"Do you want me to get fired?"
"Please." Clark rolls her eyes and promptly shoves a lollipop into Anya's mouth like she's pacifying a particularly loud oracle. "Clarence loves you."
Anya leans back in her chair, the sugary orb clicking against her teeth with all the subtlety of a gavel. "Is this supposed to be a bribe?"
Clark smiles. The kind that makes war generals nervous and small children cry. "I could always use my reaper blade, if you're more into violence. Take the sugar."
She perches on the desk, twirling her own lollipop like it's a cigarette and she's contemplating the meaning of life—or how best to ruin someone's week.
The footage replays in crisp, high-definition violence on Anya's monitor. It stars Matthew, caught in the Eyes' view, knocking seven shades of spectral nonsense out of a rogue-possessed human like it's a weekday brunch special.
"...Remind me," Clark says slowly, one brow rising in that very specific way people do when the universe has the audacity to surprise them, "when were you all going to tell me that Matthew used to be a Vice Captain?"
Anya does not even blink. She reclines in her chair, feet kicked up on the desk, pulls out the lollipop out her mouth sporting a blue-coloured tongue. "Yeah, we sort of assumed the way he walks into the squad wing like he owns both the place and the afterlife would've tipped you off."
"It didn't."
Clark glares at the paused footage of Matthew's smug, scoundrel-worthy expression—the frame where his fist is still mid-air. "The pretty ones are always dangerous."
Anya gives her a side eye that says it takes one good looking psychopath to know another.
The psychopath's—Clark's—eyes flick lazily from the screen to her, and back again. "So," she chimes, sweet as sin, "is this the only copy?"
Anya, nods. "Yeah. Why—"
She doesn't get to finish. Clark's finger has already hit DELETE with the speed of divine judgment. Anya flails, almost swallowing her lollipop whole.
"HEY!"
Clark swings her legs off the desk and stands, stretching like a cat after a long nap. "Can't have another reaper being the poster child for rebellion and broken rules," she says, popping her lollipop back into her mouth with theatrical flair. "I'm supposed to be the only one who comes with a warning label."
And there it is—the thing she doesn't say. That Matthew, lovely, dangerous Matthew, is inching too close to Clarence's increasingly selective attention. And Clark? She doesn't compete. She conquers.
And with that, she waltzes out, leaving Anya alone with her slightly charred pride and blue tongue. And as the room settles into silence, broken only by the soft whir of the cooling monitors, Anya leans back in her chair, staring at the now-empty file directory.
"Good thing the system always does automatic backups," she mutters casually, smirking to herself.
A few clicks later, the same footage Clark thought she'd sent to digital purgatory flickers back to life on the screen—Matthew, in all his rule-breaking, rogue-pummelling glory.
Anya taps her stylus against her lips, contemplating. Technically, she's told Clark there are no more copies. Technically, she also hasn't said anything about the backups. Semantics are a comfort in the Veil—second only to coffee.
She's so focused with her almost-crime she doesn't notice the shadow standing behind her until it clears its throat.
Clarence.
The only creature in the afterlife whose voice makes you feel like you've just been handed a pop quiz on morality and punctuality.
Anya stops mid-click. She's caught, dead to rights, and her sheepish glance confirms it.
Clarence crosses his arms, face unreadable but unimpressed, as always. "You want to tell me what's going on?" he asks.
For precisely two seconds, she contemplates lying. Then her mouth, which is at war with her common sense, declares mutiny.
"Captain, sir—okay, so, the Head Reaper may have, hypothetically, asked me to, like, not see things. But I saw things. The Eyes saw things. Everything. An–and I was supposed...I was supposed to delete it because...because Clark wants to erase all cop—"
"Clark wants to?"
Her hands fly so fast to cover her mouth. She is dead, Clark will kill her.
"Sir—"
Clarence lifts a hand.
Silence.
Anya clamps her mouth shut so hard it makes a soft pop.
The Captain's expression doesn't change. Not even a twitch. He simply inhales, slow and deep, like a man mentally rewriting his entire schedule to include "deal with these two lunatics."
"So," he says flatly, "Clark wants to erase evidence of Matthew breaking protocol."
Anya nods, frantically, like one of those dashboard bobbleheads on a bumpy road.
"Unfortunately for her, you have this." He points to the monitor.
Another aggressive nod.
"I want a copy on my desk in two minutes." He walks away and goes inside his office.
--
Clark stands by the Captain's desk the next day, leaning against it like she owns it, arms crossed, one boot propped up against the side in an infuriatingly casual pose.
Clarence exhales slowly, the headache already let herself in without even allowing him to have his coffee. "Get off my desk."
She doesn't move. "Didn't even say good morning," she tsks shaking her head in mock disappointment. "Looks like I slaved over to finish this report at dawn for nothing, you really know how to hurt a girl." She lays down a folder on his desk.
His eyebrow rises up as he picks up the report, flipping through the pages. His face stays blank—too blank—as he reads her neatly falsified version of events: Clark, rebellious reaper extraordinaire, in a fit of noble fury, delivers a pre-extraction beating to the rogue's host. An offense, yes—but better her name on it than Matthew's. After all, she's built her whole brand on bad decisions.
When he finally looks at her, his expression betrays nothing.
"So, you beat the host before extraction, after I specifically told you to push out the rogue first?"
"That's right." Clark folds her arms, cocking a brow.
"And this is an accurate recounting of the events?"
"Yes."
She doesn't waver—not even a little. He shouldn't bother thinking she'll be unable to lie. She's the best liar in the Veil, with an honorary degree straight from Hell.
Clarence doesn't waste his breath anymore. He simply delivers the verdict like a guillotine: two days' disciplinary action, cleaning the Elite Squad training room until it shines so brightly it offends the dead.
She expects a good scolding—but not this. A punishment that's giving her ideas about starting a killing spree.
"I'm too cute for chores." Her jaw tightens in protest like a bear trap as she glares at him.
"You're even cuter with a broom and a mop, I'm sure." Clarence replies with an expression that's disturbingly close to a smile. "Now get on it."
But she's not one to let him think he's won. That would be far too generous. She accepts with gritted teeth and the grace of a wronged queen planning quiet, violent revenge.
And if there is one thing Clark knows how to do in style, other than slicing open sinners, it's serving a sentence.
She arrives for her punishment on time the first day. Not a minute late. Not a second early. Precisely the kind of punctuality that should inspire concern rather than admiration.
She shows up dressed less like a cleaning lady and more like the opening act of a very expensive scandal. Black from head to toe—the universal uniform for trouble—short tennis skirt swishing like a flag of defiance, shirt zippered top that had the decency to exist but not the good sense to be zipped up, and leather boots laced to her knees, the kind that don't belong anywhere near a mop. It is the sort of outfit that can derail moral compasses and, as it turns out, training sessions.
And then she cleans. Sort of. Mostly she rearranges dust while looking spectacularly unbothered.
The Elite Squad arrives mid-sweep, freezing at the threshold like deer on a firing range. One of the first years—still young, still soft—stares, wide-eyed.
"Wait—isn't that...?" he half-whispers, as if naming her might summon something worse.
The others nod, all too aware. Everyone knows Clark. She's the kind of legend you hope never learns your name.
"Keep walking," Callahan orders without looking back, his voice the audible equivalent of an eye roll. He doesn't need to glance to know who they're gawking at. Of course it's her.
Callahan, Vice Captain of Squad 2. The poor man's patience retires the day Clarence recruits Clark from Hell and drops her into their neatly organized chaos like a firecracker in a teapot.
Squad 1 drifts in not long after, with their Vice Captain—Declan, the poster child for choirboys with suspiciously good bone structure. The squads do their best to start training. Blades fly, targets are aimed for, but each time Clark bends, at least one weapon misses its mark.
One poor reaper, so busy tracking the curve of Clark's back as she ties her laces, gets a practice blade to the face.
"Hey, eyes up, you fool," Callahan snaps, the corner of his mouth twitching somewhere between irritation and second-hand embarrassment.
And Clark? Still cleaning, humming, the picture of innocent mischief wrapped in a tiny black skirt.
Declan, the only one with enough social graces to make an introduction before staring, approaches her as she leisurely scrubs a mat that has no business being scrubbed. "I don't think we've met," he says, smooth as polished glass.
Clark straightens to find herself face-to-face with a man who looks suspiciously like a romance novel cover escaped into real life. Good hair, good smile, and a face so friendly it probably came with a warranty.
"I'm Declan. Vice Captain, Squad 1." He extends a hand.
Clark peels off a cleaning glove with theatrical slowness and takes his hand, looking him over with amused curiosity. "Where were they keeping you?" she teases, taking his hand. "You're lovely."
Instead of shaking, Declan lifts her hand and kisses it. A proper gentleman's gesture, the kind no one bothers with anymore unless they've got charm to burn and nowhere else to put it.
"Anya talks about you a lot," he says.
Clark quirks a perfect brow, "And?"
"She said you are fun."
Her lips curve, equal parts mischief and menace. "Stick around. You're gonna more than hear about my so-called 'fun-ness.'"
Declan barely has time to let out a soft chuckle before a practice blade whistles through the air, headed straight for them. Clark catches it one-handed, cool as you please, like she's been expecting the interruption.
A reaper jogs over, with a face too far from being apologetic. "My reaper missed."
Callahan. Of course.
Clark twirls the blade lazily, her eyes sliding over to him. She knows the type: tall, broad, handsome if you squint past the permanent scowl. Anya's former boss, now her new favorite hater.
With a flick of her wrist, she launches the blade back to the offending reaper, letting it pass just shy of his face. A calculated near-miss, the kind that makes your life flash before your eyes.
"Teach your reapers some manners, Vice," she cautions smoothly, "because next time, that shot lands between his eyes."
Callahan's face does something between clenching and snarling. He has heard about her pettiness, how even the slightest change of wind can trigger her temper. But seeing it first hand with that wicked grin makes him petty too.
"You wanna spar, rookie?"
There is a deliberate stress on the last word. No matter what abysmal pit she comes from, in the Elite Squad, she's a first year.
Clark wipes her hands on her skirt, all casual indifference. "Depends. You want to cry in front of your friends?"
A chorus of low, appreciative ooohs ripples through the room like schoolboys witnessing a verbal slap.
The brewing hostility stops everyone from training.
"Get up," Callahan orders. "Show us what Hell is made of."
Clark stands, peeling off her other glove and tossing it aside. Someone, in a fit of misguided helpfulness, fetches her a practice blade. She laughs—a sharp, amused sound.
"Let's not play pretend." Her reaper blade blooms into existence, "Unless you're afraid."
Callahan's grin sharpens into something nastier. His own blade flickers to life.
"I'll try not to mess up that pretty face."
Clark tilts her head, all teeth. "Like you'd get the chance."
--
Vice Captain Callahan steps back to the mat, posture crisp, jaw locked so tight you'll think he is trying to grind his own molars into submission.
Clark, by contrast, stretches—one long, slow, catlike motion that's less about warming up and more about reminding the room that rules are optional for her, and gravity is a suggestion she flirts with.
"House rules, Vice?" she asks, bouncing lightly on her heels.
"Standard rules." Callahan's tone is sharp it can slice glass. "No using your boots."
Clark looks down at her knee-high, thick-soled, definitely illegal-in-competition boots and taps the toe thoughtfully against the floor.
"Well, there goes all my strategy," she drawls, already unzipping her top another inch down, purely out of spite—and perhaps a touch of strategy. Distraction is, after all, her favorite martial art.
They circle each other. The squads gather, pretending to train, but the room is quieter than an unclaimed grave.
Callahan lunges first—predictable, disciplined, precise. The kind of attack that will floor a rookie. But Clark isn't exactly a rookie, not by normal standards.
She sidesteps like she's dancing, grabs his wrist mid-swing, and spins him neatly around, the motion so fluid it looks rehearsed. Callahan catches himself before she can fully throw him, regains footing, and backs off with a glare sharp enough to warrant a permit.
"Sloppy," Clark tuts, wagging a finger like a disappointed schoolteacher. "Are you sure you're a Vice? Or did you forge that promotion letter?"
Callahan doesn't respond. He charges again, this time feinting left and sweeping low. Clark hops back, skirts flaring, boots skimming the mat. His blade narrowly misses. Her grin widens.
"Careful," she mocks sweetly, "you almost scuffed my boots. Those things are worth more than your dignity."
There's a chorus of snorts from the sidelines.
Callahan tries another series of strikes, faster now, frustrated. Finally, his fist grazes her cheek. Close enough to sting. Close enough to remind her this isn't all fun. Clark's grin sharpens, wolfish now.
"Oh, I'd love to say you hit like a girl," she muses, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of her eye. "But that would be an insult to the girl."
The room snickers. Callahan doesn't.
The next exchange is faster. Callahan's technique tightens, Clark's movements grow sharper. For a moment, even the air stops moving—until Callahan feints, forces her to twist, and lands a light strike of his hilt to her ribs.
"Point," he mutters.
But Clark's already spinning back, using the momentum from his own hit. Her arm snakes around his, twisting him off-balance before landing her boot against the back of his knee—not hard enough to injure, but enough to send him crashing onto one knee.
She leans down, close enough that her breath fans against his ear.
"Aw, you look better down there," she whispers, voice dripping with mock affection. "Stay." she presses her blade against his neck.
The whistle blows again. Spar over. Clark: 1. Callahan: very publicly humbled.
She straightens, offering him her hand in a manner so fake-genteel it could win an award. Callahan ignores it, standing on his own, jaw ticking like the gears in his head are debating between revenge and a formal complaint.
"Another round," he says.
"You don't give up do you?"
"Why, are you tired?"
Clark saunters back to the center. She is starting to get bored, it seems being nice is only making Callahan more aggressive, she needs to show him what losing looks like.
She lets him attack first again, but she has seen it now, the way he moves, and now it looks too slow and expected.
This won't do it.
Clark flips herself onto his shoulders, wraps her legs around his neck, and slams him down so hard the floor protests. She eyes the pathetic thing below her and decides he isn't even worthy of her reaper blade.
So, she grabs his face and knocks his head against hers. Blood drips to the training room floor as Callahan groans and grabs his nose.
And then, heavy silence.
Clarence steps into the room, the kind of quiet that comes before judgment. The squad bows like dominoes and with a salute, "Captain!"
Callahan wipes his face and bows last, trying to look like the room isn't still spinning while Clark is still straddling him.
"Break it off," he commands.
Clark releases her hold, brushing invisible dust from her skirt as Callahan staggers to his feet. Clarence's gaze slides from one to the other, a silent roll call of who's about to regret their life choices.
He lifts a single finger. "Come."
Callahan steps forward, because of course he does. Clarence stares at him dead.
"Not you."
And Callahan retreats like a man who just dodged the hangman.
Clark then points to herself, mouthing: Me?
The Captain's eyes answer for her. She walks forward, the picture of innocent defiance, until he grabs her by the collar and drags her out of the room like she's a particularly disobedient stray.
Once out of earshot, the scolding is swift, brutal, and entirely deserved.
"I'm sorry your boy is a fragile princess." Clark snickers looking away after he is done.
Clarence holds himself steady. It's like watching history repeat itself. A different time, yes, but she's managed to make Callahan's nose bleed again.
It's like they are destined to hate each other every lifetime.
"Your cleaning hours are over for today."
Her lips curl back into that familiar, maddening smile of victory.
"Oh, good," she is thrilled. "That gives me more time to choose what to wear tomorrow."
His eye flicks. Just slightly. The outfit has been burned into his retinas from the moment he sees her. That top. That skirt. That smirk. It is less "janitor" and more "hostile HR complaint waiting to happen."
"I expect you to wear more clothing tomorrow. If you test me, Clark, you'll be cleaning this place for a week." he warns with glare that can burn holes through concrete and through the soul.
—
After the rookie has been dragged out, the tension in the room snaps—replaced by the unmistakable sound of coins clinking and smug grins spreading like wildfire.
Behind Callahan, a handful of reaper credits exchange hands, some pockets get noticeably heavier, and a few egos take a nosedive. The squad, apparently, has turned the whole spar into a betting pool. Of course they did.
Callahan snorts, folding his arms, half amused, half insulted. "Seriously?"
The height of professionalism, this lot. Children with blades and no adult supervision.
Still, curiosity gnaws at him, so he turns to Declan, who's standing there looking far too pleased with himself. "You bet on me, right?"
Declan flashes the kind of smile that usually gets mortals into trouble. A second later, one of the younger reapers lobs a small pouch of credits at him—heavier than it ought to be. Declan catches it with a practiced flick of the wrist, smug as sin.
Callahan stares at the pouch, deadpan. "You traitor."
Declan just chuckles, tipping the pouch like toast. "She had you at every turn." He leans in, lowering his voice to something vaguely conspiratorial. "And admit it—she smells nice, doesn't she?"
Callahan scoffs, cheeks still red from the bruising more than the comment. "I don't know. I didn't exactly stop to sniff her."
Declan's grin sharpens, all teeth and mischief. "Shame. You missed out."
—
Clarence is in his office brooding after scolding Clark when a knock comes, soft and lazy—the kind of knock that suggests the person on the other side knows full well they don't need permission to enter.
He doesn't bother answering. Matthew strolls in anyway, hands buried in the pockets of his immaculately tailored coat, wearing a smile that could charm the wings off an angel or the horns off a demon, depending on the day. Today, it's somewhere in between.
"She leave a scratch on your pride or just your patience this time?" Matthew asks, casually resting himself on the edge of Clarence's desk like the furniture exists solely for his convenience.
Clarence pays him no glance. "Wasn't there a bus accident this afternoon that required the Head Reaper's attention?"
Matthew waves the question away like an annoying fly. "Delegated. I make it a point to clear my schedule whenever you're fuming like this. You do tend to be more entertaining when you're angry."
Clarence's jaw tightens, but he says nothing.
Matthew leans forward, lowering his voice to a mock-conspiratorial whisper. "You know, you keep assigning her punishment, she's only going to make a sport of it. She lives for it. Like giving whiskey to an Irishman and expecting him to sip."
Clarence finally decides to level with him, his tone sharp and cold. "Did you know she falsified a report?"
"And you're surprised? She didn't exactly come from the obedient souls department." Matthew stretches, hands behind his head, looking far too pleased with himself. "If it's any consolation, she did cover for me. Took the heat for that poor rogue's bruised host, didn't she?"
Clarence pushes his tongue into his cheek, somewhat annoyed by the thought that they appear to have planned on it. "She lied for you, and you let her."
Matthew's smile flickers, softening. "No, Clarence. I didn't expect her to take the blame. She gave me the impression that she would tell on me, but in the end, she protected me."
And for once, there's no trace of mockery in his tone.
Clarence leans back, studying him, the weight of those words hanging heavy in the air. The room grows still, until Matthew, true to form, shatters the moment before it can settle.
"You should thank her, you know. Or at least go easy on her next time. You're starting to sound like a bitter ex."
Clarence picks up the nearest file, pointedly ignoring him. "Out."
Matthew chuckles as he pushes off the desk, heading for the door. Before he leaves, he glances back over his shoulder, all teeth and charm.
"She does have good balance, by the way. Hell of a view from where Callahan was standing."
And with that, the door clicks shut behind him, leaving Clarence alone with his papers, his temper, and the unmistakable sinking feeling that this isn't the last time Clark is going to give him a headache.
In fact, it's probably only the beginning, because Matthew has just found her—the headache—in the hallway, already scheming.
She presses a cold can against her neck, easing the faint sting where Clarence's fingers grip her collar. The Captain's temper—contained and clinical—feels like standing next to a bomb that hasn't decided whether to go off or wait for the sequel.
And she has to admit—she rather likes poking at it.
"I heard there's a hot cleaning lady in the training room." He spots her by the vending machine with a cold can of juice.
"Shift's over. You missed the show."
Matthew leans on the machine, "Word is the Captain let you off early. Did you sweet-talk him, or you threatened him with that skirt?"
Clark leans back against the wall, folding her arms. "Maybe he's realized punishing me is more exhausting than it's worth."
Matthew chuckles low. "He won't give up. You're his favorite headache."
Clark snorts at that. "I aim to please."
He watches her for a moment, head tilted, that playful gleam dimming into something quieter. "You didn't have to take the heat, you know. About the rogue."
She meets his gaze, steady and unflinching. "I wanted to."
Matthew's smile softens at the edges, and for a flicker of a moment—just a flicker—the usual snark doesn't come.
Then, because he's Matthew, the charm clicks back into place like a well-oiled machine.
"Well," he says, straightening up, "wear something really distracting tomorrow. I'm taking bets."
She grins at him, "You're not bothered with what I'm wearing?"
"Why? There's nothing wrong with it. You can wear what you want. Besides, I'm not your father." Matthew leans in closer, "But you can call me Daddy anytime."
"Walk away before I stab you." Clark warns with a grin that is almost warm.
Matthew just nods, smiling back.
"See you bright and early tomorrow, rookie."
--
There are certain things in the afterlife one learns to expect. Bureaucracy thicker than a reaper's blade. Souls who can't follow instructions even when they're printed in celestial-sized fonts. And of course, Clark, turning even the simplest punishment into front-page gossip.
By Day Two of her disciplinary cleaning duty, the Elite Squad training room looks less like a state-sanctioned exercise space and more like the Veil's answer to the Super Bowl—minus the snacks, but with twice the ogling.
Word of the hot cleaning lady travels faster than a rogue soul hopped up on stolen life force. Reapers from departments that have no business being within fifty feet of the Elite Squad are suddenly "just passing by" the glass-paneled hallway with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for promotions or free drinks.
Up in the glass observation box, Clarence stands with arms crossed, jaw locked so tight it might crack stone.
Matthew, of course, shows up the second he hears about the incident. You'd think a Head Reaper would have better things to do, but alas—boredom is a powerful motivator. That, and watching Clarence lose his tightly-wound composure is practically a full-time hobby.
Matthew sips his coffee—black, no sugar, like his sense of humor—and leans lazily on the glass.
"Well, well," he drawls. "Didn't know janitorial work came with a dress code straight out of a mortals' gentlemen's club."
Clarence doesn't answer. His eye squints, but his hands stay tightly folded, white-knuckled and all as he looks down.
"Honestly," Matthew goes on, pointing his head toward the scene below, "you've got to admire the commitment. Look at her. Cleaning like a saint, dressed like a sin."
Down the training area, Clark is wearing the same set of zip up top and tennis skirt, only today it's in burgundy, and it's leather. Her hair is tied in a mid ponytail, the red thread stylishly braided on the side. She is now cleaning the practice dummies. And every time she so much as bends, heads tilt and minor accidents occur—two reapers nearly knock each other out with blunt training weapons.
Clarence exhales, sharp and cold enough to fog the glass watching the scene in frustration.
"This is a punishment, not a bloody spectacle."
Matthew lets out a soft laugh, slinking closer, tapping a finger on the glass like he's watching a particularly entertaining fish tank. "Oh, I don't know. Looks like the Veil's social calendar just found its new favorite event. You've got queues forming out there just to watch her wipe the dust."
The Captain glares through the glass, his reflection is fuming. "The second she's done, I'm doubling her work load."
Matthew grins like the Cheshire Cat on a sugar high. "You're adorable when you're powerless, you know that?"
"She's turning this place into a circus."
"And you're the ringmaster who handed her the whip," Matthew says, lifting his coffee in a mock toast. "Cheers to that."
Below them, Clark glances up—as if she can sense the conversation—and flashes Clarence the most innocent, smug, and deliberately infuriating smile in the entire afterlife.
Matthew lets out a low whistle. "She knows you're watching."
Clarence seriously considers spilling Matthew's coffee just for the satisfaction, but refrains.
It is then that the Vice Captain of Squad 1 appears, Declan. He approaches Clark, and she immediately turns her attention to him.
"You've got the whole place packed."
"Mmm...glad to see my cleaning skills are helping to boost the squads' morale," she says leaning against her broom like a malevolent witch.
Declan laughs softly, the kind that makes you think heaven really does have favorites, because how can his laugh sound like angels in orchestra?
"Since you're all about boosting the morale, would you like to join the training session? You've moves yesterday that I'd like you to share with our first years."
"Which one?"
"The one before you broke Callahan's pride, or his nose, was not sure which one bled out more."
She smiles, "I'm going to need a sparring partner then, care to volunteer?"
Declan gently takes the broom away from her and pass it to one of his reapers. The poor soul trips over his own feet while trying not to stare.
The two of them move to the center of the training mat, and inside the glass box, Matthew is already shaking his head. "Anya will cry if she scratches Declan's face."
Clarence looks down, I see you still have your favourites, he is thinking as Declan pulls his blade out and Clark just looks at him the way she would look a fresh sinner in Hell's pit—ecstatic and eyes glazed.
The squads gather to watch, another fight between a vice and the rookie. Only this time, the Vice Captain is looking forward to be taken down.
It is swift, right after Declan momentarily turns, her legs wrap around his neck, she twists and Declan is down.
Clarence almost gawks seeing her on top of Declan, and the brat seems to be enjoying it.
They cannot understand what Clark just said but hands shoot up in the air and a line is formed behind them.
"You don't think she's going to strangle them all with those legs, right?" Matthew leans on the glass watching the queue get longer by the seconds.
Clarence snaps, and in a blink he is down at the training mat.
The room goes a little quieter, like a weird hush falls over the betting reapers—almost like they know this is the real show.
Clark, for her part, gives him a lazy salute. "Captain," she says, climbing down Declan who politely bowed his head.
Clarence doesn't even look at her, not immediately. Instead, he fixes his gaze on the far wall, where the glass panel allows him to see the whole spectacle—the chaos, the betting, the distracted reapers. His voice comes out like gravel. "Everyone out. Except you."
The order hangs in the air, no negotiation, no second chances. Clark tilts her head, tossing her cleaning gloves onto the ground like it's a fashion statement.
"I'm guessing I don't get an encore for Day Three?" she says, pushing off from her leaning position with an exaggerated stretch. Her grin is borderline feral.
"No," Clarence says flatly.
Clark laughs, a sound that rings too loud in the now quiet room. "Oh, come on, I'm practically a morale booster. These poor guys were probably slumped over before I came in. Look at them now. They're actually aiming their practice shots and enlisting to be thrown down."
His eyes narrow at her audacity. "That's not the point, Clark."
"Oh, it's absolutely the point," she retorts, flicking her hair over her shoulder in a way that would make most reapers reconsider their life choices. "I'm raising team spirits and being a productive member of the squad. And no one actually got hurt—unless you count Callahan's pride."
Billy arrives inside the glass box, "Did I miss it, Boss?"
"Just in time." Matthew grins.
"How long before he—"
"Less than an hour." He opens his palm and Billy reluctantly gives him a pouch of reaper credits.
They look down as Clarence grabs Clark by the arm, his grip tight, and pulls her into his personal space. For a moment, the air goes deadly silent. Even the reapers who were still on their way out look away, not wanting to be caught watching what might turn into a spectacle of a different sort.
"Clark," Clarence says slowly, "you may have been sent to this team for a reason, but you're still bound by the same rules. You don't get to bend them like you're doing some kind of public performance."
Clark looks up at him, her lips curling into a sly smile. "And if I do?"
"Then I'll be forced to remind you that there are consequences," he warns, his voice dropping low. "No matter how... entertaining... you think you are."
"You've been watching," Clark says. "You did not come down because you are worried I might break a few reapers' necks." She studies him, his fists are clenched, his body shaking with the effort to keep calm. "Why did you come down, Clarence?"
He turns away from her, staring at the last reaper running out the exit door. Once he's certain they're alone, his gaze drifts back, lingering on the fabric that clings to her hips, swaying lightly in the unexpected gust of wind that seems to come from nowhere.
Clark follows his eyes and takes a few steps forward. One hand brushing against the hem of her skirt.
That damn skirt.
Clarence's chest tightens and for the briefest of moments, he almost gives in. The anger is simmering, but so is the heat in the air. He can feel the undeniable pull to just close the distance between them and just—
"Do you like it?" She is so near and she is whispering.
"I like the black one." He says before he can stop his mouth.
Without warning, Clarence reaches out and grabs the edge of her skirt, his knuckles brushing against the smooth fabric of her thigh. His touch is deliberate, as if testing her, seeing how far he could push without completely losing it.
"This," he says, voice gruff, "should be banned. All of it. This...outfit."
His fingers trace the hem, moving just a little higher, enough to feel the heat of her skin beneath. Clark's breath caught in her throat, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, she stands there, unflinching, looking up at him with that damn confident look in her eyes.
"Should it now?" she asks casually, the playfulness never leaving her voice. "Then what would I wear, hmm? Does nothing suit your taste more?"
The question is so casual, so careless, and yet it strikes him hard—like a challenge, like she is daring him to make a move.
He almost does.
His hand remains, his knuckles brushing her thigh again, the touch sending a shiver up her spine. She is so damn close, as close as breath, and he is about to lose himself in this moment, to indulge in everything he has been holding back.
But just as quickly as the heat flares, Clarence steps back. His chest rises and falls, the effort of containing what he feels clear on his face. He has to remind himself that this is dangerous.
No.
He swallows. "Draw your blade."
"E-excuse me?" Clark's voice falters, confusion flickering in her eyes.
"I'm going to teach you a lesson. Draw. Your. Blade."
Clark steps back, feeling cheated. Her blade materializes in her hand with a sharp snap. "I'm actually starting to get angry at you."
Up in the observation room, Billy leans forward, eyes bright. He tosses another velvet pouch onto the table with a dramatic flourish. "All in. Clarkie's gonna land a hit, I'm sure."
Matthew brushes his hair with his fingers and grins like a devil with house odds. "You really do enjoy losing money to me, huh?" He drops his own pouch beside Billy's with a soft thud. No question who he's backing. It's Clarence this time.
Below, it's a blur of movement. The air itself vibrates with speed. Clark presses hard, relentless, her strikes so close they could shave the buttons off Clarence's uniform. And yet—not a single blow lands.
He dodges everything. Effortlessly. Like the wind knows him.
"She's fast," Billy says, breath catching. "Think I'm getting my money back, Boss."
Matthew points a finger. "Look again, kid." His voice is almost lazy, amused. "Clarence hasn't moved an inch."
Yes, he hasn't. For all Clark's fury—coming at him from every angle like a storm with a grudge—Clarence remains right where he started. Calm. Centered. Untouchable.
The Captain can see it now. How Clark's breath begins to catch, how she's starting to wear herself out. She's all over the place—strong, yes—but with no control. Not because she lacks discipline, but because she's arrogant.
"You're reckless," Clarence observes, his voice as cold as the steel he wields, his eyes unfeeling. "You fight like a child throwing a tantrum. Furious, but empty."
Clark scoffs, lunging at him with a swift strike. He parries easily, stepping aside, his movements almost languid.
"You talk too much," she growls, frustration tinging her tone. "Come at me, Clarence. Show me what you've got."
He raises an eyebrow, the faintest trace of amusement curling at the corners of his lips. "You want me to show you? I think you know exactly what I'm capable of. But do you know what you're capable of?"
Her blade strikes again, faster this time, more precise. Clarence blocks it effortlessly, his calm demeanor never faltering. "Is this your strategy? Burn everything down, and hope the ashes settle in your favor?"
"I don't need strategy to beat you," Clark snaps, circling him. "I've fought in Hell, Clarence. I've seen things you can't even begin to imagine."
Seven years. He knows. But it will take more than a rookie to put him down, not even someone who has been trained in the fiery pits of damnation.
"That's the problem, Clark. You think you've seen it all. You think power comes from force alone. But power comes from knowing when to fight—and when to yield."
He steps forward, a single kick to her stomach and Clark hits the wall.
Matthew scoffs, his expression darkening with his sudden move. He's gone mad, he is thinking.
Before Clark can even understand what just happened, Clarence is already in front of her. He grabs her collar up and pins her against the concrete with one hand, the other with a blade pointed directly at her.
"Yield."
"N-no," she spits, her voice dripping with defiance.
"You think you're invincible? You think that because you were efficient in Hell, you can win every damn fight. You are going to face rogues stronger than demons, and they are not like your sinners, they do not cower in chains. If you continue to be this reckless, they will hurt you."
Clark's grip on her reaper blade tightens, but she doesn't move. She knows he's right. She knows the rogue souls will be different. But pride, that ever-present force within her, refuses to acknowledge weakness.
"You got all worked up like this over my damn skirt?" she snaps back, her voice laced with frustration.
Clarence gives a dry, humorless laugh, the kind that only comes from someone who's seen countless battles, countless failures, and the bloody toll of them all.
"This is about you insisting the universe granted you special privileges to undermine every rule." He closes the distance between them. "Take a loss, Clark, and be graceful about it."
"I w—"
Clarence strikes his blade on the side of her head before she can finish.
Strands of hair fall down her shoulder and a red line appears in her face. Blood.
His blade grazes her cheek.
The silence that follows is thick, oppressive. Clark is trembling now, though she'd never admit it. Her eyes flicker away from his, the challenge in her gaze weakening just for a moment. And then her reaper blade drops on the floor.
Clarence stares at her for a long time before releasing her and pulling his blade from the wall.
"You think I took you from Hell because I needed another knife? There are many reapers in the Veil who would do just that, if I asked."
"Then why did you?" Clark fires back, the bitterness sharp in her tone.
"Because the Veil saw something in you. And Hell saw it too." Clarence softly grins, "I could tell by how hard Azazel fought to keep you."
The name hits like a curse.
Ah, Old Azi—Sin of Wrath.
Clark goes quiet hearing the name of one of the princes. The air seems to press in around her. That name isn't spoken lightly. If Clarence knows what they offered her back in Hell, he's not saying it aloud—but she sees it in his eyes. The quiet judgment. The unspoken worry.
"One day you'll lead. Be something more than a headache, when you decide to listen."
She bites her lower lip, her pride wanting to lash out but she holds her tongue.
"You won't be a rookie forever, Clark. I don't want to train you just to survive—I'm grooming you for command."
She doesn't expect this. She looks at him not with eyes of defiance but with eyes of uncertainty.
"And if I don't want it?" The blood from her cheek slides down her jaw, slow and warm.
"You will. I'm sure of it."
Clark's voice is quieter now, almost fragile.
"You believe in me that much?"
Clarence looks at her with impossible steadiness before reaching for her face and, with his gloved hand, wipes the blood from her cheek—careful, almost reverent.
"No," he says. "I believe in you more than that."
—
The Captain returns to the Elite Squad wing, no longer even surprised to find Matthew there, drinking his second coffee and sitting on the conference table.
He holds out the other cup without ceremony. "You're late."
Clarence takes it. He knows it's a trap. He sits beside him anyway.
"At least you have the decency to ask everybody out before you injured her pride."
The subtle irritation from his tone tells him he has seen it from the glass box. The fight with Clark.
"Usually, when you lean in closer to a girl and pin her against the wall, that is to kiss her. Not make her submit with your reaper blade." Matthew scoffs, "You really need to work on your bedside manners."
"I had to do it."
"Stab her?"
"Teach her." he corrects, "You've seen it, she rushes in, always burns hot. She needs to learn how to hold fire. When to let it burn and when to bury it." he takes a slow sip of his coffee.
"Don't be so righteous, there was a time you were the one razing things to the ground. You forced the old captain to an early retirement." Matthew reminds him of his old self when they were in the squad together.
Clarence allows a rare smile even though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Exactly. That's why I'm doing it."
Matthew raises a brow.
"She can be better than we ever were," Clarence says. Quiet. Measured. "If someone just puts their faith in her."
Matthew is still for a second before deciding to slap his wrist. Clarence's coffee spills onto his hand and down his pants. He bites back a curse as the hot liquid burns his skin.
"That's for scratching her face." Matthew leans back and continues with his coffee.
Clarence doesn't fight back, he knows he probably deserves it.