SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery

The muzzle flash burned itself into my vision.

Pain tore through my thigh like a blade dipped in acid. My leg buckled instantly, the strength cut out from under me like someone had flipped a switch. I crashed onto the tile, barely catching myself on one elbow before momentum slammed me sideways. My shoulder cracked against the floor. Blood pulsed warm and fast down my leg, the exit wound gushing like an open faucet.

I clamped down on the scream threatening to tear from my throat.

Sienna screamed for me instead.

"Down!" Alexis shouted. In one fluid motion, she seized Sienna by the arm and yanked her behind the nearest bedframe. A second shot rang out—sharp, controlled—just as my head dropped. The bullet shattered a wall-mounted monitor inches above me, spraying drywall splinters and glass across the floor.

I rolled, one-armed and half-blind, dragging myself toward a nearby crash cart. My wounded leg trailed uselessly behind me, leaving a wet smear across the tile. I sucked in air through clenched teeth. A third shot struck the cabinet edge above me with a high-pitched clang, showering sparks across my back.

This wasn’t a scout.

He moved heavier. More deliberate. Trained for suppression. Not a warning shooter—he was walking the line between restraint and execution.

I risked a glance.

The guard stepped into full view—tactical gear matte-black, plating molded to his frame like body armor designed for war. No insignia. No rank stripes. Helmeted, visor down. His stance was textbook. Low. Rifle tight to the shoulder. Every step calculated. Every pivot covered a new angle.

Not reacting.