shaped like tentacles, all slick and twitching like it's tasting the air for blood.

  The humans run and take cover under the tables.

  Clark draws her blade in one smooth motion and slices through her gown, shortening it just above the knee. Combat ready.

  She lunges.

  But the rogue meets her head-on. One tendril slams her back, sending her skidding across the polished floor.

  "That is some large Type 2," she coughs, falling back into step beside Clarence.

  He narrows his eyes, spinning his blade once.

  "It's older and meaner. This one's been feeding for long."

  He raises the blade like a general before war. "Divide et impera."

  Clark gives a breathless laugh. "You're lucky I speak Latin."

  They move.

  Together.

  She goes left. He goes right. Twin arcs of steel carve through the monster's flailing limbs. But every cut just births more smoke. It regenerates—faster, thicker, angrier.

  A black arm shoots out, wraps around her throat.

  Tight.

  Like a vice forged in Hell.

  She gasps. The blade clatters from her grip. Her feet kick off the ground as the thing lifts her. She claws at the tendril, but it only tightens. Her vision narrows.

  Learn to yield. A voice inside her head. Not hers.

  She goes still.

  Lets her arms fall limp.

  The rogue hesitates, sensing victory. It starts to turn—all its limbs now converging on Clarence.

  He meets the monster mid-air, twisting through the smoke, and lands a brutal kick right in its centre mass. The rogue falls. He shouts, "Now! Clark!"

  She vanishes.

  A blink of light and she's gone—then reappears above it, a silhouette of fury with steel drawn and aimed.

  With both hands on the hilt, she drives the blade down—straight into the heart.

  There's a pulse. A scream that doesn't belong in this world. Then the rogue convulses—and begins to disintegrate, limb by smoky limb.

  The ballroom falls quiet.

  And a soul appears on the floor. The Eyes fly in flickering and scanning the figure, lenses whirring.

  "Mary Ascott," Anya reports through comms, "One of the earliest cases of missing souls."

  "What happened to her?" Clark, still catching her breath, crouches low beside the entity.

  "She was in a car accident. On her wedding day," Anya replies. "File says she ran off after catching her groom along with a bridesmaid getting very...confessional inside the church pew."

  Clark frowns.

  "Charming."

  Anya adds, "One of the current owners of Chateau Mont Black was her ex-fiancé."

  The rogue soul is curled on the ground, dressed in a shredded wedding gown stained with soot and age. Her veil hangs crooked, and her face is streaked with black tears. Her lips tremble.

  "I will kill him... I will kill him..." she whispers, over and over like a mantra cracked by time.

  Clark presses her blade on her throat, "You need to pay now for your crimes, Mary."

  Her glassy eyes lift, unfocused but furious.

  "And what of his crimes?" she hisses. "What of those?"

  "His time will come." Clark lifts her chin and looks at her with the Sight, "They would have given you a chance for reincarnation, but you took souls and now...we will send you to Hell."

  Mary's voice drops to a rasp. "I will see him there...won't I?"

  "Forever in damnation, of course." There is spite and pity in her voice. "Love him there, until you're sick of him."

  She angles her blade to Mary's wrists, and with a flash of light, binding cuffs snap into place—chains made of judgment and sorrow.

  The captain moves in and hauls the rogue upright with one hand, "Take care of the humans and clean up here. I'll deliver this one."

  She rolls her eyes and shrugs, brushing rogue ash off her gown. He always leaves her with the dirty work. "I did apply something I learned from you, you know."

  Clarence clicks his tongue, barely glancing back, "Do you want a cookie for that?"

  "No." She grinds her teeth, forcing a smile that's more teeth than warmth, "Stop grinning and take your rogue."

  --

  Clarence stands on the balcony of his Veil-registered luxury penthouse in the Soul District. No longer wearing a suit, but a plain black sweater when he hears a knock. It is strange; only Matthew ever comes here, and even he rarely bothers with that kind of courtesy.

  He opens the door and regrets it instantly. It's Clark, his hell spawn rookie. He doesn't even ask how she found out where he lives. It's probably Anya. She somehow has their tech wrapped around her little finger.

  "Are you hungry?"

  That's not the greeting that Clark expected.

  "Get in." He says not waiting for an answer.

  Her eyes immediately wander around the vast space. It's clean, minimalistic—but not as cold as she expected. The colour palette leans warm and neutral, accented with black. The furniture is tasteful, probably worth thousands of reaper credits, and arranged with effortless elegance.

  There's nothing out of place. And she hates that she likes it.

  She points at a vase. "This thing is ugly," she mutters, just to have something mean to say.

  Clarence glances up. "I'll wrap it and have it placed on your desk, just to spite you," he says with a grin.

  She sulks over to the island counter and watches him prepare the meal.

  "Reapers don't need to eat or sleep."

  No," he says, ladling soup into a bowl. "But it helps keep one tethered. Most of us do these things out of habit."

  "I've shaken off those habits in Hell." She says running her fingers in the granite top, "The damned don't let you rest in there."

  Clarence pauses for a moment. Clark had refused the penthouse offered as a signing bonus, along with every benefit. According to the report, she chose to stay in a converted bookshop—one of the old Veil properties. He remembers the realtor's photos when he approved the registry of her residence: no bed, no kitchen. Now, it makes sense.

  But still, he sets the plate in front of her.

  "Eat."

  Clark sits down without a fight. She doesn't really eat anymore—only when she's bored. But she hasn't seen anything this pretty that you can actually put in your mouth.

  Clarence makes a plate for himself, even though he's already eaten. He doesn't like the thought of her eating alone.

  He watches as she takes a spoonful of the meal. She likes it, he can tell, even if she doesn't say a word. He usually eats fast, but tonight he slows down, matching her pace, wishing the moment could stretch just a little longer. Having her here, doing something so mundane, reminds him of what a home is supposed to feel like.

  "I couldn't even insult your house because you are feeding me." She says after a bite of bread.

  He puts down his glass and leans in, "What exactly don't you like?"

  She glares back at him, forks a lettuce and put it in her mouth. The crunch of the leaf being grinded by her teeth is her only response.

  "Do you want dessert?" he asks, "I have a triple-tiered chocolate truffle with the strawberry compote swirl and the salted caramel centre you like."

  A soft laugh escapes her.

  That's the cake she said she wanted at the tasting.

  "You're kidding."

  Clarence takes out the cake and cuts a slice for her.

  "Well, aren't you going to feed it to me with your...finger?" Clark grins suggestively.

  He pulls out cutlery and sets it in front of her. "Use a fork."

  She lets out a "tch" but eats it like a proper lady.

  "Want something to drink?"

  "Reapers don't get drunk, so what's the point?"

  He turns just to see her lick the frosting off her fork, making him swallow hard. "I have something stronger." He pulls out a bottle with a liquid that gleams like polished chrome.

  Clark stops eating. "That stuff's illegal," she blurts. She knows what's inside—distilled ectoplasm. Taken in large amounts, it can lead to insanity, but in small doses, it causes mild hallucinations, a feeling close to being tipsy.

  "I know a guy." Clarence pours them each a glass.

  She crosses her arms and snorts. "Captain, I expected better of you."

  "You gonna rat me out?" he sips, eyes locked on hers.

  Clark takes the other glass. "No. You know me. I thrive on the illegal." She gulps it down and winces with a sharp hiss. "Ugh... tastes like a sinner from the eighth circle." She wipes her mouth and pours herself another glass.

  The captain raises his glass for a toast. "To my guy."

  "To your guy." She clinks her glass to his and drinks.

  He's been counting, and she's now on her sixth glass. It won't kill her, but this stuff can bring terrible hallucinations if taken in excess.

  Clark watches him and counts his drinks too. He's finished three, give or take.

  "You sip like a baby deer... can't hold your liquor, can you?" she teases, tipping her glass to him before gulping it down.

  "And you're drinking like an alcoholic," he says, watching her pour another.

  "That's because...I trust you." She slides her glass away and leans in, "You're not going to touch me...even if I get myself drunk. Even if I beg."

  "You don't know that," he warns.

  Clark grins. "Oh yeah, I know..." She moves closer, her face flushed, her speech slowing. "You won't even kiss me... you got this close... but you won't do it... because of some stupid... rule, I don't know..."

  "Why are you here, Clark?"

  She claps her hands and smiles sheepishly. "You kept avoiding that question... you don't think I notice, you keep... toying with me all this time... feeding me... Now you're asking the right one..."

  Clarence stands up, "It's late you—"

  "No...no...listen...I'm here...because I want to ask you why you didn't do it?"

  He knows what she's referring to, but he does not give her an answer.

  "Come on...Do it...I dare you..."

  Clarence grabs the edge of the counter so tight it cracks, his eyes locked on her. She doesn't know how much restraint it took to stop himself from kissing her earlier. Having her that close is enough to make him lose his mind. But he held back like a fool—because he didn't want it to be just for a mission. If the time comes, he wants it to be real, not a show.

  "...you see..." her voice drops to an almost-whimper, "you can't..." She steadies herself and stands.

  Before he could stop her, she is gone.

  A moment later—

  CRASH.

  Glass shatters somewhere in the house. The echo lingers, like a ghost that forgot how to leave.

  --

  Clark appears in the living realm and accidentally finds Matthew. He is leaning against the marble column of the museum's shadowed entrance, his coat brushing the dusty steps, posture too casual for someone with the title of Head Reaper. The sun is beginning to dip, painting the world in that odd quiet between the ordinary and the magical.

  "You've been...busy," she says, incredulous as she wobbles toward him, "Head Reaper...out in the field twice now in a week. Are you feeling unwell?"

  He smiles, crooked and amused. "Don't get used to it."

  Then he adds, with absolutely no transition:

  "I heard about the kiss."

  Clark shrugs. Blinks. "What kiss?"

  "Your case today. They called it an almost-wedding of the century."

  "Didn't happen," she snaps, too fast, "So...wipe that smug look off your face."

  Matthew arches a brow. "You sound disappointed." He sniffs her, "and...are you drunk?"

  Clark makes a strangled sound and drops onto the museum steps, frustration sharp and thick. "Please, I'm above disappointment," she mutters. "And I'm not drunk, but...hallucinating a bit, I think, you're starting to look less annoying in my eyes."

  Matthew joins her, shoulder brushing hers as he sits. The marble is still warm beneath them. "What did you drink?"

  "Some ectoplasm...brew or something."

  "That stuff's illegal!" he says through gritted teeth, glancing around to make sure no one heard her.

  "That's what I said!" she laughs. "But it's so good..." Her head falls onto his shoulder.

  He doesn't move, just lets her lean on him.

  "Have you ever kissed anyone, Matthew?" she asks, gaze tilted upward, as if the answers might be spelled out in the fading sky.

  He doesn't look at her when he answers. "I don't remember much of my old life. Just impressions. Flashes. Names I've forgotten how to say."

  Clark swallows. She remembers everything. Every aching breath. Every night she fell asleep untouched, untouched still. For all her flirty lines and obscene jokes, she had never been kissed. Not once. Not before the Veil. Not in Hell. Not alive.

  But she's too proud to say it out loud.

  "Would you kiss me," she asks slowly, "if it was you?"

  Matthew turns then. Fully. No pretence in his eyes.

  He sees her. All of her. Not just the sharp tongue, the wicked smile, the armour. But the girl beneath the flame—the one who still bleeds even in the afterlife.

  He reaches out and cups her face like it's something sacred. He isn't blind, he knows how beautiful she is, how capable. And even though she always takes pride in being a scourge, he knows she was once kind, and he can still see there's something left of that light she once held, no matter how much she denies it. That little glimmer that is pulling everyone to her.

  "No one would say no to you," he murmurs.

  "He did," she replies, and it cracks something in the air.

  "Clarence."

  Professional to the bone, a blade forged of duty. Even when he looks at her like he's starving, he won't touch. He won't allow himself the indulgence. Not even once.

  "He hates me I think...maybe because I was so close to being a demon once, or maybe...because of something else...maybe I don't deserve it...not when I was a saint...not now...or ever."

  Matthew notices it—the subtle fracture in her gaze. A tremble at the edge of her pride. The one thing no one gives to a woman like Clark: tenderness.

  So, he leans in. No hesitation. Just quiet certainty.

  His lips touch hers, not with hunger, not with heat—but with reverence. Feather-light. A breath shared. A moment stolen.

  Barely a kiss at all.

  Then he pulls back, his eyes still holding hers. "Don't ever say you don't deserve it."

  Clark exhales, slow and dry. She turns away and wipes her eyes before looking back, "That's it? I thought...you'd use some tongue."

  Matthew snickers, "Did you want me to French you?"

  "I doubt I'd enjoy it," she says sniffing.

  "What?"

  "Hard to tell if I'd feel sad or angry...if that's how you kiss a girl," she adds, flicking his chest with a single finger, "you won't be kissing any girl."

  Matthew laughs, soft and low. "I suppose I'll have to practice."

  Clark doesn't reply. But she stays beside him.

  "Let's get you home," he offers, helping her to her feet. His arms wrap around her like it's nothing new—like it's something he's done a hundred times before. It feels oddly familiar.

  "I kind of wish...I have a bed now, I think I'm about to pass out..."

  Matthew isn't sure he heard her right. "Why don't you have a bed?" Even first-years are paid enough to afford basic comforts. Then it dawns on him—she's probably spending everything on designer clothes and boots.

  "Fine. You can use my bed."

  But before they can disappear, someone steps out of the shadows.

  Clarence.