SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 169: Paper Faces and Quiet Lies

The cold bit harder here.

We stepped off the train into a station swallowed by fog and silence. Concrete stretched in all directions—cracked platforms, rusted poles, one flickering light that blinked like it was winking at death itself. Overhead, cameras stared like open wounds, watching everything. Watching us.

Elliot wrapped his coat tighter. "Okay, so. This place is cheerful."

Anika stood tall, arms crossed, blindfold still perfectly in place. Yet there was an alertness to her stillness—like she was listening harder than anyone else.

I adjusted my satchel, shifted my shoulders beneath the ridiculous patchwork coat, and clicked my tongue against my teeth. "Ah, the air!" I declared brightly. "Positively thick with state secrets and burnt coffee. Mmm... delicious."

Elliot gave me a look of curiosity. "Do all members of the Masked Syndicate play characters like this?"

I shrugged while looking at him. "What character?"

The streets were narrow and tired, buildings leaning into each other like drunk old men with too many stories and too few people left to care. Fog rolled thick between alleyways, muting colors, softening sounds. The people we passed walked quickly, coats drawn high, eyes low.

But I walked like I owned the city. Like I'd been invited by fate herself.

"Good morning, citizen!" I bellowed with a grand wave to the man pushing his noble cart of onions. "By chance, have you seen any suspicious black vans rumbling through? You know the sort—windows tinted, joyless passengers, possibly allergic to laughter?"

He blinked at me. "What?"

"Ah. You blinked. That means yes."

He cursed and walked away.

Further down, I leaned over a bakery counter, asking an old woman if any convoys had come through in the last week. She narrowed her eyes, wiped her hands on a flour-dusted apron.

"They came two nights ago," she said. "There wasn't much light or shadow, but they were speeding on through."

"How poetic," I said, handing her a lollipop instead of a coin.

She threw it at my head.

The next person I asked—some university student in a puffer jacket—ran away without answering. The third called me a traitor. The fourth spat.

The fifth drew a crowd.

"Hey, that's him!"

"He's from the feed—he's the one stirring all this up!"

I turned, raised both hands. "Guilty as charged, your honor. But would a true criminal wear this coat?"

Someone hurled a can. I ducked, grabbed Elliot's arm, and whistled loud.

"Anika, darling, time to vanish."

She started moving, but it was clumsy and slow. It's not like I was expecting much, she was practically blind anyways. I tossed a smoke pellet into the ground—actually just flour from the bakery—and darted into the alley while grabbing the arms of the others.

Elliot coughed. "Why do you have flour?"

"I like to be prepared," I said, casually flicking the dust from my coat. "And—naturally—dramatic."

It happened again two hours later.

We were in a square filled with cheap electronics and knock-off perfume, asking more questions. The word van had barely left my mouth when a shopkeeper's face turned to stone.

"You need to leave," he said.

"Did I offend you?"

"You exist. That's offense enough."

I bowed low, backing away. "I aim to please."

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Crowd number two came faster. This time, I scaled a drainpipe, waved to the angry faces below, and dropped onto the next roof with a flourish. Elliot simply stared at me as he continued shopping in a clothing store with Anika by his side.

"Third time's the charm," I screamed.

By late evening, our boots were soaked. The light was gone, swallowed by fog and power rationing. We'd picked up enough fragments: black vans with diplomatic plates, sightings near a military lab, streets cleared by order. But nothing definite.

At last, we arrived at our rented flat—an ugly two-bedroom nestled above a closed-down dentist office. Paid in cash, rented under a name I forged over burnt toast.

Elliot threw himself onto the couch with a sigh that sounded like a dying engine. "I still can't believe how you get into trouble so easily."

"Listen," I said, peeling off my coat with a sigh, "it's hardly my fault they've got it out for the Masked Syndicate. Some people just don't appreciate good branding."

"I suppose you'll have to learn to be more charming." Anika said as she went to the room.

Elliot was out in seconds. Pillow over his head, shoes still on.

I stayed at the window.

The city looked different at night. Quieter, yes, but also more certain. Like all the chaos of the day gave way to something older. More rigid.

I leaned my chin on my hand, watching the red neon flicker against the glass. Somewhere in these countries, Evelyn had been transported. And somewhere in this city... Mark might be waiting.

By midnight, the building was silent.

I stood alone in the kitchenette, mask in hand, fingers trembling slightly. Not from fear. From readiness. From the calm before the fall.

I pulled on my gloves. Slipped the mask back over my face. And quietly, silently, stepped into the night.

The streets were a dead man's lullaby.

No cars. No voices. Just the occasional sound of wind scraping metal and the gentle hum of overhead drones. I moved like a shadow, leaning into the darkness, avoiding the spotlight cones of streetlamps.

A black car sat idling near an alley, engine cold. I knelt, memorized the plate.

It looked similar to how the vans were described to be.

I traced my fingers along the side, noting a streak of white powder—sedative residue. Not flour.

Further along, I passed a dumpster painted in graffiti. Layers and layers of anarchist art and protest symbols... and beneath it all, just faintly, an image I knew too well.

The masks of the Masked Syndicate.

Faded, but present. Burned into the metal with acid or time.

I ran a hand over it slowly. I guess not all people here hated the Masked Syndicate.

No matter.

I continued.

It took me another twenty minutes to reach the building.

It rose out of the fog like a cathedral for the damned—steel and stone, modern on top but brutalist at its roots. Five floors of windowless concrete. Cameras tracked every corner. Security lights glowed softly, the color of old bone.

A sign near the front read:

MINISTRY OF NATIONAL RESILIENCE

The name alone reeked of a lie. And it was perfect.

I stood across the street, half-hidden in the mist. My heart ticked slowly. Deliberately. My Deduction skill flared behind my eyes, analyzing guard movements, calculating weaknesses.

And then I saw it—movement inside. A silhouette, tall and familiar, quickly moving near the upper floors.

I stepped forward until the fog kissed my boots. The wind tugged at my coat. My mask reflected in a puddle below—cracked porcelain, grin and frown too wide.

"Mark," I whispered, voice too quiet for the world to hear.

"If you're in this city, there's no way you'd be anywhere but here."

I smiled.

"Let's see if I can upstage you."