SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 222: Predictable Patterns

The click still echoed behind my ribs, louder in my memory than it had been in the air.

We waited. Listening.

No follow-up. No voice. No shadow.

But that sound—sharp, clean, mechanical—didn’t come from the island.

It came from the world we’d been trying to escape.

"That’s not one of mine," 3830 said, her voice as flat as dead tide.

She didn’t lower her staff.

Neither did anyone else.

"Who?" I asked, throat dry.

Her eye stayed on the treeline. "Government Agents."

Camille drew a sharp breath. "You’re sure?"

"I’ve heard that click before. That’s a calibration reset. Some of their older recon gear. Lightweight, deployable, but too fragile in the rain. They never fixed it."

"Wonderful," Alexis muttered. "So what? They’re tracking us now?"

"Not us," 3830 said. "Me."

She didn’t sound surprised. Or scared.

Just tired.

"They send agents here sometimes. Not often. They don’t like admitting I slipped containment. But when they think they can get away with it, they try."

Sienna turned. "Why now?"

3830’s gaze shifted—slow, deliberate—toward me.

"They probably didn’t expect anyone else on the island," she said. "but, when they saw more than one heat signature and backed off."

My stomach dropped.

"And if they report who that heat signature belongs to..."

3830 nodded. "They’ll be back."

For a long moment, no one spoke. Just the sound of wind in the leaves and the fire crackling down to embers.

I exhaled slowly. "Bad news."

Camille raised a brow. "You think?"

I shook my head. "No, I mean—it’s bad, yeah. But it’s also good."

She frowned. "How is this good?"

"If they report seeing me... it’ll go both ways."

Alexis caught on first. "Anthony."

"And the others," I said. "They’re watching too. Probably less frequently, probably without authorization, but they’ll know."

Sienna’s face tightened. "So we just have to survive until then."

"Exactly."

3830 turned to face us fully. "I trust this Anthony is important and useful. If so we move now. Back to the shelter. We prepare."

She didn’t wait.

She turned, staff angled across her back, and began walking into the jungle without a word.

Camille glanced at me. "You trust her?"

"No," I said honestly. "But I don’t think she lies."

Sienna grabbed her pack and moved to follow. Alexis stayed near me, steady as ever. Evelyn walked last, her blindfold fluttering faintly in the breeze as she moved with the help of Camille.

The jungle felt different now.

Quieter.

Not the stillness of peace—but the hush that follows realization. Heavy with mist. Weighted with meaning. Each footfall echoed off the damp ground like we were walking across someone else’s grave.

No one spoke.

The tension hadn’t faded. It had matured.

It was 3830 who broke the silence.

"You know what your problem is?" she asked.

The question wasn’t aimed at anyone in particular, but it landed in the middle of the group like a stone in still water.

"You mean besides chronic exhaustion, an overactive guilt complex, and being hunted by what feels like multiple factions?" Camille muttered, voice dry as cracked leather.

3830 didn’t even glance back. She kept walking.

"You think your Jobs define you. Worse—you think they contain you."

She stepped over a low, rotting log like it wasn’t there. Her movements were smooth. Trained. Tired.

"This world runs on Jobs. Skills. Levels. Ranks. Everyone stays inside their lane because they’re told the System will punish them if they don’t."

A low branch brushed her shoulder. She didn’t flinch.

"If someone’s a Scout, they scout. If someone’s a Medic, they heal. If someone’s a Striker, they hit things harder and louder until someone tells them to stop. But nobody breaks pattern anymore."

Alexis frowned. "We adapt all the time. We’re not mindless—"

"No," 3830 cut in. Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

"You stretch within your comfort zone. You maximize inside the algorithm. But you never rewrite it."

Sienna’s voice was careful. Cautious. "And you do?"

3830 stopped walking.

Turned.

And when she looked at us, it wasn’t with superiority. It was with disappointment. Cold and clinical.

"If I know your Job, I know your plan. If I know your skills, I know your weaknesses. If I know your cooldowns, I know exactly when to kill you."

Her hand wrapped tighter around the staff.

"The people who trained me wrote dossiers that could predict a man’s dying breath to the second."

She looked directly at me. Not as an accusation.

As a warning.

"That’s what the System’s done to all of you. It made you readable."

Then she turned again. Kept walking like she hadn’t just dissected the entire world with a whisper.

"And that’s why they die when they come here."

Camille opened her mouth like she was going to argue. But she didn’t.

None of us did.

Because that was when we saw it.

The shelter.

By daylight, it looked smaller. Sadder. Real.

Half-buried under decades of vine and moss, its concrete walls cracked and slumped at one side. A faded red warning was stenciled into the outer plating: SECTOR 6: DO NOT REMOVE WHILE ACTIVE.

Something about it made my chest tighten.

3830 walked straight through the entrance without a pause.

We followed.

One by one.

The air inside was cooler—musty with old metal and something fainter, something like memory. The deeper we went, the more it felt like descending into someone’s ribcage. Not a place, but a body left behind.

It was still lived in. That was the haunting part.

Bedding patched with jungle cloth. Dried fruit strung up near a rusted air vent. Notes—some scribbled, some meticulously neat—pinned to metal panels with bent nails and broken keys.

None of it said "home."

All of it said "survivor."

3830 walked to the far wall without ceremony. Crouched. Pulled at a latch so seamlessly I didn’t realize it had been camouflaged.

There was a click.

A panel slid open.

And then she lit the lantern.

It wasn’t just light.

It was revelation.

A soft golden glow flooded the space—and peeled back everything we thought we knew about her.

Because what it revealed wasn’t desperation.

It was preparation.

Not a stash. Not scavenged gear.

An arsenal.

Organized.

Labeled.

Cleaned.

Tucked into foam casings were night vision goggles. Firearms broken into their modular parts. Tactical blades so sharp I could hear the edges hum. Government-grade med kits with red cross tape that didn’t belong to public-issue supplies.

Everything carried the weight of origin.

Black tags.

Classified markings, some scorched off. Others scratched with field knives or burned beyond recovery.

Camille took a breath like she’d forgotten how to.

Alexis stepped forward. Slow. Controlled.

"Is that...?"

"Yeah," I said, my voice nearly swallowed by the dark.

Sienna’s eyes were wide. Her voice small. "They sent agents."

"And they didn’t come back," I finished.

3830 didn’t turn around.

She reached into the open space and pulled out a headset. Still charged. Still pristine.

She inspected it once, then set it aside like she was sorting groceries.

Only then did she turn toward us. The lantern caught the ridges of her scars, softening nothing.

"I’m not preaching delusion," she said. Quiet.

"Everything I told you—about how predictable they are, how dependent they’ve become—it’s not theory."

She gestured to the wall.

"This is what they brought with them."

Her eyes locked with mine.

"And this is where they left it."

I didn’t speak.

None of us did.

We didn’t have to.

The gear said everything.

Whoever it had belonged to—they never saw the light of day again.

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