18: Unholy Nun and Unholier Catholic Schoolgirls

Clarence is still not speaking to Clark.

It's been two days, and the silence has taken on a shape now—like a shadowy thing curled in the corners of the room, lounging between breaths, licking its claws. He passes her in corridors like she's part of the wallpaper, like her existence is a trick of the light best ignored.

At her desk, Anya peeks up from behind a holographic readout that's flickering with half-traced soul signatures and digital wards scrawled in Veilscript. “Hey!” she greets brightly. “Funny thing, you and I are doing field job today.”

Clark scrunches her nose like she's just sniffed something metaphysically unclean. “Why? Where's the Captain?”

She answers with the kind of shrug that people usually reserve for deciding between soup or salad. “Filed himself as busy. He's personally supervising the scouts assigned to hunt down the strays.”

Right, three sinners that got loose.

Clark squints in disbelief. “You're telling me he's skipping a mission to babysit first years?”

“Yup.”

She doesn't say anything. But if silence had a temperature, this one could freeze flame.

Anya breezes past it. “Come on, briefing time.”

The screen flickers on. An image of a notable Catholic girls' boarding school nestled deep in the foggy outskirts of the living world. Very exorcist-chic. Gothic spires, iron gates, probably smells like a mixture of damp hymnals and generational trauma.

“Six deaths in four months,” Anya says, clicking through. “All students. All jumped from rooftops.”

Clark leans forward. The crime scene photos look normal—if one could call a series of shattered adolescent bodies normal. “These look like suicides. They don't seem to be our type of job.”

“Initially, I thought the same,” Anya answers. “Until I found this.”

Next slide.

The victims again, this time with shirts peeled back. Etched into their skin, thin and straight like knife work: LIAR.

The lettering and the angle, feels carved by the same cruel hand.

“And ECHO Trace?”

Anya nods showing the reading from the tracker. “Spiking like crazy around the school grounds.”

Clark taps her fingers on the table while staring at the screen. “A rogue is hijacking high school kids to off themselves; I hate it already.”

“Not just any kid,” Anya says. “Check the victims' profiles. Every single one had been reported for harassment, intimidation, or violence. These weren't targets. They were bullies.”

Clark's brows furrow as she browses through the file. “It's possessing bullies.”

“Possibly but look at this.”

Anya plays a video on the screen. A random Eye passing by caught something strange in the feed on the night the last victim died. It shows two students on the rooftop—one of them standing completely still, while the other approaches the edge of the deck, just before the feed is cut.

“Based on that, we can also look at the probability that we might have a pusher. Did you identify the other student?” she asks.

“Johanna Taylor. She belongs to the same class as the victim. Her name was not mentioned on the police report of students who have had altercation with the dead. But I found something interesting deleted on the school server.”

A report appears on the screen. It was a disciplinary committee minutes stating that the victim has been harassing the new student Johanna for the last two months and almost drowned her a week before her death. But the victim's family runs the town and sits on the school board, so the record was expunged.

“Poetic justice, wouldn't you say.” Clark whistles.

“It's a crime, Clark.” Anya retorts.

“The other so-called victims,” Clark says not comfortable of the fact they are looking for justice for the bullies, “how are they connected to this Johanna?”

“Different classes, and they bullied different kids. It could be that the rogue is changing from one host to another after the kill, could be another hopper.” She hands over files of the bullied kids. “We need to get close to Johanna, check for Type 2 signature traces if it left any.”

The door opens and one of the interns, Scooby brings in two sets of uniforms.

Catholic schoolgirls’ uniform.

Clark takes the shorter skirt, but Anya snatches it away from her.

“Sorry Clarkie, but I'm going to be the hot popular bully. Since you like playing the bait, you're going to be the quiet, emotionally damaged girl who writes poems and gets smacked around at recess.”

Clark turns her whole body toward Anya. “You're going to bully me?”

Anya beams. “Yeah. Like that's hard?”

Clark snickers.

“What? I was in drama club before I died, I think. Prepare to be astounded!”

They arrive at the boarding school in disguise—knee-high socks, pleated skirts, button-ups. A picture of innocence. If only the ghosts hovering near the bell tower shared the illusion.

The first thing they see as they approach the steps is the chapel, looming like a warning. A morning mass is underway. And because Heaven has a twisted sense of humour, both girls are required to attend.

Anya pauses at the foot of the stairs, glancing sidelong at Clark. “Sooo... you being from Hell and all, think you'll burst into flames when we enter?”

Clark glares like she's weighing whether divine wrath would really be worse than punting Anya down the steps. “Shut up.”

But internally, I know she's asking the same thing. She's never tried to walk on holy ground. Not since Hell.

They walk, each step toward the chapel is a dare. The stones beneath their shoes hum with old rituals. The air is cooler here, and not kindly so. It's the chill of marble coffins and locked confessionals.

They cross the threshold.

No sparks. No smiting. No thunderclaps.

Inside, incense curls like ghosts doing ballet. The air tastes of centuries—dust, ash, candle wax, and whispered regrets. The kind of room where faith isn't just a belief; it's a presence, and it's watching.

They move to the baptismal font. Stone basin, cold and deep, holy water trembling faintly like it knows what's coming.

Anya dips her fingers. Then watches as Clark hesitates, then does the same.

Nothing happens.

No hiss. No smoke. No divine alarms shrieking from stained-glass mouths. The water ripples gently, refuses to boil, does not curdle into blood.

Anya is still gawking at her.

Clark turns. “Stop looking at me like you're waiting for me to explode.”

Anya gives her a crooked grin. “Had to be sure. If you suddenly blew up into a heap of smouldering ash, I'd feel bad if I missed it.”

They both do the sign of the cross. A practiced movement. But I swear, somewhere up there, a choir of seraphim paused and did the same.

Watching a former scourge of Hell glide through consecrated ground without flinching can make even angels nervous.

—

The classroom smells like chalk, floor polish, and pubescent fear. A crucifix hangs above the blackboard, judging everyone with the quiet intensity of someone who knows the answers to the test and your sins.

Sister Geneviève, who has likely not smiled since Vatican II, stands at the front of the class tapping her ruler against the desk before she announces, “Class, we have two transfer students joining us today. Anya, Clark.” She calls and they walk in.

Clark can feel thirty pairs of eyes pinning her to the crucified wall.

Anya steps forward like she's just won prom queen. Hair gleaming. Smile weaponized. Voice sweet as sin. “Hi! I'm Anya, a Virgo. I love expensive things and Sylvia Plath. And this,” her lip curl up into a sneer, “unfortunately, is my sister, Clark.”

Clark shuffles forward with her best impression of a traumatized woodland creature.

Whispers immediately start like wildfire behind cupped hands.

“They don't look alike.”

Anya beams and tosses her curls. “Clark's adopted.”

Clark almost glares at her, but remembers she's supposed to be the shy one. Instead, she just hugs her books tighter, lowers her gaze, and mumbles a tiny, “Hi.”

She is seated directly in front of Johanna—the girl in question, last suspected host, dark hair, sharper eyes, and the posture of someone who's lived one too many whispered rumours.

She immediately works, taking out the scanner.

Nothing. No reading of any rogue energy trace. Too much expectation that this would be a textbook case. But it isn’t.

Halfway through the lesson, Clark feigns forgetfulness and pretends she doesn't have a pen. Johanna leans forward, silent, and nudges one gently onto her desk. No words. Just an oddly gentle act.

Clark accepts it with a shy nod, channelling her inner kicked puppy to perfection until the third period.

At lunch time, she endures high school social Hell.

She sits alone at the farthest table with a burger, fries, and juice like a walking carbohydrate crime scene. She stabs a fry and eyes Anya across the room, who's already been absorbed into the school's apex predator girl gang.

Clark mutters, “She really does fit in with the hyenas...”

Anya spots her.

She struts over, high heels echoing like gunshots against tile, surrounded by glitter and venom.

She stops at Clark's table, sneers down at the burger. “Clark. Really? Again, with the saturated fats? Are you trying to destroy the family name and your arteries?”

The clique snorts.

“She's such a fat cow,” Anya stage-whispers. “Seriously, she eats like this every day. We're this close to enrolling her in a weight-loss retreat for emotionally damaged strays.”

Clark blinks slowly.

Anya presses on. “Honestly, it's embarrassing. There is no way someone that ugly came from my mother. Every time I see her in the family registry; I want to set it on fire.”

Then—sploosh—Anya “accidentally” tips Clark's orange juice straight into her lap.

“Oh my God,” Anya says sweetly. “Oops.”

Laughter. Click-clack heels. Retreating backs.

Clark sags, dripping citrus, fists clenched.

“Drama club,” she mutters. “She really was wasted on community theatre.”

Someone taps her shoulder. It's Johanna. “Come with me,” she says, already grabbing Clark by the wrist.

She pulls her into the washroom. Stark lighting, sterile tiles. Without waiting, she turns on the tap. “Take off your shirt. We'll wash it before the stain sets in.”

Clark hesitates—then remembers, they need this girl to talk. So, she slips the wet blouse off.

And stops.

Because she forgot she's wearing that bra. Black. Lacy. The kind that doesn't belong anywhere near a Catholic school.

Johanna stares.

Clark rushes to cover herself with her coat. “It's—it's Anya's. Hand-me-downs,” she mumbles.

Johanna raises a skeptical brow. “You two aren't even the same size. You are way...” she is gesturing the size with her hands.

Clark coughs awkwardly. “She buys stuff online without checking measurements.”

Johanna doesn't push, but it's obvious she's still thinking about it. Still, she rinses the shirt, then wrings it gently and hands it over.

Clark ducks into a stall to change.

Then she hears it. Her voice. Tentative and sad. “Does your sister always treat you like that?”

Clark hides a grin. A window of girl trauma bonding just opened.

She takes a deep, dramatic breath. Then lets out the world's most pitiful, over-acted sob.

“She—hic—always does stuff like this!” Clark wails from inside the stall, voice quivering like a telenovela heroine who's just been dumped at the altar. “She hit me once—with a curling iron! And... and made me scrub the toilet with a toothbrush! My toothbrush!”

Johanna gasps.

Clark goes on, milking it. “She says I'm a disgrace. I'm not even in the family Christmas card. They use stock photos!”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Johanna is now horrified, “That's... that's terrible...” she murmurs against the door.

“I just wanted a sister who'd braid my hair,” Clark sobs dramatically. “Someone who listens.”

There's a long pause. Then Johanna says, voice watery and sincere, “You know, maybe I can help.”

Clark goes quiet.

Johanna continues, softer. “I know someone you can talk to.”

Clark straightens slightly. Hooks the bait. “Who?”

“Sister Agatha,” Johanna says. “Whenever I'm hurt... when people say bad things about me... I go to the confessional pew. In the chapel. And... the sister is there. She listens. And when I leave, I always feel better.”

Clark stops cold, heart pounding. There. That's it.

Johanna's voice lowers to something darker. “She's helped people, like me... there's another student, Kristy, she told me about the sister and... like her, I was finally free of the person hurting me.”

Clark bursts out of the stall, barely bothering to button her shirt. “Where is it?” she demands. “The confessional. Show me.”

Johanna blinks. “Now?”

“Now.”

—

There is a forgotten wing in St. Beatrice's chapel. No one comes here anymore except ghosts and girls with too many secrets.

Johanna walks ahead in silence, her loafers clicking against marble. She glances back every few steps to make sure Clark is still following. She is, though her pace has shifted to less shy-girl shuffling. Her eyes are sharp now, her ears tuned. She's in full huntress mode.

The chapel doors creak open with a sound that can make the hair on one's neck rebel. Inside the air is musty. Warped pews lined two sides and stained glass panels bleeding faded colours onto the stone floor.

And in the corner, shadowed by cracked statues of saints long since abandoned by the maintenance budget: the confessional.

It squats there like a wooden beast, three doors, two seats, and one secret.

Clark inspects it a few feet away.

This is it.

Johanna gestures. “That's where I go. I sit on the left side. The sister comes in through the priest's side. I never see her... but I hear her breathing sometimes.”

Clark lifts a brow. “Breathing?”

Johanna nods. “Like someone... trying to stay calm. Or like they've been crying.”

She says it like it means something. Like it matters. Clark files that away.

“How often?” Clark asks. Her voice is quiet now. Focused. Almost reverent.

“Not every day. But always after something bad happens. When I'm really hurting. It's like she knows.” Johanna's voice dips lower. “The last time... it was after Patrice pushed me in the hallway and pretended it was an accident.”

Clark doesn't need to ask. She saw Patrice today, the tallest one in Anya's clique. The one with the dead eyes and angel pins on her bag.

Johanna continues. “That night I came here, crying, and told the sister I wished Patrice would just... disappear.”

She pauses. Her voice is flat now.

“The next morning, she had a seizure in class. No one knows what caused it.”

Clark tenses.

“Have you seen the sister anywhere else?” she asks.

“No.” Johanna looks away. “But I feel like she knows me. Like she's always watching. Like... like she chooses who deserves to be punished.”

Clark steps forward and opens the confessional's priest door.

Empty.

Dusty. The wood smells like incense and mold. There's a faint indent on the cushion where someone's been sitting. Recently.

Johanna walks to the other side and lowers herself into the penitent seat. The mesh between them casts warped shadows on her face.

Clark settles in. Lets the moment breathe.

Johanna stares straight ahead. Her voice lowers. She doesn't look at Clark now. It's like muscle memory takes over.

“Sometimes I come here and just say things. Like I'm praying, but... not to God. Just hoping someone listens.”

Clark watches her. “What do you say?”

“Things I could never say out loud.” She exhales. “Like I hate this school. I hate my life. I hate that my mom never calls.”

Clark swallows. “What does the sister say?”

“She just listens. But once... she told me: 'To silence the pain, silence the cause.'” Johanna looks up, slowly. “That's when I knew... she understood me.”

A cold draft curls through the chapel. A candle flickers. Clark's instincts flare.

“Johanna,” she says slowly, “when you told her about Patrice... did it feel like... giving permission?”

Johanna doesn't answer. But her silence is damning.

Then—Clark hears something.

Step. Creak. Breath.

Her eyes snap toward the side door of the chapel. A figure stands just past the edge of the stained-glass light. Hooded. Still. Watching.

Johanna doesn't notice. She's too lost in memory. “It felt like relief,” she says.

The figure slips away gone in an instant.

Clark stands up so fast she nearly knocks the wooden panel over.

“We're not alone,” she hisses. “Stay here.”

She bolts from the confessional, races across the chapel, throws open the side door—but there's no one.

Just the courtyard. The wind.

And a single drop of wax on the stone floor, still warm.

—

ECHO trace has been erratic all day, Anya stares at the readings, the scanner's been picking up signals almost everywhere, but very low to be tagged as the rogue. It's like everyone's been brushing shoulders with it without even knowing.

A new intel from Clark says that there is a sister in the school who gives counselling to disturbed students down by the old chapel wing, a Sister Agatha. Only, there wasn't anyone with that name on the school record.

“What do you mean?”

“I've checked the archived files and the deleted ones, there's no one with that name.” she says to Clark.

She's still in the chapel patrolling, in case the sister comes back and to stop any student from going in.

“Well, let me know when you find something. And keep an eye on Johanna”

Anya run the search again for the names while watching surveillance video of Johanna on another monitor.

Then, whispers from outside.

It's Patrice, one of her own girl gang talking to someone in hush tones. The scanner beside Anya lights up. Type 2 signal is being detected, bright and clear.

She peeks through the door peephole and sees her and a glimpse of black habit then it disappeared as they both walk away.

Anya waits, until the footsteps go quiet then follows them out, blade hidden in her school coat. And rage simmering just beneath her calm.

They end up on the rooftop. It's cold and empty, but the air is thick with the smell of darkness. Wind howls between the stone spires, and the sky is purple black, bruised with clouds hanging low like swollen eyes.

Patrice stands with her arms folded, annoyed and bored. A nun stands near the edge, her veil flapping gently in the wind like something alive.

She speaks in that calm voice—slow and thick, like poison poured in honey.

“Tell me, Patrice... what would God feel if He discovered that one of His creations spent her time causing pain to others?”

Patrice scoffs. “Is this a sermon? Sister Agatha, is it? If it is, I'm out.”

She turns to leave.

But the nun's voice drops cold.

“You can't go. Not until you pay for your sins.”

From the shadow of the stairwell, Anya tenses and immediately sends a message to Clark, but someone grabbed her phone.

“Johanna—”

The girl puts a finger to her lips to shush her. Then pulls her up and drags her out of hiding.

Patrice stares from one girl to the other. “What is this? Anya, why are you with this loser?”

Johanna walks slowly toward her, voice quiet, almost detached. “She's going to be next after you.”

Anya glares at her. She looks different, like she's out of it and her lips are pale like ash.

“You pushed Mia,” Patrice says. “They said she jumped. But she didn't. You shoved her.”

Johanna's eyes darken, she moves toward her. “Don't tell lies, Patrice. God hates liars.”

Her feet move on their own. One step. Another. Toward the ledge. “No!” Patrice panics. She tries to stop, but her body won't listen.

Anya stands up and shakes Johanna as if to wake her up. She calls her name, but she does not let up. Her eyes stayed at Patrice.

Tears spring up, unbidden. “I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry for what we did! I'm sorry!”

But Sister Agatha's voice interrupts.

“Don't forget what they did to you, Johanna. How they made you eat spoiled food. How they laughed while you vomited. How they told your parents you were whoring with the kitchen boy.”

Johanna shakes her head, trembling. “No... there was no boy. That never happened...”

“But they made your parents believe. And now they'll leave you here. Cut your funds. Let you rot in this school.”

Johanna gasps. “They wouldn't—”

Agatha smiles, gently. “Wouldn't they?”

Patrice tries to scream but her mouth seals shut. Flesh twists. Skin pulls tight. Seamless silence. She shakes her head violently as Sister Agatha approaches.

One nail extends—long, curved, grotesque. She lifts Patrice's shirt and begins to write. A single word, slowly carved into flesh. LIAR.

Patrice convulses in silent agony. Her eyes plead for mercy.

Anya draws her blade, “Stop it!”

Sister Agatha halts, tongue unfurling from her mouth—a black, serpentine slither that coils in the air. She turns, lips twitching into a cruel grin.

“Moonlight blade. Reaper!” she hisses.

Anya doesn't waste time. She leaps, blade flashing silver, stance precise and built for speed. She aims not to kill—but to extract. The rogue must be pulled from the host, not destroyed with her.

But Agatha moves impossibly fast. Her nails whip outward like claws. They slash.

One hits Anya on the shoulder, another to her stomach.

Blood bursts.

She stumbles back, blade trembling in her grip.

Then, the sound of wings carries in the wind. Like the breath of something ancient.

Clark steps onto the rooftop, pulled from her midnight patrol by a pulse she couldn't ignore. Her eyes widen when she sees Anya crumpled and bleeding.

And then they narrow.

In her hand, a blade appears gleaming like justice.

Clark raises it.

And speaks—not to Agatha, not to the rogue—but to Anya.

“Anya, can you stand?”

She nods and picks herself up, clinging to the wall.

Then to the rogue:

“Step away from the child. Or I'll show you how saints fall twice.”

The rogue's head snaps to her; it shrieks with a sound not meant for ears. It's something older, something that scrapes against the soul like claws on rusted steel. Sister Agatha's form twists, her eyes gone black, her tongue writhing out of her mouth like a dying serpent.

Clark doesn't hesitate.

She runs forward, reaper blade in hand. The nun's hands crack and stretch—nails warping into grotesque tentacles, slamming into the rooftop like living stakes, tearing through concrete in jagged sprays.

But Clark is faster.

She vanishes in a blink—snap—and when she reappears, she's right in front of her.

She grabs the rogue by the throat, fingers steel-tight and slams the hilt of her blade against the nun's forehead.

The effect is immediate.

Wild, black smoke bursts forth, writhing from the host's mouth, nose, and eyes. It pours onto the floor like spilled ink, taking shape as it separates from Sister Agatha's body.

The rogue is hideous.

Long, matted hair trails across the ground like vines. Its claws scrape the rooftop with high-pitched glee. Teeth too many for one mouth. It stretches, shrieks, then laughs.

“They send children now? The Veil must be desperate.”

It sneers at Clark and Anya both, voice wet and amused.

“Pretty things with toys. I've swallowed angels older than your bones.”

Anya rises slowly beside Clark, her blade still in hand. Blood trickles from her wounds—but her skin is knitting itself back together. Pale light pulses faintly beneath it. Healing.

Clark steals a glance her way, a quiet gesture of concern.

Anya meets her eyes, gives a sharp nod. Still standing.

Then—

The rogue strikes.

Its hair lifts, a swarm of black blades, slicing through the air with a shriek. It aims not for them, but for Patrice and Johanna.

“NO!” Anya yells, surging forward. She throws herself between them, blade raised. The razor-hair slams into her weapon, shrieking as it splinters against reaper steel.

Clark doesn’t stop to think. She pounces, her blade singing through the air as it carves across the rogue's shoulder in a swift, decisive arc.

The rogue screams and turns, whirling, its claws flashing toward her.

But Clark only grins.

“Anya! Get them out of here!”

She hesitates. “Clark—”

“Go,” Clark says, still grinning, teeth white and wild. “Let me have some fun.”

There's a flash in her eyes now. Something a little darker. Liberation.

She twirls her blade once, wicked and fluid. “It's been so long since I got to play without the captain breathing down my neck.”

She steps toward the rogue, eyes gleaming as the Sight searches for its sins.

“You feed on pain, don't you?”

She didn't merely allow the bullying—she engineered it. Subtle compulsions whispered into girls' minds, stirring insecurity, envy, rage. One cruel word turned into three, until fists followed, until someone broke.

And then the rogue offered relief.

To the bullied, she appeared in secret: a saviour cloaked in piety. A sister of mercy. “Let me take your pain,” she'd say. “Let me give it to them.” And she did.

Not by healing, but by vengeance.

The bullies would walk off rooftops. While the made victims watch, thinking it was justice.

She turned children into executioners of each other. Manipulating young minds. Pretending to be a vessel of the holy. It coils a particular kind of fury inside her chest. She steps forward, eyes sharp.

The rogue grins, her mouth split too wide.

“I gave the timid little Sister Ana purpose,” she says sweetly. “She thought I was St. Agatha that eases suffering. Can you imagine? All that guilt on witnessing unfairness, all that divine yearning—I simply answered.”

Changed her name to Agatha, that’s why they can’t find her on the records.

Clark’s voice is low, cold. “This isn't heaven's justice. This is your greed.”

She raises her blade.

“And I know exactly how to make you repent.”

The rogue lunges to seize her in its claws, but Clark vanishes faster than a blink. She reappears a breath later, directly in front of her.

She drives her blade into the rogue's gut. Deep.

The creature screeches, a sound of shattering glass and screaming metal. She thrashes, her claws spasming. Her hair shoots in all directions like living wire.

Clark jumps back, then forward again. Dodging the chaos.

The rogue's fingernails elongate into whip-sharp blades, chasing her every move. They crash into walls, slice tiles, scar the concrete roof—but they don't catch her.

She cuts one arm off with a clean slash. Blood gushes from the wound and the rogue wails and recoiled.

Clark lifts the blade, tainted with black blood. She licks it, slow and deliberate. Her eyes half-lid, shivering on the edge of ecstasy.

“It's been so long since I tasted this much darkness. The kind that does not belong here.”

The weight of Hell stirs in her bones. A familiar fire, right before she punishes a sinner in the deepest circles of damnation.

Clarence always tried to keep her clean. Bound in protocols and rules. Regrettably for the rogue, the good captain isn't here.

The rogue snarls, striking again. Her remaining arm lashes out, and Clark doesn't dodge. She runs forward, unafraid. Unblinking.

One nail grazes her cheek, slicing it open. Blood trickles—but she doesn't stop, only smiles

Then moves too fast to be seen.

Slice—slice—slice.

The rogue's arm falls in bits. Her body crashes to the floor, black blood pooling out beneath her in slow, sick waves. She whimpers, a wounded beast with severed claws.

And then looks up.

Clark stands above her, blade gleaming, red thread in her hair glowing like ember silk in the moonlight. The night wind carries it in gentle wisps. She looks like a phantom. A ghost story.

And the rogue knows her.

“They whisper about you,” it croaks. “The Red Demon. The Red Scourge. You should be in Hell. Why... why would they let a scourge serve the Veil?”

Clark twirls her blade and watches her writhe.

“You shouldn't be asking stupid questions,” she murmurs stepping close. “You should be asking for clemency.”

Her blade impales the rogue by the neck. Blood splatters on her face and on her coat. It quivers and mist bursts from the corpse. The illusion shatters. The real face of the rogue—a pale, bloated, almost-human soul—emerges. Limp. Broken.

An Eye drone buzzes overhead, scanning the soul's identity.

Anya returns and she stops cold as she takes in the carnage. Her eyes falling to the rogue's twitching body, and most of all—Clark.

Her expression unreadable as she watches the soul twitch weakly. Then she steps on its back forcing it down to still. Cuffs of light snap into place when she points the tip of her blade at its wrists.

She senses Anya behind her and glances back. Her dark, maniacal eyes soften as she catches sight of her, like she just pulled her back into the light.

“You wanna take this one?” she asks casually.

Anya blinks.

Right. Captain's orders. Clark's not allowed to deliver rogues back to Hell. Something about boundaries or safety, she forgets.

Anya walks forward very cautiously. She can't believe she tried to bully Clark, even if it was for a mission. What if she holds grudges? she stares down at the helpless rogue at her feet. Now, she's genuinely afraid Clark might retaliate. Might remember.

Clark reaches out and taps Anya's shoulder.

Anya flinches.

“You did good today,” Clark says quietly. “Not bad for your first field run.”

There's warmth in her voice now. A flicker of tenderness.

“I hardly did anything.” she lowers her head.

“What do you mean? Those two girls are breathing because of you.”

Anya watches her face change—relax. Gentle. Fun Clarkie.

Then she turns away. “Anyway, I'll check on them. Clean up the loose ends.” She waves a hand lazily and disappears into the shadows.

Anya stands there for a moment.

The Eye finishes its scan.

Behind her, the rooftop is quiet. Above her, the sky is bruising into day.

—

The infirmary is quiet.

Clark stands by the beds of Patrice and Johanna, both girls sleeping soundly, their expressions soft, peaceful even. A strange contrast to the terror etched into their faces just hours ago. She watches them for a moment, then lifts her hand over each forehead, to erase the things they shouldn't have seen.

The memories of the Veil's presence, the rogue's manipulations, the rooftop horrors—all wiped clean.

They'll remember vague headaches, nerves, stress. The kind that comes from academic pressure and bad dreams.

Nothing more.

She exhales. Another necessary lie.

Outside the infirmary, Anya is waiting, leaning against the cold wall. She straightens when Clark steps out.

“Just got back from the drop-off,” Anya says. “By the way, Ralph says hi.”

“The demon clerk?”

When they reached the gates of Hell, the rogue kept muttering “Red Scourge” under its breath and he knew then it was Clark's work.

They start walking. It's late—or early. The sun's low and sleepy on the horizon, stretching pink over the trees. Somewhere, birds are trying to convince the world it's morning.

“Paperwork's all squared,” Anya adds. “Officially dropped out after two days of classes. Nice record.”

Clark doesn't respond. Just walks.

After a beat, Anya asks, quietly, “Was it hard? Becoming a Scourge?”

Clark's eyes don't move. Her tone is casual, too even. “It's supposed to be hard. Otherwise, it wouldn't break a soul.”

Anya turns her head. Clark's still not looking at her.

“You went down there willingly. Your soul they said was too clean, too much grace than what's allowed in the Veil.”

She finally looks over, a flicker of something like amusement in her eyes. “Hell did a great job, wouldn't you say? Burned all that grace right off.”

Not everything, she wants to say. Instead, she just nods.

They reach the gravel path just outside the grounds. Dew sticks to the grass. The scent of blood is gone now, replaced by fresh earth.

Anya's voice softens.

“She deserved it. The rogue. That's why you did that, isn't it?”

Clark's gaze narrows slightly. “A scourge is always just. Officially and unofficially.”

“We like you better as a reaper,” Anya blurts out.

Clark stops. Turns.

The wind rustles Anya's short hair. She stares up at Clark with surprising earnestness.

“Proud of you. And the captain doesn't say it, but... he feels the same. You know that, right?”

Clark squints. Suspicious of this sudden compliment.

“He knows you've been training young reapers at night. From the other squads. He knows you yell at the interns when he's around but help them rewrite their reports when he's gone.”

Clark blinks. Her guard drops for just a second. “Have you been spying on me?”

“The Eyes, Clarkie,” Anya grins. “The Eyes see everything.”

As if summoned, two glowing orbs—the Eye drones—float past them and vanish into the bushes, humming faintly.

“But the captain,” Anya adds, voice quieter now, “I think... he watches you on his own. When you're not looking.”

Clark's expression darkens, a mix of annoyance and something else. “I would've felt it. If someone was watching me.”

“No, you wouldn't,” Anya smirks. “It's the captain, Clark.”

Clark stares at her. Then sighs.

“...dammit.”

Anya bursts out laughing.