SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery

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?"