Squad 1 arrives at the scene to retrieve the rogue souls and deliver them to Hell. Thirty-five cases of missing souls are closed in a single night. A non-emphatic squad member comments that had they known such holy bait could draw a soul count as staggering as this one, they should have baited a saint a long time ago.
Matthew, within earshot, catches the remark and gives the guard a look. The reaper pales. Takes two steps back, and then six more, until he is safely out of line of sight.
"Boss, the team is here." one of the guides whispers while he is still searching the field, making sure every rogue has been cuffed and processed. Clarence left and it falls to him to oversee as the highest-ranking reaper on site. "Tell them to wait outside. Billy is already there with the saint. Just give me a minute."
He stops in front of a villa. The porch sags inward like it has been chewed on by giants. The door hangs by a single hinge, whispering things in rusted creaks. He stands by the doorway, uninvited, and watches a face he knows collapse into a man's arms.
Maggie doesn't remember him now. Clarence made sure of that. He tells himself he shouldn't feel anything about it. Humans aren't meant to know the existence of reapers. The captain had only done his duty. But there is a sour and persistent feeling curling inside him. Not grief. Not quite. Just the bitter ache of being erased from someone who once looked at him like he was real.
"What—what was that out there?" Maggie's voice breaks up and her body shakes inconsolably, "The trees, the ground, the floor, everything just broke! The trees—did you see them? It was so strange... I—"
"Maggie..."
"I'm going mad, Francis! I'm seeing things... the dreams. This!" Her hands fly to her mouth as if to shove the words back in. "I'm going insane!"
"N—no! Maggie..." Francis whispers, pressing his forehead to hers. "You're not crazy. Something was out there—I can't explain it to you, but there were creatures—"
That makes Matthew's head snap to the man she called Francis. The human appears to have seen the fight.
"I—I didn't see them, it's the trees! And the wind!"
"I know. I know. It's fine, I understand." He hugs her tighter, "You're not crazy. It's going to be okay."
"I can help if you want." Matthew steps into view.
Francis stares at the doorway and sees him. Another man in black suit. He saw him earlier, he's the one who fought off the creature that tried to get Maggie.
"You're one of them," he says.
"If you mean the suits, yes."
Maggie breaks away from him, startled. "Francis, who are you talking to?"
"So, it's only you." Matthew bends down next to them. She still looks pretty, he thinks. Being this close to her again, he wishes it were under better circumstances. Not like this, when she's always afraid and in tears.
"Maggie can't see me."
"Don't say her name." Francis warns. He is not certain what he is, but he's getting a strange feeling that someone like him knowing her name is a bad thing.
"How are you... going to help her?"
"I can make her forget about tonight. After that, she'll be fine."
Francis hesitates for a moment, then nods.
"Do it."
"Francis!" Maggie pulls his arm, "Who are you talking to? You are starting to scare me."
She is already dealing with a lot. She was kidnapped a month ago and now this. Even all his money can't buy her the kind of therapy she needs for this series of disastrous nightmares. So, he's willing to place his trust in a stranger. He's one of Clark's people, he tells himself. He wouldn't lie about something like this.
Matthew reaches for her, but Francis snaps his hand out before he can get close.
"I need to touch her," Matthew explains.
He slowly lowers his hand, allowing Matthew to begin. His palm rests on Maggie's head. A soft glow appears beneath his fingertips, and Maggie shuts her eyes.
"Go to sleep. Tomorrow, when you wake up, tonight's horror will be long forgotten," he says, like a prayer. "Goodnight, Maggie."
Francis feels her calm down in his arms, eyes closed and miraculously asleep.
"That worked?"
"That was Soul-edit. Her memories of tonight are gone. She will recall nothing. Do you want me to eras—"
"No!" Francis swats his hand away as Matthew reaches toward him again. "What are you?"
Matthew rises, dusting off his knee. "Something you're not supposed to see."
"You talk like Clark."
"You know Clarkie?"
Clarkie. The moniker makes him roll his eyes. It's endearing to the point of irritation. He hates hearing anyone give her nicknames. Worse when it comes from someone wearing a better suit—and a face that could almost be called pretty.
"We see each other, a lot. She likes to spend time at my penthouse. I'd like to think we've developed some sort of bond."
Matthew touches his coat, fighting the urge to pull out his reaper blade and cut his tongue out with it. Fraternizing with the living. His lips twitch into a grin. Clark's broken more rules than he imagined.
"Cute." He tilts his head. "She slept in my bed, ate breakfast with me. And oh—we kissed. But sure, you have a bond."
Matthew walks away before he does something regrettable. He's not in the mood to file a report tonight for harming a human. Overtimes are not his thing, he likes to lounge about, flirt around and occasionally show face. Making him do more than that is blasphemy.
The guides from Soul Management stands like sentinels before the saint's villa as he commands. Black silhouettes with stillness that only belongs to the dead. Matthew checks his watch. It's almost time. With a sharp snap of his fingers, the streaks of black blood staining his cheek, neck, and suit dissolves into nothingness, as if the night has swallowed the evidence whole. One does not come to collect a saint wearing the marks of violence, even if the violence has been righteous.
The suits bow as he makes his way up the steps. Inside, lamplight casts a warm but fading glow over the room. Billy kneels by the bed, the frail, parchment-pale hand of Dr. Aalto clasped between his own. At the sight of the Head Reaper, Billy's breath catches in his throat. If he's here, the saint's clock has run out.
"Young man," the doctor murmurs, his voice a fragile thread, yet urgent. His grip on Billy's hand tightens. "Can you... write a message for me?"
He looks to Matthew. The Head Reaper gives a solemn nod of permission.
"I can feel it," the doctor says, his breath uneven. "This pain... it will not relent. You must call Doctor Wright... tomorrow... if I am gone. They are bringing in a critical patient—he must be helped."
Others before oneself. A true saint 'til the end.
Billy takes down each word like a promise, then slips the folded note into his pocket. He lowers the doctor gently back against the pillow, draws the blanket close, and with rigid posture, salutes him. Through the fog of pain, Dr. Aalto gives a small smile.
"Did you serve, lad?"
"Iraq, sir. First Battalion, Sixth Marine Regiment," he says.
Matthew brought him because he had met the saint once.
In his past life, Billy was a soldier—killed in action during their final mission. He didn't make it home. But on that day, in the middle of the chaos, he had seen the doctor in the field.
Reapers are given a choice on keeping their memories before they wear the suit. Most want to forget their time on Earth. Billy is one of the few who chose to remember.
"You saved someone I loved. I requested to be here to thank you properly. I never had the chance—my time came too soon. But my little brother lives because of you... I still remember it when the medevac came, Jamie thought you were... an angel."
"I'm far from that, my lad."
"No, you're close. A saint, sir." He salutes him again. "Thank you for saving him and thank you for your service, sir."
He wants to return the salute but he's already too weak. "What's your name, son?"
"William Bennington, sir."
The doctor tries to lift one hand and Billy meets it. His eyes shone, not with pain, but with pride. "Mr. William Bennington, I only deal with the blood and the wounds. It's you boys who spent your youth and lives out there, who takes bullets and bombs, that matter... I—I should be the one thanking you for your service."
With the last of his strength, he squeezes Billy's hand tight. "Your country is proud of you, son."
Those words feel better than any medal for him. He restrains himself from crying, but still, the tears fell.
"Sorry, sir. I'm not usually like this." he wipes his eyes and forces a smile.
"Billy." Matthew taps him on the shoulder. "It's time."
He steps back to make room for him, bowing his head as a sign of respect.
The Head Reaper draws a white card from his coat. In the dim light, the silver-inked name gleams like the first glint of dawn.
"Salazar Aalto. Born October 3, 1967. Death by colon cancer, 11:57 p.m., September 11, 2032. I am here to escort your soul to the Veil."
Matthew brings his hand over to the saint's eyes. "I'm going to make sure you'll leave peacefully and without pain."
Billy sniffs in a corner as he watches the soul rise, gentle and luminous. All the days they spent here protecting him, now ends.
"Follow me, sir", Matthew says and the soul walks out with him. Outside, the ground has been cleared. No rogues or black blood in sight. As they step down, a line of reapers flanks both sides, forming a pathway for them, their hands rising in salute.
"I did not expect so many people to come for me," he says as he tries to imprint on his mind every face that has appeared to greet him.
"You dedicated your life in service. It's the least we can do for you, doctor." Matthew faces him and gives him a salute, "Please accept the Veil's way of honouring you."
A gentle warmth softened the doctor's features as he returns the salute, the faint curve of his lips carrying both gratitude and farewell.
"I've lived a good life."
"You did." Matthew agrees. "Are you ready, sir?"
"I am."
"Then please allow me." He edges forward, offering his arm with the dignity of a soldier escorting a commander from the field. The doctor takes it without hesitation.
"Hold fast."
It starts with a whisper, then the deep, resonant sweep of unseen wings. In the next heartbeat, they are gone.
—
They don't go back to the Veil.
When Clarence pulls them out of the chaos, they land somewhere far that the air itself seems unsure if it should belong to the living or the dead.
The darkness presses close, relieved only by the pale charity of the moon. It spills across the land, not to soothe, but to reveal. Behind them, the carcass of an ancient keep rises like a grave marker—splintered archways, collapsed towers, walls gutted by centuries of neglect.
The land feels wrong, the place itself has stopped remembering what it used to be.
At their backs they are chased by ruin. Before them greets emptiness. A vast, cracked plain where even weeds have given up their struggle. Not even the gnats bother here.
They stand beneath a dead tree, the only one left standing where an entire alcove of trees used to line the path like loyal soldiers. Now there's nothing but stumps. Rotting roots claw at the dirt like fossilized bones. Only this one remains.
Dead, but here.
Just like the girl in his arms. He still holds her, as if letting go might undo whatever fragile thing is keeping her with him.
Slowly—like setting down something too precious to drop—he lowers her to the ground.
Her body complies, but her mind... is elsewhere.
She won't look at him. Not even a glance. The wounds on her chest, where the rogue's claws tore through her, are already stitching themselves back together. Her power as reaper sees to that. But Clarence knows, it's the wounds that don't bleed that they should be worried about.
"Clark," her name comes out softly in his mouth, an incantation and a plea.
She doesn't answer. Her hands stay clenched in her lap. Her breathing remains shallow, like she's still trapped beneath that monster's claws. The black veins on her skin from the rogue's venom are still there, slowly receding as she heals.
He strips one glove from his hand. Fingers trembling despite himself, he brushes her chin, guiding her face upward. His bare palm meets her cheek. Warm skin against cold skin. Flesh to flesh hoping it will be enough. Her body jolts at the contact, a small, sharp blink—like surfacing from underwater. The tremors in her shoulders still.
Her eyes, glassy and distant, begin to flicker. Slow blinks and they find him.
Clarence holds her gaze, and this time she stays. He calls her name again.
Her throat bobs as she swallows, suddenly aware of how tightly he's holding her.
Clark pulls back—not violently, just enough to break the contact—but when she starts to turn away, Clarence doesn't let her.
He catches her face once more, thumb resting just beneath her jaw, turning her gently but firmly back toward him.
"Can you hear me?" his eyes searches hers like he's still making sure she's here.
She stares at Clarence and her breath hitches, breaks. And before he can call her again, she's already grabbing onto him, pulling herself down into his arms, burying her face against the curve of his neck like she's afraid she'll disappear if she doesn't hold on tight enough.
The sobs hit her like waves—sudden, raw, and relentless.
Clarence is still for the first seconds of it, caught between instinct and disbelief. This close, he can feel every tremor running through her. Her fingers clench tight against his coat like she's anchoring herself to him. Slowly—carefully, almost like she's something fragile—he lifts a hand and runs it through her hair, smoothing it down in steady strokes. Again. And again. No words. Just his hand, moving with quiet care.
He lets her cry, break, if she needs to. He holds her there, against him, until the shaking dulls and her breathing slows. Until there's nothing left but the weight of her in his arms and the cold, ruined air around them.
He can feel his collar is wet with her tears. The fabric clings cold against his skin, but he doesn't move. She's settled now, quieter, something he's not used to. She's still curled into him like some small, wounded thing that found the only patch of earth where it felt safe enough to stop shaking.
For a moment, he wonders if she's fallen asleep. Her breathing is slow, almost even. Her weight relaxed against him. But when he tilts his head down to check, he sees her fingers, small and pale, idly playing with the end of his tie. She's doing soft tugs, like her mind isn't even aware her hands are moving. There's something heartbreakingly innocent about it.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" Clarence asks, lips brushing against her hair.
He means the rogue. The one that remembered her and left her like this. The scum whose sins he could still feel burning on his blade. At first, there's nothing. Just her fingers, still lightly tugging at his tie. Her gaze remains distant, her eyes unfocused and far away.
"Clark," he tries again in the gentlest tone he can muster.
"What for?" she finally answers. "It's only going to make you sad."
"Then I'll be sad," he says without hesitation. "I just... I want you to have someone who'll listen."
Her throat moves with the weight of held-back words. Her eyes shine under the pale light, filling without warning, without sound. There are no sobs this time. Her tears just start falling clean and steady down her cheeks like she can't help them anymore. Her fingers tighten against his tie, as she finds the courage to tell him.
"There were things that happened in my life that only God saw. I wasn't sure why He allowed them to happen."
The Chief of the Veil told him; she regained the memories of her old lives. And he wonders just how many of them ended with her getting hurt and he wasn't there to protect her.
"Half the time, I thought maybe He blinked and missed them. I had to believe that was it—that He blinked. Otherwise, knowing He saw and watched... just feels wrong. Like I've done some—"
"It wasn't your fault." He stops her. "None of it was fault, Clark."
"You don't know that."
"But I know you."
She lifts her head and looks at him.
"It's not your fault." He assures her again. "Now, tell me what he did."
"...Are you going to punish him if I tell you?" she asks, almost like a dare.
"I will."
There is fury in those eyes that she has not seen before. She refuses to believe he means every word.
"No, you won't," she whispers. "Not if it breaks some rules."
Clarence doesn't answer. But she feels it anyway. The barely contained tension that runs through him, from the way his hand stills in her hair to the sharp, silent way his shoulders lock in place.
The lie she's telling herself... that he wouldn't...
If only she knew.
Clarence turns his eyes to the dead tree above them. Its brittle twigs claw at the sky like fingers reaching for something long gone.
She has no idea how far he is willing to go. How much of the world he's broken already.
He once burned a kingdom, erased bloodlines, when they killed her. One sinner is nothing.
—
Clark asks him to take her home, and Clarence remains quiet the entire way. He is cloaked in something darker now and far less forgiving. Something she doesn't like. She shouldn't have said those things. Shouldn't have put that look in his eyes.
He refuses to put her down even if she insists, she can walk. His gaze keeps sliding to the fading black veins crawling her skin. Each one vanishes by degrees, but not fast enough for him. He won't let go until every last trace of the venom is gone.
The candles spring to life the instant they step inside, throwing unsteady light across the walls. He remembers her place, the cold, the silence and the blue couch. The only soft thing in here. He sets her down on it with care that feels deliberate. Then he drops to one knee in front of her, eyes fixed on her face, still watching.
"I'm sorry I cried." she says in a tone she never uses, "It won't happen again, captain."
"You don't have to apologize for th—"
"I do." She cuts him off. "I told you to trust me and let me take a hit, and you did and I—I broke."
"You resisted being taken over by a rogue. Reapers succumb to the venom in seconds, you held out longer than anybody I've ever seen, Clark."
"I still failed." She bites the inside of her cheek, hard enough he can see the muscle in her jaw tighten. "I—I am better than that. It's these damn memories, I wanted them back and now—If I knew they will make me weak I shouldn't—sorry, I'm not trying to make excuses. I'll do better."
She shakes her head and looks away.
It's the second time today she's apologized. And it's twice too many. Clarence does not want to hear it. Classic, Marion. Always too hard on herself. Never allowing herself to bleed or to cry.
"I believe you," he says, and when she looks back at him, he knows the words are not enough. Arguing will only make her dig in deeper, and he wants this conversation to end. And comfort, no matter how much he wants to give it to her, will be worse. She'll take it for pity, and pity is poison to her.
He stands, swallowing the urge to stay. He wants to say good night but instead he says, "You'll need a new suit."
She looks down on the bloody tear on her uniform and something, almost a smile, paints her lips. "You're buying?"
"Get my card tomorrow. I'll let you buy whatever you like."
"Candies?"
"All the candies you want. Even rubber ducks."
He expects the sound of her laugh, but it never comes. The warmth in her face gutters out as fast as the candles had lit. "Stop trying to be nice. I'm fine."
"I wasn't doing that," he says, already turning toward the door.
"About the rogue," she calls after him, "Forget what I said. Hell will take care of it."
He doesn't look back. He can't—not with the weight pressing against his ribs, not with the shadow curling in his expression, the one she must never see. The one that once opened the gates of Hell for him and would again if he let it breathe.
Somewhere far below, those gates shudder.