SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 164: A Nation Without Masks

"You ain't welcome here."

The man didn't need to repeat himself. His posture did that for him—arms folded like steel beams, eyes flint-hard, body set like an avalanche waiting to fall. Still, for the sake of courtesy or curiosity, I tilted my head and asked, "What do you mean by that?"

He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.

"I mean what I said. Masked Syndicate ain't welcome in this country."

That gave me pause.

I studied him, and for a brief moment, I forgot the toast in my hand. The room felt smaller. Not because of the mountain in front of me, but because of the sudden awareness in the air. The boy was still watching, eyes wide, lower lip trembling.

Syndicate. He had said it like a curse.

Slowly, I turned my head. And there, across the room, plastered to the faded wallpaper near the vending machine, were posters.

Five of them.

Beautifully printed, glossy, vibrant. The kind of artistry you'd expect on collectible cards, not anti-hero propaganda. Each had a different masked figure, captured mid-motion like myth turned menace. And beneath each, a name:

"The Fox of Flames" - A scarlet-draped silhouette with a burning grin, arms outstretched as fire swirled around his gloves. "Arsonist. Cultist. Unstoppable."

"The Dust in the Room" - A man in a trench coat, lenses gleaming, one foot on a chessboard. "Master Manipulator. Criminal Informant. Detective of Deceit."

"The Angel of Airlocks" - Wings spread wide, floating among shattered stars. Helmet cracked just enough to reveal a smile. "Traitor of the Skies. Saboteur. Fallen Astronaut."

"The Leviathan in Silk" - A suited figure drowning in documents, courtroom aflame behind him. "Legal Terror. The Man Who Breaks Oaths. Tyrant of Trials."

"The Beetle of Bloodsport" - Fists raised, a gladiator in a swarm of lights. "Ex-champion. Underground Killer. Beast Unbound."

No poster for the Jester yet.

My mask, it seemed, had bought me time.

I let out a slow breath and turned back to the man.

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"Impressive design work," I said honestly. "Government-funded? Or freelance witch hunt?"

His eyes didn't move. But his jaw tightened.

"This country doesn't want criminals. Especially not ones that hide behind masks."

"Then it's good I'm not here to stay," I said evenly, rising with a casual flick of my coat. "I was just about to excuse myself anyway."

I turned to head back to my room.

He stepped in front of me.

"You're leaving. Now."

I stopped.

Looked up at him. Really looked.

Even without using my Observation skill, I could tell he was built like a brick cathedral. But when I stood fully upright, my height and physique — honed from too many jobs and too many secrets — held their own. It was the first time he looked slightly unsure.

"Sir," I said politely, voice laced with warning, "I need you to move."

He didn't.

A beat of silence.

I activated Observation.

His eyes flicked sideways.

Not to the door.

To the boy.

He was watching the child, gauging him, guarding him.

Ah.

I softened my tone.

"Is he yours?"

The silence spoke volumes.

I leaned in, just slightly. Just enough for my voice to only reach his ears.

"If we fight, I win. Or you do. Or neither. But no matter the outcome, we both bleed. And he sees it. His protector, broken. Or worse, the villain beating him. You think seeing me scared him? Imagine seeing you hurt."

The man didn't reply.

I stepped back.

"I just want to return to my room. That's all."

He hesitated.

Then slowly, he stepped aside.

I gave him a small nod. Not of victory. Of understanding.

He returned to the boy and knelt beside him. I didn't hear the words, but I saw the arms wrap around small shoulders.

I turned. Walked quickly.

Back down the hall.

One knock on the door.

"You can come in," Anika called.

I opened it and paused.

She was wearing a towel as a blindfold and a makeshift dress sewn from what must've been the old curtain by the window. Her hair was damp, and she looked—

"Dare I say," I began, stepping in, "you're a vision. A post-apocalyptic queen in shower-fresh regalia."

She smirked. "Elliot made the dress. I just found the curtain."

"Remind me to knight him later."

"He says he wants to be a squire first."

"Consider it done!"

I locked the door behind me.

She tilted her head slightly. "What happened?"

"We need to leave."

"What?" she and Elliot both said.

"Turns out," I said, glancing toward the drawn curtain, "some countries aren't too fond of the Masked Syndicate."

"But we haven't done anything here," Elliot said. "The Masked Syndicate was declared innocent, they have no reason to hate you."

"Yet they do, dear Elliot. And I suspect the posters in the cafeteria didn't help."

"Posters?"

"Let's just say someone got very creative with their villain origin interpretations."

As if summoned by fate, a faint noise began to rise outside.

Low.

Then growing.

A mix of shouts and chants.

I walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside an inch to see a crowd around the building.

Dozens, maybe more. Signs. Phones. Voices shouting in unison.

"Masked Syndicate, leave our land!"

"No monsters in our homes!"

"No angels. No foxes. No jester tricks!"

Elliot's eyes widened.

"They're here for us," he whispered.

Anika, still blindfolded and on the bed, tensed.

"How many?"

"Not too many, I must say. Just about a full theatre's worth of angry faces."

I let the curtain fall.

Time was running out.