There is a peculiar sighting just outside the gates of Hell. The demons on the security room have been on high alert because an 'unwanted' has just shown his face in the monitors. It's the Head Reaper, someone who isn't supposed to be gracing the pearly gates. He usually delivers saints and comely ones, this, in all sense, is the wrong drop-off.
In the infernal surveillance booth, (a cramped, smouldering room full of old monitors and an overused coffee machine that has, at some point, developed a soul and is now deeply resentful about it) the demons on guard are in the middle of a startling predicament.
"He's just standing there," one mutters, licking soot off a monitor. "That's never a good sign."
"Maybe he's lost?"
"You don't get lost and end up at Hell's front door. This isn't a bloody petrol station."
Another black figure appears, a face they all know. It's the Captain, a former inmate, and their eyes are glued to the screen to watch the drama unfold.
Clarence sees him first, leaning by the gates. He has no business being here. Surely, he is not here to observe or do an audit. He's far too lazy for that.
"How is she?" Matthew asks.
"Fine."
"Good. Then, let's go." He pulls him by the arm, but Clarence whisks it away.
"Clarence. Don't be stupid."
"I have business here, Matthew. Don't interfere."
There's no stopping him once he sets his mind to something. But this isn't just simple rule-breaking. If he so much as draws his blade while on Hell's grounds, he'll be thrown straight back into the Cellar.
Reapers can't intervene with Hell's punishments. One of the many clauses in the Treaty of Sins and Souls—signed in blood, sealed in fire, all very poetic.
"What, and leave that mess you call a rookie alone with me?"
Clarence stops; Matthew just found his greatest leverage. He shuts his eyes almost regretfully and remembers what she said. How terrible things happened to her, and no one was there. He should have been there. But he wasn't. He is here, unable to reincarnate, because of his selfish, damned choices.
"Do not give in to your wrath," Matthew says, pursuing him. "There are far more important things than revenge."
It is then that the gates of Hell break open, tempting him like they always have.
Clarence turns to Matthew. The fury hasn't disappeared, but it's been satiated. It's taken a seat inside him, quiet for now, as he finally allows reason to stand.
"I will be back."
Matthew watches him walk away. He tried at least. He doesn't want to admit it, but Clarence cares too much—and it's starting to become a problem.
At the desk, the demon Ralph with crooked glasses adjusts his nameplate and peers up. Protocol dictates, he must ask for paperwork for any transaction in Hell. But this visit has been called in ahead of time.
"Evening, Clarence. You're expected."
He eyes the demon suspiciously. He has his blade ready, anticipating a fight at the entrance. But to his surprise, they let him in without a fuss.
Another demon peels from the shadows, gaunt and winged, smelling of ash and regret. It tells him he will be escorted down to the pit where the rogue is. They even know why he came here, without him saying a word. This warm welcome into the circles of Hell makes him uneasy. They're never this cooperative.
They descend through the gut of the Pit—through the usual obsidian corridors and screaming stairwells, where the walls weep fire and the ceilings breathe. They don't stop and go beyond the ninth. Into the new ones, like the one where he first picked up Clark. The demon does not leer or throw insults at him like they always do whenever he comes near the abyss. The moment they halt, he understands why.
Chained to a metal slab scorched black from use, the creature's skin is in tatters—macerated over and over again by spectral blades and the endless teeth of hellhounds gnawing at its limbs. The screaming doesn't stop, not even when its mouth is a shredded pit. Not even when it begs.
Beside it, a singular figure watches, and he turns as soon as he senses his presence.
"Ah, the unmistakable stench of the Veil," he greets. "You may go now."
"My Lord Azazel." The demon bows and floats back up, leaving Clarence with the prince.
"I started without you." He beams, "That's why you're here isn't it? To shed some filthy blood."
He is not in his demon form now. No horns, no tail, none of the abominations they were cursed with when they fell. He's wearing his good face, the ethereal one given by Heaven to a once-angel, now held down here in the Cellar like the rest of the fallen, stripped of their wings.
"How did you know I was coming?"
"Oh, the filth told me. Stop."
At the command, the hellhounds slink back. On the bed, bones knit themselves with wet eagerness—muscle, ligament, and skin crawling back into place until the sinner's face is whole again. He wails, a noise like rusted hinges, and Azazel silences him with a lazy flick of the hand.
"Too loud," he sighs, as though bored by the very concept of suffering. "Now then—where were we? Ah yes. He said you were particularly sensitive about his sins."
His tone is laced with accusation; he's trying to prove something or probably just provoke him.
"And you aren't?"
"Rude." He blinks and Clarence falls down on his knees, unable to move. "But you caught me. I relieved the scourge on duty. I wanted to play with him myself. You would understand, right? No one bleeds my scourge but me."
"She's not your scourge anymore, Azazel."
He leans down on the bed and carves the sinner's face with his sharp nails, "Semantics." The smell of blood makes the hounds rabid, hungrier, "Again." A new mouth is ripped on the sinner's face, and he allows him to scream in agony as his pets devour him.
Azazel can smell the rage in him, the kind that blinds. It sharpens. And the longer Clarence stares at the sinner, the colder it becomes.
"I know you want to hurt him. Or not, hurt is not the right word. Break, slaughter, punish... I could go on."
He grabs Clarence by the chin, forcing his face upward. "I can let you. But then, you will need to give up your soul and come back to the flames, dear boy. So what do you say, shall we?"
Clarence jerks his head away, refusing to let himself be tempted again.
"No."
Azazel laughs. Clearly, someone had knocked some sense into him before now.
"That thing did something to her, or have you already forgotten?"
He remembers. She told him. But Matthew was right, there are far more important things at stake. He will never leave Clark to be alone again.
"How much did she tell you?" Azazel goes on, "Did she say how many times that vile thing touched her?"
Clark told him enough.
He tries to break free from the demon's hold, but he can't move. He's in Hell, where Azazel is most powerful.
"I'm not going to do it, Azazel."
"She didn't tell you how young she was when he started, did she?"
Clarence's eyes lock onto the demon. Those words suddenly claw against his chest, trying to wake the anger he is trying to suppress.
"Struck a chord, did I?" Azazel grins, "She was eleven, Clarence. So young, so... innocent. Can you imagine his clammy disgusting pa—"
His hold breaks and in a flash Clarence's hand is on Azazel's throat. "Stop it, Azazel!"
"Or—what?"
He grabs Clarence's wrist and breaks it, slamming him to the ground and grinding his face underfoot.
"You dare!" He warns. "If you're not going to play, Clarence, why in heaven are you in Hell?"
Clarence struggles, trying to wriggle from under the boot, but Azazel presses harder.
"I'm not doing it—I'm not leaving the Veil... you can do what you want with him. I—won't participate."
Azazel leans back, clearly bored, and sinks onto the steel bed. The hellhounds halt their rampage, settling obediently at his sides.
"You used to be more fun," he complains.
Clarence rises and surveys the rogue, still writhing in pain. He must refrain, temper his wrath at the sight of him. He must not let himself be consumed. Not again.
But can Hell really, give her justice? He asks only to himself.
"Don't worry. This is just the overture, reaper." Azazel assures as if reading his thoughts, "Terrible things await him, for an eternity. Punishment equal to his sin. I'll make certain of it. Hell is always just."
--
Clark comes in the training hall at what the living will call ungodly hours—though in the Veil, "ungodly" is relative, and mostly meant "hours when sane people are doing something better with their existence." She likes it that way. No curious eyes. No well-meaning comments about overtraining. No chance of anyone noticing that she still hears the laughter of that Type 3 in her skull, the sound of something ancient and cruel delighting in the way it had bested her.
So, she trains. Until her muscles tremble. Until her hands blister. Until she is flat on the floor with the taste of blood in her mouth, listening to her own heartbeat like it is trying to hammer its way out.
That night—or morning, or whatever the hour counted as—Matthew happens to be passing by. He will later claim it is by accident, that he is on his way to do something entirely unrelated, that he hasn't been checking on her. That's his defence, and he holds to it like a barrister with a shaky case.
He leans in the doorway. Hands in his pockets. Watches her grind herself down to dust against the training dummy. One of Anya's new ones, though from the way it looks, you'd think it had been fighting wars for centuries. He notices the slump of her shoulders, the ragged rhythm of her breath.
"You're going to break yourself," he says finally.
She doesn't stop. "Maybe I'm aiming for that."
Matthew steps forward, catches her blade with his. "Come on. Spar with me. You'll learn faster fighting someone who actually hits back."
She looks at him then, hair plastered to her forehead, sweat rolling down her neck.
"You're training wrong. Come on, Clarkie."
She narrows her eyes. Suspicious. "This isn't some elaborate scheme to knock me on my back, is it?"
His smile is sharp and lazy all at once. "If I wanted you pinned down, I'd pick somewhere softer. And with roses."
Clark exhales through her nose, draws her blade. "Why do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"Flirt. When you don't mean it."
"Maybe I like making someone jealous." His voice dips soft as ash. "Eyes up."
She barely registers the warning before he vanishes and reappears, driving the hilt of his blade into her stomach. She staggers but stays upright.
Then he's on her—fast, merciless, no room to think. A grab, a flip, steel flashing past her face close enough to slice skin. Warm blood trickles down her cheek.
"Still think I don't mean it?"
She wipes it away with the back of her hand, grinning. Finally—someone not tiptoeing around her. All day it had been soft voices and careful words. Even Anya hugged her. But Matthew? Matthew doesn't hesitate. He doesn't pull his strikes. If anything, he looks like he's out to break her.
"I gotta say, you might be tired, but you're still quick," he says, praising her as she escapes with only a red slash across her face. "But if you don't focus, this blade's going to hit something vital."
"I am focused."
"Then prove it."
He's gone—and then he's above her. His blade crashes down onto hers with a sharp ring of steel on steel.
"Good catch," he says. "Now faster!"
Clark barely keeps pace, parrying blow after blow until her suit hangs in tatters. Blood slicks her arms, shoulder, and even a line near her waist.
"Want to switch to blunted blades?" Matthew asks, tone mocking.
"No." Her voice is flat. "I'm fine."
This time, she strikes first. She's been watching his footwork, studying his rhythm. Now she mirrors it. Between parries, Matthew grins.
She's a fast learner.
Her counters drive him back a step, but it's far from victory. If there's one thing they share, it's this—neither of them knows how to lose.
"Don't blink."
The whisper brushes Clark's ear, and before she can react, Matthew is already on her. His blade lunges for her chest—she catches it just in time. He grins and drives a fist into her stomach.
Her weapon slips from her grip as she doubles over.
"Get up," he orders, brushing damp hair from his forehead.
"Give me—a second—" she wheezes.
"No one will give you a second in a real fight." He hauls her up by the collar, stares straight into her eyes, then hurls her across the room. The wall cracks under the impact, dust falls like ash.
"You psycho." She clings to the wall and reaches for her blade.
"Up, Clarkie." He's suddenly beside her again. "Don't make me throw you harder."
Something in her breaks free—not bone, not spirit, but pride unleashed. She springs forth, the tip of the blade grazes his chin, and it draws blood.
He steps back and laughs like it tickles him.
"You're done for tonight," he says simply. "Let's do this again tomorrow. Same time."
"Wha—" She collapses before she can finish, blade slipping from her hand.
Matthew steps out and finds Billy waiting just outside the training hall.
"How'd you know where to find me?"
"These days, it's not that hard, Boss."
All he has to do is track down Clark—Matthew is never far from her. Billy hands over a stack of folders and a pen.
"I really need you to sign these." He flips to the marked pages, pointing out the lines. Then he pauses. "You, uh... you've got something on your chin. Is that blood?"
Matthew swipes a hand across his face, sees the smear of red, and grins. Without a word, he keeps signing.
"She landed a hit on her first day," Billy says, shaking his head. "Not many can do that."
"It was barely a hit," Matthew mutters.
"Yeah, well... most don't even get a 'barely' when they fight you. Not even the vice captains," Billy remarks.
Matthew chuckles and walks off, still smiling.
Billy watches him go, thinking he hasn't seen him this excited in a long time.
--
Clark isn't officially training with Matthew. Not training-training, anyway. But the days keep unfolding, and somehow, the lessons go on.
The fourth night, the floorboards already remembers their footsteps.
Clark has learned to anticipate Matthew's reach, his favourite feints, the way his right hand twitches just before a downward strike. She is getting better—faster, sharper. Which is when he decides to make things harder.
"Come on," he says, circling her. "I've seen snails with more bite."
"I'm pacing myself," she spats through gritted teeth. "It's called strategy."
"It's called an excuse."
And then he's on her—too fast for her to block in time, his blade ringing against hers with the sort of force that jars all the way to her bones. She stumbles back, and he doesn't let her recover. Another strike, then another, driving her toward the wall.
"Matthew—!"
"Keep up."
Her parry slips and he sweeps her legs out from under her. She hits the floor hard, the impact rattling her teeth.
"You—" she starts, but doesn't get the chance to finish. He kicks her—not cruelly, but sharply enough to knock the wind out of her.
"Up." His voice leaves no room for argument.
She glares at him from the floor, chest heaving. "You know, most people would offer a hand."
"We're not doing that here." He waves it off, clearly uninterested.
She pushes herself up, refusing to show how much she hurt. "You kick me like that again, I'm biting your ankle."
He almost smiles. Almost. "Then I'll train you until you can reach higher."
They go again. And this time, she fought like she meant it.
By the end of the night, she's sprawled on the floor, gasping.
"Dead?" he asks.
"Considering my employment status, that's a complicated question."
Matthew lowers himself to the floor beside her, tosses a towel over her face as if she were a particularly sweaty sofa he'd grown tired of looking at.
Clark mutters a curse that would scare angels, peels the towel off, and glares at him. He's grinning. One day she'll rid the world of that grin, preferably with something sharp and poetic.
"Clarence sent you, didn't he?"
Matthew scratches the end of his nose, a picture of studied innocence. "What gave it away? I kept the brooding to a minimum. Didn't want to come off as Clarence-like."
"I was supposed to have time off. Re-training. After the incident."
His grin widens. "You read your Reaper Manual? That's news. Usually it doubles as a coaster in your desk."
"No." Her voice sharpens. "I saw the debriefing paperwork on his desk. Reaper Resources asked him to authorize it."
Now, here's the thing about debriefings. They work on other reapers, the normal sort, the kind that fret and wring their hands and sometimes require someone to pat them on the shoulder and say "there, there." Clark is not that sort. Clark is from Hell. She doesn't need therapy—she's the reason other people do. Clarence, being Clarence, likely considered the entire request so absurd he didn't even bother to sign it.
"He's—not suspended, is he?" Clark asks.
Matthew looks at her as if she's just suggested Clarence might have taken up juggling for a living.
"Clarence? Suspended? Why would you think that?"
She tells him about the rogue and what she said to Clarence. About the kind of words that crawl under skin and take root in bone. And beneath it all, the fear—because fear, she's learned, isn't always about herself. Sometimes it's about someone else doing something spectacularly stupid in response to you.
"He didn't need to do anything, you know." She says it like a warning, though it sounds more like a prayer. "No sinner goes unpunished rightfully in the Pit. Hell is always just."
Matthew shakes his head, certain. "He's not suspended."
Clark narrows her eyes, searching him for any crack in the mask.
"He's the captain, Clark." His voice softens slightly, as if reminding her of something she already knows. "He's got whole squads to oversee, endless operations to manage. He doesn't get the luxury of being benched. Not him."
--
By the eighth day, the training hall smells faintly of steel and sweat and the sort of stubbornness you can bottle and sell to gods.
Clark is different now. Still bruised, still scraped, but sharper. Faster. Where once she had stumbled, she now slips past Matthew's blade with something approaching grace. She no longer bleeds at every touch. Sometimes she even makes him stumble, which he takes with the sort of dignity a cat shows when it falls off a windowsill. Which is to say, none.
Matthew, of course, taunts her endlessly. It is his sacred duty. He does it the way elder brothers do—half out of habit, half out of love, and half just to see the vein in her temple twitch. Clark, who is decidedly no longer a saint, replied in kind. Their sparring sessions sounded, to an outside observer, very much like two knives trying to out-snark each other while clashing at high speed.
It is almost the last hour when it happens. Both of them tired, both dripping with effort, their blades a blur of silver and spite. Clark moves differently then, tricksy, clever. She pulls something unexpected—sidestep, feint, twist—and Matthew, catches just an inch slower than usual, feels steel bite into his left shoulder.
Not a graze. Not a nick. A proper slash. Blood runs, red and warm, dripping onto the stone floor like punctuation marks.
Matthew laughs. It isn't cruel. It isn't even annoyed. It's the laugh of a man who has just seen the punchline of a very long joke.
"Well struck," he says, hand pressing his shoulder. "My job here is done."
Clark blinks at him, blade still raised. "What do you mean 'done'? Let's go again."
He shakes his head. "No, Clark. We're both tired." He tilts his head at her. "Mostly you. You've done good these past few days."
There is no exchange of gratitude, no soft swelling music, no touching moment of mutual respect. They are not those sorts of people.
Matthew simply steps back, blood on his shoulder and a smile like a secret. Clark lowers her blade, heart still hammering, pride flickering beneath the exhaustion. And if the hall seems a little quieter than usual, if the shadows themselves seem to lean in to watch the two of them, well—no one mentions it.
--
The lift gives its usual tired sigh as it opens onto the penthouse floor.
Matthew steps out, shoulders square, hair in its usual military order, and shirt—well, less so.
Clarence is leaning against the wall opposite Matthew's door, hands in his pockets, wearing the sort of expression that suggests he's been there long enough to count the ceiling lights twice. It's been like this every night since he's asked Matthew to train Clark—always there, never asking directly, but waiting all the same.
His eyes flick to the shirt. White cotton, once crisp, now creased and smeared dark with a gash of blood across the left shoulder. It's deep enough to still be leaking. Clarence's mouth twitches.
"Looks like she finally made a hit."
"You owe me a shirt," Matthew says flatly, walking past him toward his door.
It's the only way. Clarence knows that. If it were him in that training hall, he'd be too soft—too careful. But Matthew... Matthew didn't pull punches. He didn't have to remember their other life to know how to push her. Once upon a time, he'd trained her in another body, another century, another name—shaping her into someone who could survive a throne.
And now, he was doing it again.
"Thank you, Matthew," Clarence says quietly, as the man opens his door.
"I don't want your feelings, Clarence," Matthew replies without looking back. "I want an expensive shirt."
Clarence smiles faintly. They are so alike, Clark and him. Same sharp edge. Same unyielding temper. Same expensive taste in clothes. There's no denying they were related—even if the whole universe has tried.