SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 166: A Smile for the Devil

The door swung open just in time. Elliot yanked Anika inside with one hand, and I dove in after them, twisting in mid-air to slam the door shut behind me.

Click.

Locked.

The platform roared behind the glass like an untamed beast, fists banging on windows, signs waving with ink-stained fury. I raised a gloved hand and gave a dramatic wave to the crowd, complete with a finger twirl and theatrical bow.

"Adieu, my adoring critics," I murmured. "May your torches never run out of fuel."

The train lurched forward. Momentum swallowed noise. The glass throbbed with one final bang—then silence, save for the hum of escape.

We moved toward the private sleeper car, which was surprisingly spacious. Velvet-lined seats. Polished brass fixtures. A narrow corridor leading to a private washroom. The kind of luxury reserved for diplomats and ghosts.

Elliot collapsed into a seat, still panting. "I didn't think you were gonna make it."

"I always make it," I said, loosening the edges of my coat. "It's tradition."

Anika sat cross-legged across from him, blindfold back on but head angled as if mapping the room with sound. She had a strange stillness, the kind that never really settled.

I settled in beside them, tilting my head against the window. The scenery blurred into streaks of city light, bleeding into farmland and fog.

Safe, for now.

But that didn't stop the pang in my chest. Not fear. Not anxiety.

Hunger.

I sighed. "I miss her cooking."

Elliot blinked. "Whose?"

"My partner's," I said, a soft smile playing on my lips. "She'd rise with the sun—before it, sometimes—and conjure the grandest feast these eyes have ever seen. A breakfast fit for kings... or at least one very spoiled fool."

The ache bloomed quietly. A private ache. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and turned the camera to myself.

A quick shot—mask half-lifted, just enough for a knowing smirk. Hair windswept. Backdrop of velvet and gold.

Caption: Still breathing. Hope you two are eating better than I am.

I sent it to Sienna and Camille. I left out Alexis, since she'd probably analyze the photo for signs of physical trauma and I had no intentions of worrying her right now.

I tucked the phone away and leaned back with a sigh. Elliot and Anika were already exchanging quiet words about nothing important. Train speeds. The probability of reaching the old border without another incident.

Anika smiled once. A small thing.

The world felt distant. Like watching someone else's movie.

"What did you do before all this?" Elliot asked suddenly.

I blinked. "Before...?"

"Before the Syndicate. Before the masks."

"Oh," I said with a dramatic hand-wave. "I was a professional nobody. Excellent at hiding. Very poor at parties. You? I thought you were in the same program as dear Mr. Angel."

"Yeah," he muttered. "But after the incident, I decided to leave and head back home, hoping I could find another job. Not to mention that I was terrible with people—they were all so smug."

"That's changed," I offered.

"Only because I had to lie to a landlord about having a girlfriend."

I snorted. "Well, she is still in the room. I suppose that makes it easier."

Anika tilted her head. "I'm not offended. I've been called worse."

We all shared a chuckle. The kind born from exhaustion.

The tea service arrived not long after—silver tray, stale biscuits, something pretending to be earl grey. I lifted my cup with theatrical delicacy.

"To survival," I said, raising it.

They both tapped their cups against mine.

The train rocked gently, a cradle of motion. Outside, hills had given way to forest. Everything was green and endless. I leaned back, watching the reflection of Elliot and Anika in the window.

"I think I like this," Elliot said quietly.

"What? Running for your life?"

"No," he said. "Just... this. Being somewhere with other people who get it."

I said nothing. Just offered a nod.

That silence stretched long, comfortable.

Eventually, I stood. "If you'll excuse me... nature calls. And she's very insistent."

Elliot snorted. Anika waved vaguely in my direction.

I strolled down the corridor, heels tapping soft on the floor. The train rocked slightly beneath my feet.

Then—

A voice, low and familiar, cut through the hum.

"...we'll see how the Cain Protocol fared. If the data holds, the experiments can finally move into mass production..."

I froze just before the bathroom alcove. The voice was close. Around the corner.

I edged forward—slow, silent. And then I saw him.

Director Connor.

The man from Internal Division. The man who had Sienna taken.

He was older than I remembered. Thinner. His beard meticulously shaped. His coat was too neat. A man who believed in control like it was religion.

My fingers twitched.

I pulled back quickly, retreating behind the curve of the wall.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

She's safe now.

You already let it out.

You're done.

But the memory was too loud.

Sienna's scream.

Her trembling voice over the comm.

That single breath before she said, "Please just tell me what's happening..."

--------

Connor adjusted his collar as he spoke into the comm on his wrist.

"The protocol's yield is still inconclusive, but promising. Subject 4B displayed heightened memory retention. Subject 3C resisted sedation longer than predicted. We'll know more once I reach the site."

He ended the transmission and took a sip of something brown from a small flask. He didn't smile, but his eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

This train ride was a victory lap.

The Syndicate was fractured, not even being able to visit half the countries of the world. Evelyn was taken away, which meant Reynard's main source of information and knowledge was gone.

And the Cain Protocol—

His crowning achievement.

He turned slowly, smoothing his lapel.

And stopped.

There, standing in the narrow hallway, was a man in a grotesque coat—patches of vibrant colors clashing like a painting gone mad.

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A mask.

One half smiling, one half frowning.

Connor opened his mouth.

And Mr. Jester lunged.

The mask gleamed under the flickering lights, and Reynard's fist came down like a gavel from hell.