SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 173: A Smile Between Shadows

There's a peculiar kind of calm that comes after escaping death. It wraps itself around your bones like smoke—light, temporary, but never fully gone. And in that calm, laughter feels sharper. A little too loud in the quiet.

Elliot was so bored this morning, he started trying to balance a spoon on his nose.

"I swear to God, if you drop that on me again, I will cut you," Anika grumbled, arms crossed, legs up on the coffee table.

"I'm not aiming for you," Elliot said defensively, wobbling slightly as the spoon tilted. "It's called 'spoon mastery.' Mr. Angel would've appreciated the dexterity the skill gives."

I snorted.

"Mr. Angel," I said, my voice rolling into the singsong madness of Mr. Jester, "would've declared you a national threat and had the utensil tried for conspiracy."

Elliot giggled.

Anika rolled her blindfolded eyes. "What does that even mean?"

"It means," I said, flopping onto the lumpy armchair like a melted puppet, "that our dear Elliot has finally crossed the fine line between fandom and felony. And frankly? I'm here for it."

The rental was a ruin. Dust layered the wooden floor like frost. One corner of the ceiling sagged where rainwater had claimed victory long ago. And yet somehow, with a scavenged deck of cards, a chipped mug of lukewarm tea, and the smell of ancient mothballs, it had become... home. For now.

Elliot put the spoon down and grinned. "Okay, your turn."

"Hmm?"

He gestured at the deck. "We're playing Bluff. Loser has to pay for the next shopping trip."

I tapped my chin thoughtfully, then looked over at Anika, whose arms were crossed in a way that made her look like a mob boss waiting for an excuse. In all honesty, I doubt she had the money to pay for anything anyways.

"Do I get to wear a silly hat if I win?" I asked.

"Maybe," Anika snapped.

"Yes," Elliot said at the same time.

"Marvelous," I purred.

We played three rounds. Elliot lied like a rookie, Anika was surprisingly good, and I—well, I lied like someone who'd rewritten truth itself in blood and ribbon. By the third round, I'd convinced Elliot I had four Queens in a deck of fifty-two cards, two of which had mysteriously gone missing.

"How did you—"

"Trade secret," I said, holding the cards up to the flickering lamp. "Also, the cards are marked. You just didn't check."

Anika hissed out a laugh. "Of course they are."

"Now then," I said, rising with a grandiose bow, "as winner of this humble clash of fates, I request a prize most delicious—Elliot shall perform for us the noble dance of the half-forgotten rodent!"

"What even is that?" Elliot asked.

I began humming a nonsensical tune.

He sighed and began hopping awkwardly, shoulders twitching, mimicking something between a rat and a penguin. It was horrible. It was beautiful. It was perfect.

Even Anika, despite being blindfolded, let out a snort.

For a few moments, the world was just this: a creaky room lit by a dying bulb, a fugitive, a fanboy and a blindfolded subject and a dance too stupid for words.

But joy, like silence, always ends.

I stood up quietly and wandered to the bathroom, closing the door behind me with a soft click.

The mirror was cracked. I leaned close, letting the mask smile of Mr. Jester fade into the more familiar smirk of Reynard Vale as I took of my mask. My eyes, however, didn't change.

They remained cold and calculated.

I reached into the lining of my coat and pulled out the burner phone.

Connor would expect a trap if I contacted him directly. But that wasn't the plan.

He needed to think that I was fully giving him Mark...

Or at least that he was the one doing the trapping.

I flicked open my burner phone, tapped a few buttons, and let my thumb hover over the keyboard for a second.

Then I typed, casual as a whisper in a confession booth:

Got what you wanted.

Subject 3834's all yours.

Come say hi.

I hit send, smiling to myself.

He should respond and from there I can set up the ambush.

Then, with my mask back on, I walked back out to find Elliot and Anika attempting to play charades.

"She's blindfolded, Elliot. This is the worst idea you've had today."

Elliot paused, frozen mid-action. "Wait, that's a good point."

"Are you miming something?" Anika asked, frowning.

"Yeah, sorry—uh, it was a plane crashing into spaghetti."

"Why?"

Elliot turned to me helplessly. "I don't know! The card just said 'Tuesday dinner.'"

I cackled.

Anika sighed. "You two are chaos incarnate."

"Compliment accepted," I said. "Though if we're being technical, I'm chaos incarnate. He's just... adjacent."

"Hey!" Elliot pouted.

We made pancakes that night on a broken stovetop. Anika 'supervised' the batter while I flipped them midair like some circus cook gone rogue. Elliot accidentally added pepper instead of sugar.

"No going back now," I said, serving the stack like it was fine cuisine. "We dine in rebellion."

"Peppercakes," Anika muttered, deadpan. "A war crime."

We still ate them.

Elliot burned his tongue and laughed anyway.

The lights flickered as night took over fully. Beyond the windows, the city muttered in its sleep—sirens far off, voices in stairwells, the occasional growl of a passing engine. But here, wrapped in blankets scavenged from an abandoned hotel, the three of us sat huddled like survivors around a modern campfire.

"What do you think happens," Elliot asked suddenly, "after the Syndicate wins?"

I tilted my head.

"Wins?"

"Yeah. Like... if you guys succeed. I'm assuming the World President that Mr. Angel talked about is real, right?"

Anika didn't answer. She just turned her head toward my voice.

So I did what Mr. Jester would do.

I smiled, soft and wistful.

"Elliot," I said. "We don't even have a goal."

Elliot blinked. "You don't?"

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I leaned back, voice dropping into something gentler, deeper.

"We simply do our jobs, just with a little extra...flair."

Outside, a dog barked. Somewhere, a baby cried.

Inside, my burner phone vibrated.

I pulled it out, checking the screen.

A message from Mark.

Got info from the Cain Protocol. It's bad. Sending coordinates soon. Be ready.

I stared at the words.

There was something final about them. Like the ticking of a locked vault, or the slow groan of a distant gear.

I looked over at Elliot, who was poking the last pancake with a spoon like it might bite him.

At Anika, who had fallen asleep with her arms crossed and her head on Elliot's shoulder.

The room felt too still.

The calm before.

I stood up, phone clenched in my hand.

"Time to move," I whispered to myself.