Clark arrives at work too cool for mourning, with shades dark enough to make her look like one of those Men in Black. If those men happened to moonlight as undertakers for the dearly (and not-so-dearly) departed.
The first soul she spies is Anya. Earnest, caffeinated Anya, bent over her keyboard with the grim intensity of someone trying to appease the Tech Gods before they demanded blood sacrifice. Clark leans down and plants a kiss on her cheek, which, as far as tactical distractions go, is flawless.
Anya jumps. Her fingers betray her. Somewhere inside the humming bowels of the system, a code she's been working on simply ceases to exist. She watches in horror, already summoning a curse foul enough to blister wallpaper.
Clark, naturally, has anticipated this. "I got you something," she announces brightly, holding out a delicate little hair clip—couture, disgustingly expensive, and very Anya.
Anya's murderous intent vanishes in the face of shiny luxury. "Thought you were broke," she mutters, already testing how it catches the light in her hair.
"I flashed the store owner," Clark says, perfectly straight-faced.
There is a sound. A tablet clattering to the floor. One of the interns gawks at her as though she's just announced she robbed a bank in lingerie.
"With my reaper blade," Clark clarifies.
The intern, who remains unconvinced, picks up his tablet and goes about his afterlife business.
"Captain here?"
Anya sighs and waves vaguely toward the captain's door. "He's in. But I wouldn't go in th—Clark!"
Too late. Clark, as is her habit, doesn't do warnings. She pushes the door open and walks in.
She stops. Her shades slide down her nose in disbelief.
Inside, Captain Clarence is very much in his chair. Matthew is very much on him, one hand tugging at his tie in a manner that is either extremely compromising or extremely unhelpful, depending on how you look at it.
Clark blinks. "Now my eyes hurt."
"It's not—" Clarence begins.
"Yes, it is," Matthew interrupts cheerfully.
Matthew, it should be noted, is utterly unbothered. "You lot keep sleeping at my house, I'm going to start charging rent." His gaze flicks neatly between Clark, Clarence, and back again.
Clark raises an eyebrow. "You slept at his house? I thought you were fine."
"I was—" Clarence tries, in that way people try when they're clearly losing the argument.
"You broke into my house," Matthew cuts across him smoothly, "and slept on my bed while I was in—"
A file comes sailing through the air. Matthew catches it with the hand not currently making Clarence look like an unfortunate date.
"Don't get yourself drunk on illegal stuff next time," Matthew taunts, handing the file over to Clark with an insufferable grin. "What did I tell you? I'm everyone's type." He winks and sweeps out like a man who has made a mess and knows he'll never have to clean it.
Clark looks back at Clarence, fighting a grin. "I didn't know you like—"
"It wasn't like that," Clarence snaps, adjusting his tie like a man who very much wishes the ground would open and swallow him.
"You're coming with me. We have work to do," he says briskly, already walking past her.
Her grin lingers. "We have a case?"
"No. Something simpler." he says, sharp as a closing door.
She follows him, anyway, tilting her head. "Like?"
"Collecting a sinner," Clarence replies, grim as death itself. Which, of course, he is.
--
They watch on the rooftop, just before a fetch. The skies are breaking for dawn. The city stretching below. Clarence leans against the rusted railing, arms crossed. Clark sits on the edge, boots swinging like she's got nowhere better to be.
"You ever think about it?" she says suddenly. "Hell."
Clarence glances her way. "I try not to. Doesn't exactly bring back fond memories."
She huffs a dry laugh. "Yeah, most don't. Most people say the worst things about it—how it burns, how it breaks you. And they're not wrong."
He waits. He knows her well enough to hear the "but" coming.
"But one thing about Hell?" she says, tilting her head, voice quieter now. "It's just."
Clarence studies her. And again, he sees what Azazel meant. The thing the demon told him, half-warned, half-awed—She's not like the others. Not like the other scourges they trained.
"You really believe in it," he says. "In Hell. You believe in it more than Heaven."
Clark doesn't flinch. "I do."
"Why?"
She shrugs. "When I died and found out Hell was real... I felt relieved."
Clarence frowns. "Relieved?"
She nods. "More than finding out there's a Heaven. Hell—" she pauses, looking out into the smog. "—I needed Hell to exist. When I was alive, I used to hope for it. Not because I liked the screams. Not really. But because I had to believe there was something out there. A reckoning. Life can't be it. There had to be a place where men who hurt others couldn't bribe their way out."
Clarence is silent.
Clark goes on. "You grow up watching monsters walk free. You get tired of pretending karma's real. You start praying there's a courtroom somewhere you can't buy. A jury that can't be paid. A sentence that sticks."
Her voice has gone still. Cold, but not cruel.
"They say Heaven has eyes," she adds. "But Hell is the one that sees everything."
Clarence doesn't look away. Doesn't interrupt. Just watches her, wondering how many ghosts she's seen in mirrors—and how many she's become.
He checks his watch and touches his chest to feel the name card sitting there waiting to be read.
"Time to go," he murmurs.
--
Clarence has always found mortals predictable. Even the worst of them—the ones who think themselves untouchable, who hold power like a blade to the throats of those beneath them—always, always fell the same way.
Today's sinner is no different.
A judge. A man who plays the role of justice while staining the very scales he is sworn to uphold.
And Clarence is here to collect.
He leans against the courthouse pillar, arms crossed, watching as the doors swing open and people pour out. The guilty man—Supreme Judge Aldritch Vaughmann—walks among them, his expression smug, his black robe billowing behind him like he is some divine force rather than the rotting corpse of a soul barely clinging to its flesh.
Clarence scoffs. If only the bastard knows what awaits him.
Beside him, Clark stands, looking as relaxed as ever, though Clarence knows better. He can practically hear the anticipation humming in her bones.
"Excited?" Clarence drawls, side-eyeing her. "You don't even have to do anything. Just observe. Being in the Elite Squad won't only require you to retrieve rogues. Escorting scum is also part of it."
Clark snorts. "Can we smack him just a little?"
"No."
"Why not? I bet this cur is bound for the lowest circles," Clark muses, tilting her head. "You know, on a soul scale, evil powerful men are worth a ton in Hell."
He glances at her; a dark smirk appears. The contrast against her pristine face is enough to make anyone shiver.
"The worse the sinner, the more brownie points a scourge gets."
She says it with ease, like it's just another fact of her existence, but something flickers across her face—a shadow of a thought she hasn't meant to say out loud.
Clarence catches it instantly. She just realized something.
The grin on her face falters. Just for a second. But that's all he needs.
"You took the worst souls," he murmurs, realization sinking in. "That's why your name made it so quick onto the reaper applicant pool, isn't it?"
Clark looks away, jaw tightening.
He remembers. She was stationed in the new circles of Hell—not meant for demons, but for humans. Monsters worse than anything that ever crawled out of the abyss.
It's always been a mystery to him.
How did a saint survive among devils?
"How did you do it?" he asks, voice quieter than before. "How does a saint even torture a soul? With kindness?"
His tone is mocking, but there's an edge to it, genuine curiosity laced beneath the snark.
Clark turns back to him and teases, "Aaw, finally interested in me, Captain? Keep going—maybe I'll take you out on a date."
Clarence sighs. "Forget I even asked."
But then—her whimsy fades.
And when she speaks, her voice is different. Hollow.
"They made me watch."
Clarence stills and stops looking at his watch.
Clark's gaze is distant, fixed on something long past. "All their crimes," she continues. "To exact the right amount of punishment, they made me watch everything they did. From torturing a pet to—" she inhales slowly, "—mutilating little children."
Her voice remains flat. Devoid of emotion.
"Like a bad movie on repeat."
Clarence doesn't have the words to speak.
He had seen her life before she died. Had watched the reel prepared by the Veil's AVR team—flashes of who she had been in the living world.
Clark Parker had been good. Stupidly, unfalteringly good.
The kind of person who would buy an old woman's vegetables just so she could go home before the rain. The kind who never crossed the street on a red light, even when there were no cars. The kind who fought against injustice even if it meant losing everything.
She should have been protected.
Guarded by angels, shielded from the cruelty of the world.
But no.
Even with all her goodness, life had only ever given her sorrow. It was like she had been meant to suffer. Like someone—something—had stacked the odds against her from the very beginning.
Was that why she chose the flames instead of reincarnating to blissful life? To serve justice she never had.
Clarence clenches his jaw.
It's unfair.
Cruel.
He hates how the universe works.
"So, after watching their crimes," he says finally, softer than before, "did it make it easier for you to punish them?"
Her lips curl up, tinged with sadness.
"Yeah," she says.
Then, after a pause—
"But at some point, I started to feel sympathy when they begged."
Clarence frowns at that.
She continues, "And that's a problem."
She turns to him fully, arms crossed. "You see, there are laws in Hell."
Clarence shot her a sceptical look. "Hell has laws?"
Clark laughs. "I know, right? Of all places." She shrugs. "But you can say one thing about hell—it's fair. You only get punished for the sins you committed. That's why, as a torturer, you can't give more or less than the Sight demanded. Because if you do—"
She hesitates.
Clarence tilts his head. "What happens?"
"If you pity them," Clark says finally, "and go easy on them... you end up getting punished instead."
Clarence's expression darkens.
"Were you ever lenient?" he asks, though he already knew the answer.
Clark exhales slowly. "There were a few instances."
She glances down, her fingers flexing at her sides. "But if watching their crimes isn't enough, the demons have a way to fix that."
Her voice drops to something almost emotionless.
"They make you feel it."
A knife starts to twist inside the captain's stomach hearing that.
"The fear," she continues. "Everything their victims felt—the screams, the last moments, the taste of blood in their mouth, or worse."
Clarence doesn't look away.
She does. Even after everything they've been through, there are still things she tries to hide, like when she remembers pain.
"That's sure to straighten one up," she finishes, her voice almost bitter.
A lull moment settles, and his lips remain tight shut. But then, tenderly—
"You're not in Hell anymore, Clark."
She turns to him again, with a questioning look.
"You're not going to be punished for showing leniency in this squad."
She stares and then—she laughs.
Cold. Amused.
Like he has said something ridiculous.
"Like I would ever..." she murmurs, shaking her head.
Then, that grin returns—sharp and teasing, but something behind it remains fractured.
"I'm not a saint anymore, Captain. I don't know mercy."
His eyes study her, and part of him wants to believe it is a lie. He needs to hope there's something left of her kindness, even just a bit of it that's able to forgive. A tiny speck she might reserve for him when the time comes.
A loud bang tears through the moment, and their heads snap toward the sound.
Judge Vaughmann falls.
A man with gun stands over him, hands shaking. Another shot is fired straight to his skull; but the bullet doesn't go through. The man glares at the body and spits on him, muttering something that sounds like a sharp curse.
Within seconds, the reapers appear beside the dead. Clarence pulls a card from his coat. "Aldritch Vaughmann, born May 1, 1967. Died 10:39 a.m., gunshot in the head. I'm here to escort your soul to Hell."
"What?" he glares at him. "Who are you? Are you security? A guy just shot me! Get the damn bastard!"
He shoves the captain out of the way and looks for the guy. "There! There he is. I'm a Supreme Court judge! I'll put that sad son of—"
Clarence grabs him by the collar and pins him against the wall.
"P—Put me down! You sick psycho! I wi—" He stops when Clarence slams a fist on the wall next to his face. "P—Please! Please! I'm—I'm sorry. What do you want? Money? I'll give you whatev—"
"Shut up," he cautions. "You're dead. Obey the Reaper."
Another shot fires, and they both turn. The guy who shot their sinner just killed himself outside the courthouse.
"We're getting two today?" Clark asks. She is behind him, watching the whole thing unfold.
"No," he says. "That's not one of ours. Wait here and watch him."
He drops the judge and vanishes, appearing beside the newly dead man. Soul Management is already on the scene.
Clark walks up to the shaking judge, who looks like he wants to disappear into the wall behind him.
"Hello, Judge," she greets him. Her hand snaps to his throat, slamming him against the bricks. "Let's see your sins."
The Sight opens, and all his heinous deeds surge in. Something in those flashes catches her eye, and her grip on his throat tightens.
"Clark," the captain says as he comes back. "Let him go."
She doesn't release her grip until she feels Clarence's hand on her wrist.
"Take him."
--
Clarence returns to the Veil carrying the scent of Hell on his coat—smoke and sulphur and the residual grief of the damned. The sinner's soul had not gone quietly. Most don't. But this one? This one had clawed at the gates, wept until his throat bled, and begged to see light again. Clarence hadn't flinched. Not when the soul cracked open with screams. Not even when the demons dragged it down.
It's when he steps into the dim light of their office that he falters. The room is thick with looming darkness.
Anya is standing alone by the wall; arms crossed over her chest. The large holoscreen flickers with static beside her, but she doesn't seem to see it. Her eyes are fixed on something only she can see, something that doesn't belong here.
Clarence approaches. His boots echo against the marble tiles. "Where is she?"
Anya blinks, then slowly turns her head, as if waking from a dream.
"Clark?" she says. "She came back a while ago. After you left for the handover."
Clarence waits. But Anya doesn't continue. She just stares at him with eyes rimmed red.
"She hugged me," she finally says, like she still doesn't believe it happened. "Tight. Really tight. And she kept saying, 'It's not your fault.'"
The air in Clarence's lungs goes cold.
"She just... wouldn't stop saying it. Over and over. I asked her what the hell she was doing, and she didn't answer. She just smiled. You know how weird that is, right? Clark doesn't do hugs. She doesn't do comfort."
"Where is she now?" he asks.
Anya shrugs. "She said she was going for a walk."
Clarence doesn't like that answer.
He doesn't want to like that answer. But dread coils in his gut, slow and steady, like venom tightening around bone.
He leaves without a word, strides across the Veil until he finds the AVR chamber. The After-Vision Room—where souls are mapped, catalogued, dissected. Where the dead get to see what they never dared look at in life.
He flashes his ID. The technician on duty, a willowy reaper with ink-stained gloves, raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
"I need the playback," Clarence says. "On one of my reapers previous lives before the Veil."
There's a pause. The technician senses something but nods. She slides the crystalline slate into the reader.
"I'll need a name, Captain."
"Anya. Ghost Crimes."
"No." the technician looks at him. "I meant her human name."
"Leighton Bell."
The room darkens. The holoscreen flickers and it plays. Her life from the very beginning.
"Forward it to her death day."
The technician presses a button, and he watches.
Sweet Anya. The likes of her don't belong in the Veil. But she committed a grievous sin that earned her soul a stripe. She took her own life.
He asks to backtrack, and the judge's face appears. Well-dressed. Smiling. The kind of smile that curdles over time, that hides rot beneath charm.
The kind of man who takes and laughs when you break.
Anya is younger, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big, hiding her hands in the sleeves. Her voice trembles when she speaks to ask for help. Her lips say no one will believe me. Her journals fill with silence. Until there's nothing left but shame.
Clarence doesn't realize his fists are bleeding until the technician steps back, quietly alarmed.
He leaves without a word, the cold fire in his chest spreading.
Clark must have seen it.
She must have known.
As a former Scourge, she would have glimpsed the sinner's full ledger—the acts he committed, the pain he buried behind mortal masks. She would have felt the echo of Anya's scream in that soul's memory.
And Clark, for all her biting sarcasm, her stubbornness, her refusal to call anyone a friend—she cared for her.
Clarence pulls up his communicator. "Clark?" he says. "Where are you?"
Static.
He tries again.
The system chirps:
User not located in the Veil
Last recorded presence: Terminal District
A bad feeling is no longer a feeling. It's a certainty.
She's gone and he knows where.
--
Clark is patient when she wants to. She waits until the captain is well clear of Hell before, she decides to come knocking. Well, not technically knock. Clark doesn't do that, at least not in Hell.
She tears her ID from her lapel and tosses it on the dirt before the gate. The moment it lands, the great doors of damnation creak open like a grin that knows something you don't.
She steps inside. One foot, then the other. Each step careful, deliberate, and cold enough to make the stone beneath her boots shiver.
"Red," says Ralph, waiting just where she knew he'd be. He's all grin, and the sort of grin that has teeth. "I was wondering when you'd come. How long are you staying?"
Her reaper ID glints from behind, and the demon smirks.
"Oh," he says, and it sounds pleased. "Not a vacation, then. Follow me."
He escorts her personally. The alarms in the security den wail at her presence, red lights spiralling in irritation. A few demon guards rush forward, but then the wailing cuts short—someone somewhere decides not to interfere. The guards stop, eye her, and step aside. Which is to say, they prefer not to be turned into an object lesson. They just watch her walk straight back into the abyss.
"You're making them nervous. Perhaps take off the suit?" he suggests.
Clark pauses, then shrugs her coat off her shoulders and lets it drop onto the stone.
Ralph tilts his head, fingers brushing thoughtfully at his chin. "Hmmm. Maybe take everything o—"
The air thickens with black mist and a shadow appears.
"There's no need for that," Azazel says as he arrives.
"L—Lord Azazel," Ralph stutters, already edging backward into the convenient safety of nowhere.
Azazel doesn't so much step into the world as pull it tighter around himself. His eyes find her instantly. His hand follows, catching her chin with a familiarity that makes Clark softly tremble.
"I missed you," he murmurs, pulling her against him as though the abyss were made for this kind of reunion. His finger brushes her vest, and it sears instantly to ash, reforming into red fabric—threads that match the streak of red woven in her hair.
"I'm here for Aldritch Vaughmann," she says.
"I know," Azazel mutters, too close now, too certain. He smiles like the gates did when they let her in. "Welcome back, my dear."
--
The sinner is already screaming when they arrive. When the scourge in the field sees them, he stops.
Azazel doesn't have to say a word. The scourge knows when to retreat. He slinks back into the shadows, leaving her the stage.
"I'd like to be alone," Clark says softly, her eyes fixed on the bleeding bundle of meat that used to resemble a man.
Azazel leans close, whispering into the edges of her ear. "I want to watch. There hasn't been much entertainment since you left."
Clark tilts her head upward, a dark smile sharpening her mouth. "It won't be any fun if you're here. Watch from your palace. I'll give you a proper show."
Azazel laughs, a rich, poisonous sound. His hand slides from her chin to her throat, tightening just enough to bruise. "Enjoy yourself, my dear."
He dissolves into black mist that snakes upward, leaving her alone with the sinner.
Clark's red suit melts like wax in a flame and turns into a school uniform. The roaring fires recede. The room reshapes itself into walls, wallpaper, curtains. A house. His house. Vaughmann's flesh knits. The bleeding stops. His broken glasses mend. Suddenly, he is himself again pristine, polished, dangerous.
She snaps her fingers. His memory clears, forgetting the initial torture and even the fact that he is in Hell. His eyes find her instead, and hunger settles there.
Everything about her is made appetizing: the way her hair slips over her cheek, the scent of her skin, the small tremor in her voice as she pleads to go home.
Scourges are trained to weave these illusions. It is their art. First, sell the dream. Then, break it. Hell amplifies their desire. Makes the sinner believe they have what they want before it's torn away. It makes the pain sweeter. The suffering exquisite.
Judge Aldritch Vaughmann—secret butcher of girls—has always loved this fantasy. It has gone on for years, but no one has found out. He is protected by the very robes he wears. Every eye that has seen, every ear that has heard, has been paid to be blind and mute. Countless victims and one is her friend.
"Shh, shh," he croons, pressing close. "If you don't fight. It'll be easier. Tell me your name."
"Leighton... Bell," Clark whispers, a sob caught in the throat.
"Beautiful." He buries his nose in her hair, pushing her against the wall. "See there... Smile... Smile while you undress." He gestures toward the camera perched in the corner.
He likes to film their shame. He keeps the videos as trophies. And if anyone gets brave, he threatens them with these recordings.
Clark just stands there.
He doesn't like that. His hand cracks across her cheek. Blood glistens on her lips. Her face is cold.
"Now you're making me angry!" He shoves her onto the bed, lifts her skirt—
And then he screams.
He stumbles back, clutching himself, blood pouring between his fingers. Something is missing. Something essential.
"You won't get away now, Judge." Clark rises, plucks the camera from its tripod, calm as a librarian reshelving books.
"You mad bitch! I'll have you killed! My men will take their turn until you beg, and then I'll feed you to my dogs. They're always hungry, always—"
Her boot slams into his chest. He flies backward into the wall.
"No men. No dogs," she says, her voice suddenly sharp as ice. "Except for mine."
The door bursts open. Two massive hellhounds of fire and shadow leap into the room.
"Sic 'im, boys."
They pounce. Flesh rips. Bone cracks. His face is torn away even as his arms are chewed into ruin. He screams, shrieking until his throat is gone, and then even that is ripped from him. Clark sits on the bed, camera in hand. "Smile, Judge," she says as the lens blinks red.
When they're finished, the hounds slink back into the dark. His body is a ruin on the floor. Clark rewinds the tape. Flesh crawls back. Bones knit. His body reforms—but every nerve remembers the tearing.
He gasps. "P–please... stop. What... what are you?"
"Justice." Her voice is calm, even tender. "You disgraced your robe. You don't deserve to be even called an animal. Even demons don't have a name for your sort."
She kneels, takes his face in her hand. "Hell always makes men like you pay. Let's take this nice and slow, I have... forever."
The walls answer. Hands pour from them, dozens, hundreds, dragging Vaughmann upright, pinning him steady.
Clark laughs, the sound crisp and sharp like a bell. A red leather apron materializes over her uniform. "Bring me my knives."