SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 159: The Problem with Mirrors

The lights died like a gasp.

I pressed Elliot against the cold metal filing cabinet before he could scream, one hand firm over his mouth, the other tracing the edge of Camille's trick pen in my coat. The darkness swallowed sound—except the rising thud of Elliot's heartbeat and the distant, hurried clatter of boots in the hallway outside.

He struggled for a second, wild-eyed, but I shook my head slowly.

Wait.

Footsteps.

Three. Maybe four. Light gear, no conversation. Professionals, not guards. I heard one mutter, clipped and fast: "They couldn't have gotten far."

Then silence. Only the hum of surveillance—too faint for Elliot, loud as guilt to me.

I held my breath until their footsteps faded.

Then, quietly, I released Elliot.

He didn't shout. Credit where it's due.

Instead, he hissed: "What the hell was that?! I thought you said this place was abandoned!"

"It looked abandoned," I said, brushing the dust from my gloves with practiced calmness. "Which is not the same as safe. Or friendly. Or... y'know, empty."

"You said—"

"I said it was unlocked. Which it was. That's not a promise, dear Elliot, it's an observation. Legally distinct."

Elliot looked around the archive, as if trying to see through the dark. "This isn't just some forgotten government office. This is... I mean, the lockdown, the voice, the security. Why does a place like this even exist if it's been shut down?"

He wasn't wrong. The place practically hummed with active silence. And not the sleepy kind. The kind that's pretending not to listen.

Time to lie creatively.

"Think, my dear," I said, tiptoeing through the chaos like a cat in a museum. "The regime cracked like a cheap teacup—spilled power everywhere. You really think every bitter little tyrant just packed up and went home? No no. Some people see a corpse and think 'ah, free real estate.'"

Elliot gave me a look. The kind people reserve for sewage leaks and tax audits. "You're saying they're criminals?"

"Bingo. Radicals, rogues, revolutionaries with bad hygiene and worse taste in décor. Black market aristocrats with delusions of empire. Pick a flavor. Me? I smell splinter cell. Probably using this place as a stage to play pretend government."

He glanced around at the blinking lights and armored doors. "This stage has a bigger budget than most countries."

I smiled. "Ah, but talented squatters, Elliot. Artists of illusion! They squat with style."

"You're being ridiculous."

"I am ridiculous. That's the brand."

He didn't laugh. Shame, really.

"Look," I said, lowering my voice like I was about to share a scandalous secret, "if this were official? We'd be ash. Paperwork and apologies to our next of kin. But we're not. Which means they aren't as coordinated as a true governmental organization—especially not against two charming truth-seekers like us."

A pause.

Then Elliot sighed. "Okay. Let's say you're right. That means we just found a trafficking base. Or a black site. That woman in the video... she could still be down there."

I gave a theatrical shrug. "Likely."

"Then we have to help her."

I grinned. "Heroism looks good on you."

But before we stormed the gates of hell, there was one small problem.

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"They're still in control of the system," I said, motioning to the red-locked terminal. "Best move is to stay put. Wait for them to release the lockdown. If we trigger anything else, they might bury the whole building just to silence it."

He didn't like it. But he didn't argue.

We waited.

Fifteen minutes passed in silence. No more voices outside. No sounds of doors unlocking or lights buzzing to life. I could feel Elliot shifting with nerves. I gave him something to do—watch the hallway through the sliver of space beneath the filing cabinet drawer.

While he did that, I turned my attention to the file I'd stolen. The one with the weight of a loaded gun.

I noticed something—barely perceptible—under the door. Light.

I moved toward it slowly. Slid the folder onto the ground. Angled it, page by page, beneath the light's sliver. My mask hid my expression, but inside I was a fist of nerves and fire.

The front page was government-formatted. Official header. Top clearance. The title:

Masked Syndicate – Protocols to Combat

Date of Commencement: Year 2 of the Unified Cycle

I turned the page.

The first reports were simple dossiers. Incidents involving Mr. Angel, Mr. Fox, and Mr. Dust. Brief overviews. Names unlisted. Identities unknown. Only job classes: astronaut, detective, firefighter. The writers were clearly guessing, cataloging anomalies from surveillance data and civilian testimonies.

A highlighted note on Mr. Angel:

"He arrived after passing the NASA mars mission exams, yet there was no record of his identity within our data banks until a couple days before the exam. He successfully restarted a broken ship from Mars. Disappeared shortly after having landed back on earth."

Another note on Mr. Fox:

"Fire suppression results suggest resistance to temperatures exceeding job classification. Strength and Endurance exceeds regular firefighter norms. No documented employment or application history."

And finally, Mr. Dust:

"Participated in solving the case related to Cipher with 100% accuracy rate. Local law enforcement described him as 'possessed by truth.' Later vanished after Cipher's death and his recovery from the hospital."

I kept flipping.

The reports grew sharper. More identities. More aliases.

Mr. Beetle – Mafia tournament participant. Outfought a 3 A-Rank fighters. Supposedly searching for entertainment.

That tournament was never meant to reach public eyes. Someone had leaked it.

Mr. Leviathan – An apparent "low-rank" lawyer who proved the innocence of the Masked Syndicate. Reportedly seemed nervous, but also persuasive. No payment record. Disappeared after the case.

They were building a map.

Of me.

Eventually, I found a picture. A surveillance capture. My face—Reynard Vale, the same picture from when I first when to the evaluation center and went from F-Rank to B-Rank in my construction worker job. Around it, were high quality pictures of the faces of all other identities.

Then came the confirmation.

"It is confirmed that Reynard Vale is the sole operative behind the entity known as the 'Masked Syndicate.' Further investigation confirms all named identities appear to share identical gait, vocal patterns, and recovery time when injured. We believe this man to possess the unique, likely anomalous ability to wield multiple jobs concurrently. This ability breaks known rank constraints."

Below it, an image of my civil record: once F-Rank.

Now? Marked "Unknown – Under Review."

I turned the page again.

A list of individuals I'd encountered.

Nathan Crowley – Former A-Rank Construction Worker. Lost job after being fired due to a worker union that was created by Reynard.

Damian Voss – Former A-Rank Lawyer. Lost job and disbarred following courtroom collapse attributed to "Mr. Leviathan."

There were more. Pages with strings tied to people I'd remembered.

They had pieced together the pattern. Not all the details. But enough.

Protocols Initiated:

1. Attempt recruitment.

Subject's potential outweighs risk if properly aligned with regime goals. Direct confrontation discouraged unless under controlled terms. In preliminary simulations, Subject demonstrates exceptional strategic thinking and operational adaptability. Leverage his ideological ambiguity—portray alignment with regime goals as compatible with his self-fashioned mythology.

2. Track internal sympathizers supporting Vale's alleged candidacy for World President.

Treat as traitors to the World President. Monitor for encoded communications, leaked recordings, or behavioral shifts that indicate loyalty transfer. Psychological profiles suggest charismatic influence by Subject is non-negligible. Priority flag: disillusioned mid-tier operatives most at risk of defection.

3. Avoid public conflict.

Do not reveal Subject's abilities in open forums. The less the public knows about the possibility of holding multiple jobs, the easier it is to preserve systemic mythologies of upward merit. Control narrative through selective discrediting of aliases, staged "failures," or contradictory media leaks. If exposure is unavoidable, frame the Subject as a rogue fraudster operating outside sanctioned certification systems.

4. Use known associates to lure or blackmail.

Target list:

Sienna Locke – Emotional anchor. High leverage potential.

Camille Voss – Social visibility. Blackmail or reputation targeting viable.

Alexis Harrington – High level Nurse. Consider manipulation through academic channels.

Evelyn Mercer – Investigative threat. Psychological pressure recommended.

Anthony Smith – Operational enabler. Consider extraction or decoy deployment.

Subject exhibits heightened protective instincts. Use this predictability as strategic vector.

My hand tightened on the page. The text was clinical, methodical—crafted not with hatred, but with calculation. I could almost see the boardroom where they wrote this. Glass walls. Polished shoes. Men and women speaking my name like a formula, not a person.

5. If all else fails: Initiate the Cain Protocol—

The light vanished.

I froze.

Not because the light was gone.

But because that meant someone was standing on the other side of the door.

I backed off. Slowly. Pressed the file flat to the floor. Then turned and swept toward Elliot in a crouch.

"Someone's coming," I mouthed.

He paled.

The door's magnetic lock clicked. A hiss of shifting metal.

I pulled Elliot back into the shadows, just behind a filing cabinet. The trick pen in one hand, its needle-like edge extended.

The door creaked open.

And for the first time since we landed—

I didn't speak.

Because jokes don't work when death walks in.