The guards of the Veil are not, strictly speaking, the nice ones. In fact, several of them were banned from reincarnation outright, retroactively, and in one spectacular case, pre-emptively. But what they lack in angelic temperament they make up for in ruthless efficiency, a sort of divinely sanctioned savagery wrapped in black suit, snark, and a metric ton of red tape.
They are, officially, the Elite Squad—the spiritual equivalent of kicking in the pearly gates, swiping the sinner by the scruff, and marching them straight to where the fire is already nicely preheated. No need for negotiation. No final appeals. Certainly, no singing.
They are feared across realms. Even demons mutter their names like bad weather forecasts with the same disdain you feel when told to carry an umbrella on a sunny day, just because someone says it's going to pour.
The personalities not quite cut out for Elite duty—those with empathy, charm, or a tendency to cry during certain commercials—go into Soul Management. The ones whose souls are a bit greyer than others, those two or three sins away from being thrown into Hell, or just bad at drawing lots, get to become part of the squads.
So yes, putting them all in one room is like locking wildcats in a confessional. With knives.
They have been sitting there for exactly two minutes and fourteen seconds, and not a single throat has been metaphorically or literally slit, which is, all things considered, a biblical miracle. Not that it matters. Everyone in the room is already dead.
The room itself is carved from obsidian, long and grim and windowless in that way that makes you feel like time has given up and is just sulking somewhere in the corner. A table stretched the length of the chamber like a runway for dread; chairs lined like skeletal sentinels.
At the head sits the Captain.
As per usual, he is sharply suited in black and still looking dangerously appetizing if you ask the reapers who dare steal a glance or two. Not that he needs to assert his position by dressing any more formally today; however, the rules dictate that on special days like this, he must wear the Death Robe. Impossibly black, lined with white collar and ancient embroidery no living being has ever fully translated (though one intern suspects it says "DRY CLEAN ONLY").
And when in his presence, even the most stubborn and ill-tempered reaper behaves. All squad quarrels disintegrate, and everyone focuses on keeping him calm and happy. Today more than ever, for it is the annual assembly week which starts with reports.
He surveys the room. Every member of the squad sits straighter. Some do it consciously, the others simply feel their spinal column remembers how to conduct themselves properly. No one makes eye contact with the captain, unless it is absolutely necessary and all weapons are discreetly sheathed (for now).
It is time, the annual reporting of squads progress.
And yet he hasn't heard a damn word in the last three minutes.
Because two seats down on the left sits Clark.
She's slouched in her chair like the assembly bores her to death, one boot hooked lazily around the table leg. She has her pen between her teeth again, biting it gently, head tilted as she half-listens to the report from Squad 3. Her other hand idly taps on the file folder in front of her, out of rhythm, like she's playing her own internal drumbeat.
She leans toward Anya, whispers something behind her hand.
Anya snorts and muffles it quickly before leaning back on her chair.
Clarence keeps his face blank, maintaining a neutral expression. But his eyes betray. Daring peripheral glances. Short bursts like a man looking at the sun through a mirror. Not too long and not too obvious.
But oh heavens, he sees everything.
The way Clark tilts her chin when someone mentions "clean retrieval rates." The subtle eyeroll when Squad 6 talks about Eyes reform. The ghost of a smile on her lips when no one's watching—except him.
"—Captain?"
Clarence blinks.
Callahan from Squad 2 is looking directly at him, brows raised. "I asked if your team is in agreement about the shared sigil encryption protocol," he says, lips just shy of smug.
There is a pause that seems longer than it should be before Clarence answers. "Yes. We've reviewed the matrix with Anya. Implementation should take place by the next quarter."
Callahan nods and accepts the lie.
While Clark glances sideways at the captain. A subtle twitch at the corner of her lips tells she knows he didn't hear the question the first time.
Clarence does not look at her.
He shifts forward in his seat, folding his hands in front of him as another squad finishes their report with polished precision. The floor then passes to Ghost Crimes.
Heads turn.
A rustle of anticipation. A few subtle scoffs from the old guard.
Anya straightens, but it's Clark who speaks.
Every eye is on the reaper from Hell. The one who climbed ranks too fast and whose very soul still smells of fire and brimstone.
Some eyes narrow as she walks to the front. Others flick with restrained curiosity. But Clark doesn't flinch. She speaks like she couldn't care less whether they listen or not. Her voice is low, confident, and professional. A slow, lethal rhythm that commands the room even when she's not trying to.
Clarence doesn't look at her. Not really.
But he is burning.
Every word from her mouth makes his spine coil tighter. Her voice echoes in his chest in ways that words shouldn't. Her presence fills every inch of this chamber like smoke seeping under doors.
And he wants—
To praise her. And to say, "Excellent work", and let the corner of his mouth soften in the way he knows she watches for.
But he doesn't.
He nods once and that's it.
Clark's gaze flicks to him. If she's disappointed, she doesn't show it. But she knows. She always does.
She sits back down, one leg crossing over the other. Pen back in her mouth, not at all bothered with his indifference.
The captain exhales slowly and doesn't let himself look again for the rest of the meeting. But the damage is done. Her voice is still in his skull. The image of her face burned behind his eyes, and in her presence, in the same room, is enough to unravel the man he's tried so hard to remain.
The reapers filter out, but he tells Clark to stay behind. No one says a word, but everyone's thinking it, she's about to be reprimanded. It's the same feeling as when a teacher asks you to stay after class, only to tell you you're failing. Only Anya throws Clark a different type of glance. One that says someone's about to get spanked—and not in a disciplinary way.
She remains in her seat, still biting her pen, waiting for the scolding she's sure is coming. It's her report, probably made the graphs too colourful for his liking, maybe the fonts are not Veil approved.
When Clarence stands, he walks over and turns her chair toward him. Without a word, he plucks the pen from her mouth.
"What's with you and this damn pen?"
He grips the back of her chair, holding her in place, as if he doesn't trust her to stay within arm's reach. He looks angry. Or maybe something else.
"It's a pen. No need to get so offended." She leans in narrowing the gap into a breath, "I've been sitting here for two hours. I was bored. I needed something to put in my mouth."
His mind offers a vivid suggestion of exactly what else she could use to keep her mouth busy—but he forces it down.
"Don't do it again," he mutters, turning away to hide the flush creeping into his cheeks. "It's distracting."
"I didn't hear any complaints." She rises slowly from her chair, "You're—"
She doesn't finish. Clarence grabs her by the chin and tilts her face up to meet his. He hasn't put on his gloves yet and when his thumb brushes on her lower lip, the contact is so sudden and intimate she nearly gasps.
"No matter how utterly bored you are," he says like warning, eyes fixed on her mouth, "don't do it. These lips were not made to suck pens."
Clark doesn't answer, uncertain if she even heard him right. Even when he reaches the door, she remains unmoved. Only when she hears the loud clunk of the pen clashing against the bin as Clarence disposes of it does she snap out of her trance.
—
There are many ways the afterlife reminds you it still has rules.
Today, it chooses evaluation day—a ritual both feared and forgotten, where first-year reapers must prove that they are more than just dead people with decent posture and sharp blades.
The training hall, built from stone that remembered death and wood that refused to burn, looms like a cathedral made by accident. At its centre: chalked circles, glowing sigils, and a scattering of impossibly young faces pretending not to be nervous.
Anya, who was never young even when she was, is already there—boots up on a bench, chewing on a holographic energy bar that tastes like starlight and artificial raspberry.
The doors hiss open.
Clarence enters like a shadow with an agenda. It's the last day of the excruciating assembly week, and as the head of the Elite Squad, it's part of his sworn duty to oversee the whole thing.
His presence is immediately felt, and the reapers stand in attention.
As one—they bow.
Every single one of them. Except Clark who saunters beside him, chewing a gum and then pops a bubble.
Clarence remains impassive, but the tension is obvious in his steps. After he forbids her from playing with a pen, she simply finds a new way to annoy him. It feels useless now to scold her.
"I forget sometimes," she says quietly in between chews.
"What?"
"That you're Captain. That I'm supposed to bow too." She looks around at all the lowered heads paying respects.
He looks at her sidelong. "Then why don't you?" he dares.
"Because you let me walk beside you in their presence."
Clarence says nothing and continues to move forward, sending the reapers at ease.
She scans the room, eyes sharp with mischief and teeth made for mockery. "Wow," she says, arms folded in front of her. "Didn't know we were gathering to swear allegiance to the Great Afterlife Flag today. Or is it just a cult thing? Should I have worn white?"
He does not look at her. This is how he preserves his dignity. She clearly didn't even read the memo, and just goes along with all the events for the week.
"It's Evaluation," he says flatly, "for the first years." He can see her falling behind so he slows down his pace until she's right beside him again.
"You know technically, I'm still a first year." She tilts her head sideways in that way that makes people nervous, "Am I gonna be evaluated too?"
"You will," he says, clipped. "But separately."
Clark gasps. "Separately? In private? With clothes on?"
Clarence stops and glares at her scandalous mouth.
"Oh, so no clothes. Really, Captain, you keep this up, I'll start to think you're making me feel special."
"How," he starts, voice so dry it might crack, "do you even come up with these things?"
She just shrugs at his clear irritation. "With the overload of afterlife sweets and my exceptional imagination."
A faint smile begins to appear on his lips in surrender. He tries to hide it, but she sees it anyway.
Before he can summon a reply or banish her to desk duty, the room shifts. The other squads begin to arrive. Black uniforms, stiff collars, polished blades—all precision and pride and eyes that still remember judgment.
Clark straightens, but just barely.
Anya waves from across the hall, crossing her arms and giving her a knowing grin. Her sharp eyes probably caught that very rare smile from the captain.
And then come the familiar ones.
Declan, from Squad 1. Still bright and too charming for his own good. He spots Clark, winks like they're old friends even if they've only shared four arguments, two tackling on the mat, and one bottle of contraband hellwine.
She waves back.
Behind him, Callahan from Squad 2. Sharp-jawed. Even sharper in moral superiority. He looks at Clark like she's an expired curse. Looking at her direction makes his expression tightens so hard you'd think he was trying to pass a kidney stone. Or maybe just the urge to yell 'abomination!' in a public forum again.
Clark gives him a cheerful two-finger salute.
He goes visibly rigid with her greeting, muttering something under his breath that is definitely not a prayer.
"Someone's thrilled to see me," Clark murmurs to Clarence.
"You've ruined his entire week."
"Good. I like making him cry."
Clarence pinches the bridge of his nose. "Just stand still for one hour. One."
She pops another bubble in response while watching his patience grow thin, then laughs quietly.
More squads trickle in. Some with spines straight as iron rods, others unmistakably first-years. Wide-eyed, eager and polished like blades that haven't been used yet.
Clark doesn't pay most of them any mind.
But then—
Them.
The quiet in their steps and subtlety in their posture most wouldn't notice. Wouldn't bother to. Scrawny, twitchy and soft. The kind of reapers who probably still write to their families in the living world on their dead journals. Those who cry too easily and hesitate too long.
They pass by her with the barest nods.
No waves or smiles. Just small, near-invisible acknowledgments.
She returns each one. A tilt of her chin. The flick of two fingers at her side. Quiet and coded gestures you wouldn't notice unless you were already looking.
Clarence is and sees it all. The nods and signals. The rhythm of recognition moving through the overlooked like a tide.
He's been watching her discreetly during the ungodly hours, and he knows she handpicked them. The washouts, those destined to fail their first retrieval and fade into admin roles for the rest of eternity.
At first, he thought she just liked to fight. A midnight brawl club for the chaotic and deranged to feed the sadistic tendency she acquired in the Pit. But she doesn't just spar with them. She corrects their stances. Teaches them how to defend themselves. How to break rules without getting caught. How to hold a blade like it owes you reaper credits.
He knows and is aware that no one does and that she'd deny it if asked. Because that's the way she works.
She leaves his side without a word. She strolls over to the thickening crowd of rookies in pressed uniforms, older reapers watching from the sidelines with their arms crossed as murmurs climb like static in the air. The tournament brackets have just gone up—twelve footboards plastered with soul parchment and sealed with official sigils, glowing faintly blue.
Clark weaves through the suits like smoke, stopping short when she sees it.
The matchups.
And there, names she knows like breath now. Every one of them written in that trembling penmanship of the Veil's Admin Office, lined up to go against Squad 1 and Squad 2.
Her kids—those nobodies who showed up at her fight club crying, shaking and failing their field evaluations are about to fight the best of the best. The worst kind of opening round.
Clark whistles low. "Well," she mutters under her breath, "that's dramatic."
"Talking to yourself again?" comes Callahan's voice, smug as ever.
She turns, and there he is, along with the rest of the menacing holy trinity: Declan and Anya. A single glance at their expressions tells her everything: they've been here awhile. And judging from the glint in Callahan's eye and the coins between Declan's fingers, they weren't just here for the matchups.
Clark raises a brow. "What's the pot?"
Callahan grins, all white teeth and zero shame. "You heard nothing."
Clark folds her arms unperturbed. "Sure. So, what's the buy-in?"
"For you?" Callahan taps his chin dramatically. "A hundred reaper credits."
Clark scoffs. "You're joking. What is it really?"
"Twenty," Anya mutters like a traitor.
Clark nods, deadpan. "Thought so. Fine. I'm in for five hundred."
They all go silent.
Declan's coin slips from his fingers and hits the marble floor with a tiny, accusatory ping.
Anya gapes. "That's your whole month."
Clark shrugs. "So? I don't need to eat."
"Yeah, but that's gear money," Anya hisses, like Clark just offered her soul to a crossroads demon. "That's—like—custom boots! That's new black steel mods!"
"That's what makes it fun," Clark says with a grin.
Callahan's still laughing. "You're actually insane. Who are you even betting on? Ghost Crimes doesn't have any rookies in the running."
Clark just jerks her chin toward the parchment. "I've got my own rookies."
Declan leans in to read the names and then snorts. "You've got to be kidding. Those guys? They're dead last in metrics. One of them cried during a thunder simulation last week."
"Not anymore," Clark replies, too calmly.
Callahan squints at the names. "Wait a minute. These are the recruits that got dropped from their squads. These are the rejects."
"They're mine now," Clark says with a shrug. "Let's see how your boys do."
Anya grabs her elbow. "Clarkie, I know you're a bit crazy, but this is suicidal! You're betting large number of credits against Declan and Callahan's squads. And these guys you picked... they were flunking written exams last month."
She playfully pokes her cheek. "Then I hope you're not betting against me."
Declan laughs again, louder this time. "You're out of your mind."
"Isn't that why you like me?"
Callahan rolls his eyes at her absurdity. "If they win even one round, I'll double your credits back."
An offer that made her eyes twinkle. "You'll be tripling them, Callahan." She says almost like a warning.
And across the hall, the captain witnesses everything happening by the boards. The hushed glances, the subtle handshakes, the quiet clinks of coins and data chips exchanging behind palm folds. It's all very civilized for something entirely unsanctioned.
The betting pool is no secret. The tradition is older than most of the current squads, but they've refined it over the years. Clarence himself had helped start it in his early reaping days—not that he'd ever admit that now. Certainly not to the Chief. Or worse, to Clark.
The entire Veil, those off-duty at least, is invited here to watch the rookies bleed.
And bleed, they do.
Clark's recruits enter the field, not with swagger, but with grit. The "untrainables" pulled from the gutters of reaper squads. Most reapers don't even know they exist.
Until now.
The crowd leans in as the first match starts. Clark's first rookie is smaller than his opponent, but he moves like he's been fighting shadows in back alleys. He lands a solid hit—two, actually, before going down, hard but not humiliated.
The second one is taller, lean and bruised in confidence. This one lasts even longer. Draws blood. Dodges twice what the other squad threw at him. Still loses. But damn if he didn't fight like a reaper twice his rank.
And the third—her smallest, youngest girl, the one who used to flinch at loud sounds—stays standing the longest. Long enough to earn a cheer from someone in the back.
The Squad leaders squint at their ledgers like the numbers might be lying. And beside her, Callahan starts to get nervous.
"Why in the Veil is she not backing down?" he whispers as they watch her get beaten but remains upright.
She might be small, but she knows how to take a beating. In the blink of an eye, she nearly lands a strike. But it's dodged, just barely. She holds her ground longer than she ever thought she would, but in the end, she goes down like the rest.
All three defeated.
Not a single win.
Callahan beams like a demon with a feast. "You know," he says, sidling up to Clark as the crowd starts murmuring again, "I should've made you bow too. Would've been a nice touch, watching you curtsy."
He tuts. "Too bad it's too late. All I'm getting is your whole month's allowance."
She doesn't react, not even glowers. She just pulls a small black card from her pocket and flicks it with two fingers into the breast pocket of his coat. Her hand lingers just long enough to make him choke a little.
"That's my I.O.U," she says with a quiet, dangerous smile. "You'll get it by the end of the day, promise."
Callahan blinks, caught somewhere between flustered and flattered, and watches her walk away like she just won anyway.
Clark passes by her rookies as she heads back to Clarence. They're off to the side now, dazed and sweaty and bruised, but standing. One of them gives her a nod—awkward, unsure. Another just presses their palm against their chest in silent thanks.
She doesn't stop. Just gives them a small smile.
They didn't win. But they made their presence known. No one will look at them the same after today.
She steps back into Clarence's shadow, the space beside him at the observation line. He doesn't look at her, still pretending all her glances to some random first years mean nothing.
But it is her.
She's Marion.
There's no denying it anymore. The cadence of hope in her voice, the way she moves, even her belief in the broken—that they're worth something still, worth bleeding for. The same bloody conviction.
He had told her once, perhaps too early, that she had the makings of a leader.
She scoffed, like she always does with compliments. But the truth walks behind her like an old, loyal hound: the broken follow her because they believe she won't let them stay that way.
Now Clarence stands silent in judgment but humbled by the truth. She has not accepted command.
But she is already leading.
The next match begins, and both remain quiet as the evaluation progresses. The leaderboard flashes the final scores in luminous gold and silver script. And as expected, the names topping the list belong to Squad 1 and Squad 2. A rookie from Declan's squad. A prodigy under Callahan. Applause rolls like thunder inside the hall.
But the day will not end without a final spectacle.
The lights shift subtly across the Grand Assembly Hall as the High-Tech Armory doors grind open. A low mechanical hum fills the space, drawing the attention of every reaper in the room.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Anya's voice pipes cheerfully through the intercom, her presence already charged with giddy pride, "meet version twelve-point-oh of our Rogue Soul simulation series—now upgraded with more accurate kill feedback, movement unpredictability, and, of course, emotional mimicry!"
The entire hall leans forward as a predatory form steps onto the floor—skin pale, hair dark and stringy, eyes a smouldering black-red swirl of corrupted soul energy. The dummy rogue feels wrong. Too real. Like it walked straight out of one of the mission reports.
Whispers rise like wind. This one moves like the real thing.
"It's programmed with past case data," Anya continues. "Settings adjustable from a weak, wandering Type 1... up to a rogue Type 3. And guess which one we're using today?"
The board flares:
ROGUE SETTING: TYPE 3
ENGAGEMENT LEVEL: MAX AGGRESSION
POSSESSION: ENABLED
Even veteran reapers murmur with genuine curiosity. The thing looks real. It feels like the weight in the air before a soul gets ripped out of someone's body.
Anya laughs from the control booth, then whispers to Declan, "You said you wanted something fun. Just try not to die."
The demonstration is supposed to be simple. A warm-up bout handled by Declan and Callahan, showcasing standard possession disarmament and rogue containment tactics.
But of course, this is an Elite Squad evaluation. And nothing involving Declan ever stays simple for long.
He claps once, dramatic. "Now that everyone's wide awake," he declares to the crowd, "it's only right we show the rookies what real rogue retrieval looks like. Ghost Crimes Team—special division trained to face high-level rogues, yeah? I'm certain you all want to see how they actually fare."
Clark snorts under her breath with the announcement of impromptu exercise. "Here we go..."
But Clarence suddenly steps in front of her. A quiet motion, but unmistakably protective. His shoulders tight and already on a defensive stance.
"You're blocking my view, Captain." She complains seeing him move forward.
But he's not looking at her. His eyes are pinned on Declan, who's watching him... that good boy face is fooling everyone but him.
He has known him too long. And he is not harmless as he pretends to be. Just like Matthew, he likes to hide the dark side of him with a smile and a handsome face.
But Declan doesn't go for Clark. Instead, he lifts his chin, voice sharp and lazy as a whip:
"Captain. You're up."
A murmur cuts through the crowd.
Clark's head whips toward Declan. "Wait, what?"
"I mean, if we're evaluating our best, we ought to see our actual best in action." Declan smiles wide, fake sweet. "Besides, you're the one who approved this training simulation, weren't you, Captain?"
Clarence looks at him cold. "You think a fight between me and a dummy is fair?"
"That's why," Callahan joins in now, "we'll be handicapping you." He holds up a sleek device. "Your right arm will be bound. You'll wear an eyepatch. Your left leg will be paralyzed. And you'll use your blade left-handed."
The audience erupts in wild cheers and gasps.
"Oh, and us," Declan adds, casually drawing his blade. "Callahan and I will act as possessed reapers. Just for realism."
He doesn't answer so Clark nudges him from behind. "You gonna go down there, or just stand here and look tragically handsome all day?"
Then—under her breath, with a wicked grin—"Damn. I'm out of reaper credits. Maybe I should bet my body for this round."
Clarence hears her and turns slowly. His eyes burn, glittering with threat.
She shrugs, lips curling at his reaction. "Don't look at me like that. The bet's on you. If you win, you get me."
"Is that supposed to entice me?" he says through gritted teeth and tensed muscles.
She only leans in, smiling like sin. "Why? Are you scared it does?"
He shakes his head, even though they both know she's right.
"Well then," she hums, pretending to think, "maybe I'll let Callahan sleep with me instead if you lose."
He scowls at the notion. "He hates you."
"Declan then?" she teases. "I'll steal him from Anya, or maybe we'll share."
His jaw tightens. That got him. He knows it's just talk, but still, he notices how comfortable she and Declan have become. And unlike him, there's nothing stopping that one from getting too close. He doesn't want to admit it, but it irks him.
Clarence snaps, "Stay here. And don't move."
The captain steps forward and a quiet hush settles over the hall. Someone hands him the bindings. Someone else brings the eyepatch. He straps in calmly, a sharp contrast to the trembling attendants securing the most powerful Reaper in the Veil. Or maybe they're just stunned by how absurdly good he looks in restraints.
His left leg is already beginning to stiffen from the nerve-freezing hex. His dominant arm folded behind him, locked tight with energy cuffs. The eyepatch snaps into place.
Clark watches all of it unfold, arms crossed, lips twitching in amusement.
The rogue dummy jumps into place.
Its chest heaves unnaturally, sharp limbs twitching with the feral mimicry of the real thing. One arm shifts into jagged blades, the other curling like a whip. A brilliant bit of cursed engineering, powered by Anya's meticulous coding and trauma-harvested data.
Its head jerks toward Clarence with eerie precision. Energy readings spike. It growls.
And as soon as the bell dings, it strikes.
What follows is a blur of sound and movement—metal scraping, energy flashing, curses shouted across the air.
Even hobbled, blind on one side, left-handed with a dulled training blade, he fights like a storm in a suit and does not falter. Every movement efficient. Every strike exact. He reads the rogue's patterns like a second language, dodges Declan's incoming blow, redirects Callahan's swing with a simple pivot and a knee that shouldn't be able to lift.
The crowd is screaming.
Rookies and veterans alike watch, slack jawed.
And Clark is enthralled. She watches his shoulder blades move under his uniform. Watches the way he exhales just before every strike. Watches how even in limitation, Clarence is precision incarnate. It's infuriating. And strangely attractive.
But it's when he spins, plants his paralyzed leg, and uses the angle to sweep both Declan and Callahan's legs that the entire hall loses its mind.
Callahan hits the ground hard. Declan barely catches himself.
The captain backs away giving them time to strategize. He can easily win, but the purpose of this demonstration is to teach the young reapers and test Anya's prototype.
Declan steps forward beside the rogue dummy. Callahan hovers to his left, muttering, "What the hell kind of plan is this again?"
Declan tilts his head slightly, voice low and smooth. "Trust me. Just stir the rogue closer to her and let's see what happens."
Callahan glances toward the viewing rail, to the very obvious figure of Clark sitting with her chin propped on her hand like she's watching an opera. The crowd is pressing backward slightly—everyone knows better than to sit too close when a type 3 simulation is active.
But she doesn't move.
At all.
Callahan frowns. "You're baiting Clark? Isn't she your friend?"
"No," Declan says calmly, smiling. "She's his."
They go again. The rogue lashes and the captain parries the hybrid attacks of the rogue and his two "possessed" teammates with clean, effortless grace.
It's dazzling and educational, like Clarence wanted. Reapers whisper reverently, taking notes mentally if not on paper.
He's not using full strength, of course. That would break the simulation.
But then, Declan shifts. A faint whistle.
"Now."
Suddenly, the rogue turns—not toward Clarence, but toward the edge of the arena where Clark still lounges lazily, legs crossed, expression unreadably serene.
Some reapers shuffle nervously while others flinch as the rogue comes closer.
Its violent whips lash toward her. But Clark doesn't move.
Because he told her not to.
Clarence sees it happen in a heartbeat.
He registers her stillness, the lack of fear. She's just sitting there, trusting him—no, testing him—to do what she knows he will do.
He appears in front of her in a blink, intercepting the whip midair with his blade. But Declan's already moving, anticipating it, and his strike lands—not quite true, but enough for the board to flash.
+1: Squad 1.
Clarence's jaw clenches.
"They're cheating," Clark observes pleased. It's the only way to win, frankly she admires their tenacity. She can't helped but smile seeing how furious Clarence is, not in million years did he expect for his own vice captains to go low.
"You're insane," he hisses back, not taking his eyes off the rogue. "If that whip hit—"
"It did," she purrs, raising a shoulder to show the torn fabric and shallow gash blooming red across her skin. "Oops."
From the platform, gasps erupt. Whispers slither like serpents—she didn't even dodge?
Callahan launches forward next. Another coordinated maneuver that leaves Clark momentarily exposed. The rogue slashes again.
+1: Squad 2.
Callahan whoops and spins, but he's still close enough to shout, "Are you out of your mind? Why aren't you defending yourself?"
She raises an eyebrow, bored and amused. "It's against the rules to interfere with the simulation."
"You're the target!"
She shrugs. "Still a reaper. Still not allowed."
Callahan almost screams. Even Declan seems slightly rattled now, though he hides it with a grin.
Clarence, however, has had enough.
They're baiting him. Using her like a pressure point. And she's letting them, because she knows—deep down—that the line they're playing with is real.
Declan and Callahan charge again, separating him from her.
He skids back across the arena, blade up, heart hammering with something dangerously human.
Clark remains seated. The rogue's eyes glow brighter. It leaps.
The claws arc toward her unprotected chest.
Too fast.
Clark still doesn't evade.
Clarence flashes—no wings this time, just raw, blinding speed. The crowd blurs and wind howls as he appears between her and the claw—just a second too late.
The rogue's talon slices into his ribs, leaving red across his white inner shirt. Blood hits the ground.
But Clark is untouched.
The rogue rears back, resetting.
Declan and Callahan lie winded on opposite ends of the arena, thrown like ragdolls by the blow that sent them flying when Clarence retaliated mid-charge.
The simulation ends.
SIMULATION COMPLETE. TYPE-3 NEUTRALIZED. VICTORY: CAPTAIN CLARENCE .
The hall breaks with cheers and holy whispers of his name rise like incense.
Clarence rises to full height, blade dripping with fake rogue essence, breathing steady even if his face is thunderous.
But his fingers twitch slightly—resisting the urge to touch her, to shake her, to pull her behind him and never let her do something so stupid again.
Clark finally gets up, brushing imaginary dust off her skirt. She walks up beside him, glances at the torn line in his uniform, and doesn't say anything. Instead, she simply bows.
Elegant, shallow, and just the right amount of theatrical, as if she were the magician's assistant stepping out from behind the curtain after a well-rehearsed trick.
Her voice, though soft, carries just enough.
"Hope that was educational," she says, with that signature smile—half trouble, half charm.
Laughter ripples through the hall. The tension breaks like thin glass underfoot. Someone even whistles. And just like that, the gossip that started to form about the captain's reckless dive, or his unnecessary proximity to some rookie, folds neatly into the narrative of performance.
A coordinated spectacle. Reapers do this sometimes; the crowd tells itself. It's all for the training, after all.
Clark straightens, her eyes cutting sideways to where Declan sits on the edge of the arena, bruised and smiling like a man who lost the match but won something anyway. She narrows her gaze briefly at the bastard.
He tried to bait the captain to lit something and he used her as the match. But she will not be the spark to anyone else's rumour mill—not if she can help it.
She turns without another word and walks to the exit.
Clarence doesn't follow right away. Not with the crowd still watching. He stays exactly where a captain should be—stoic, bloodied, nodding to the techs and medics and rookies alike.
But minutes later, in the halls behind the main stage, she hears the soft, heavy footfalls she's memorized far too well.
The corridor is dim. The hum of barrier wards buzzing faintly overhead. Spare weapons locked in cabinets line the walls, and there's a faint antiseptic scent of reaper-grade med kits nearby.
Clark doesn't turn when she hears him.
She's unbuttoning her coat slowly, inspecting the claw mark along her shoulder—nothing deep, but enough to sting under the fabric.
"Are you going to scold me now?" she asks teasing.
Clarence steps in slow, then halts just behind her. "What were you thinking? That was extremely reckless of you."
She turns confused at his sudden outburst. "You said don't move. So, I didn't."
He wants to hit something. Of all the times she could have chosen to finally be obedient, she chose today and followed a stupid command.
"You could have been seriously hurt!" he growls, "Do you even think about that?"
She lets her coat slip and reveals to him where the claw tore through her uniform. The wound is healing already. Reapers knit fast.
"You're emotional," she counters, eyes locking with his. "It's not like I'm going to die."
She doesn't get it. The sight of her blood there—even minor—has clearly been eating at him. And it spilled on his watch.
"Doesn't mean you're immune to feeling pain." His gaze drops for a moment.
He's been acting strange ever since that night at her house. She still tries to flirt her way through dealing with him, but it's getting harder to pretend it means nothing when he acts like this.
"Captain," she calls, just to remind him of what he is.
He's either not hearing her—or pretending not to. She leans forward slightly and reaches for his face.
"You can't protect me from everything," she murmurs. "You need to let me take a hit sometimes."
His head tilts toward her, eyes filled with accusation, like she just said something sacrilegious. "Why would I let you do that?"
"Because we're a team." She answers firmly, "You must trust me to judge my own strength, I can take it. I'm not ungrateful. I'm just saying—don't get hurt for me like that."
"It's not like I would die." He snaps using her own words against her.
She laughs softly, as if acknowledging his win in a game neither of them even knew was afoot.
Clark reaches over and lifts his robe to check the wound on his ribs. It's deeper than hers. But it's nothing serious and it's starting to mend. "You're right. You'll live." She says.
Those words.
He heard those before, she said them once. And the memory of that night comes back to him ...