SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 346: Empty Words

The restaurant was one of those comfortable mid-range places that served decent food without pretension. Exactly the kind of establishment where two people could have a conversation without drawing unwanted attention. I’d arrived fifteen minutes early and claimed a corner table with good sight lines to both entrances. The menu was already open in front of me, and I’d placed my order by the time I spotted the hooded figure entering through the main door.

Mark moved differently than I remembered. Where he’d once carried himself with the confident swagger of someone who believed his own rhetoric about being smarter than everyone else, now he moved with the careful deliberation of a man who’d learned to check shadows and watch for threats. The hood of his jacket was pulled up despite the mild weather, and when he finally lowered it after sitting across from me, I understood why.

His face was a map of badly healed scars. Three parallel lines ran from his left temple to his jaw, too precise to be accidental. His nose had been broken and reset imperfectly, giving his features an asymmetrical cast. A burn mark covered most of his right cheek, the kind of injury that spoke of deliberate torture rather than accidental trauma.

"You wanted to meet at a restaurant?" he asked without preamble, his voice carrying a rasp that hadn’t been there before. "Really?"

I cut into the steak that had arrived moments before he sat down, chewing thoughtfully before answering. "I was hungry. And restaurants are public enough to discourage dramatic scenes while being normal enough that no one pays attention to conversations."

"Easy for you to say," Mark replied, glancing around nervously. "Unlike you, I can’t just get away with murder and walk around in public like nothing happened."

The comment was clearly meant to provoke a reaction, but I found myself oddly detached from his attempt at manipulation. The Mark sitting across from me was no longer the smooth-talking schemer I’d once known. I felt like this version was bitter, scarred, and desperate. He was more pitiable than threatening.

I had technically gotten away with murder. But calling my actions during the kidnapping and torture "murder" was like calling self-defense during a home invasion a crime. They’d taken me against my will, tortured me for experimentation, and nearly killed me. Everything I’d done afterward had been about survival and escape, with maybe a tad bit of revenge, but definitely not some calculated killing spree.

"What did you want to talk about?" I asked, taking another bite and reaching for my water glass. The food was actually quite good, and I saw no reason to let Mark’s dramatics ruin my meal.

"Geneva," he said, settling back in his chair with the expression of someone preparing to deliver uncomfortable truths. "You should have seen what I was talking about. What I tried to warn you about."

I paused in cutting my steak, genuinely curious about where he was going with this. "You mean MacLeod’s betrayal? Or the fact that not every leader supported the endorsement?"

"Both. Neither." Mark’s hand moved unconsciously to touch one of the scars on his face. "The system will remain, Reynard. Some leaders won’t change. Some cultures won’t change. All we can do is profit from the situation as it exists, not waste our lives trying to transform it into something it can never be."

I resumed eating, considering his words. This was vintage Mark—the pessimistic worldview dressed up as hard-nosed realism, the assumption that because change was difficult it was therefore impossible, the belief that the only rational response to injustice was to find ways to exploit it rather than address it.

"You know what your real problem is, Mark?" I said, gesturing with my fork. "You’re so convinced that people can’t change, that systems can’t improve, that you’ve made yourself blind to the possibility that you might be wrong."

"I’m being realistic—"

"You’re being pessimistic as shit," I interrupted, taking a sip of water. "And the worst part is that you refuse to see hope because you’re blinded by your own hatred. You hate the system so much that you can’t imagine it being different. You hate the people in power so much that you assume they’re incapable of growth. You hate the idea that change might be possible because that would mean admitting you’ve wasted years wallowing in cynicism instead of working toward solutions."

Mark’s expression darkened, but I wasn’t finished.

"You think I’m naive because I believe things can get better. But here’s the thing—Geneva proved that thirty-four nations were willing to endorse a different approach. Thirty-four leaders looked at what I was proposing and decided it was worth supporting. That’s not naive optimism, that’s evidence that change is possible when you actually try to achieve it instead of sitting around complaining about how impossible everything is."

"And what about the nations that didn’t support you?" Mark shot back. "What about the ones that actively opposed the endorsement? You think you’re going to convince them with inspirational speeches and good intentions?"

I shrugged, cutting another piece of steak. "Some of them, maybe. Others might need different approaches. But the point isn’t that everyone will immediately embrace change—it’s that enough people are willing to try that progress becomes possible."

"Progress," Mark repeated, and there was real venom in his voice now. "You’re talking about challenging the World President. You’re talking about fundamentally altering global power structures. Do you have any idea what kind of resources will be arrayed against you? What kind of opposition you’ll face?"

"Some," I admitted. "But that’s not really what this is about, is it? You didn’t reach out after months of silence just to lecture me about political realism. What do you actually want, Mark?"

For a moment, his mask slipped, and I saw something desperate underneath all the cynicism and scarred bravado. "I want you to understand that there are other ways to handle this. Ways that don’t involve trying to save the world and probably getting yourself killed in the process."

"Such as?"

"Use what you’ve gained. The international recognition, the System capabilities, the political connections. Turn them into personal advantage instead of throwing them away on impossible dreams." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "We could have wealth, influence, power that actually matters. Instead of trying to reform everything, work within the system to secure what you can for yourself and the people you care about."

I set down my fork and really looked at him for the first time since he’d sat down. The scars, the nervous energy, the desperate edge to his arguments—it all painted a picture of someone who’d tried to play the game he was describing and gotten burned badly for his efforts.

"That’s what you tried to do, isn’t it?" I said quietly. "When you knew of my secret identity, you tried to use your connections and knowledge to carve out some kind of position for yourself. And well...Director Connor decided you weren’t as valuable as you thought you were."

His hand went to his face again, and I knew I’d guessed correctly.

"Let me ask you something, Mark. If working within the existing system and trying to profit from corruption was such a great strategy, why are you sitting here looking like you went ten rounds with a cheese grater? Why are you hiding under a hood and jumping at shadows instead of enjoying all that wealth and influence you were talking about?"

"Because I made mistakes," he said through gritted teeth. "Because I trusted the wrong people and overestimated my own capabilities. But that doesn’t mean the fundamental approach was wrong—"

"It means exactly that," I interrupted, picking up my fork again. "You tried to play the game by the existing rules, and the existing rules screwed you over. Just like they screw over everyone who isn’t already at the top of the pyramid."

I took another bite, chewing thoughtfully while Mark struggled with some internal conflict. "The difference between us isn’t that I’m naive and you’re realistic. The difference is that I’ve decided to change the rules instead of trying to exploit them. And apparently, enough other people agree with me that it’s actually working."

"You don’t understand what you’re up against," Mark said, but there was less conviction in his voice now. "The people who run things, the systems they’ve built, the resources they control—you can’t just wish them away with good intentions and inspiring rhetoric."

"I’m not wishing them away. I’m building alternatives. I’m demonstrating that different approaches are possible. I’m creating coalition of people who want something better than the status quo." I gestured around the restaurant, where normal people were having normal conversations about their normal lives. "Every person in here deserves better opportunities, better leadership, better systems than what they’re currently getting. And most of them know it, even if they don’t think change is possible."

"And you think you can deliver that? You think you can actually create the kind of world you’re promising?"

"I think it’s worth trying. And I think the alternative—accepting that injustice and corruption are just permanent features of human society—is worse than the risk of failure."

Mark stared at me for a long moment, his expression cycling through anger, disappointment, and something that might have been grief. When he finally stood up, his movements carried the weight of someone who’d just realized that an important Chapter of his life was definitively over.

"You’re going to regret this decision," he said, pulling his hood back up. "When reality catches up with your idealism, when the people you’re trying to help turn against you or abandon you, when the systems you’re challenging decide you’re too dangerous to ignore—you’re going to remember this conversation and wish you’d listened."

I looked up at him, seeing not a threat or an enemy but a man who’d given up on the possibility of meaningful change and was trying to drag others down to his level of cynicism.

"I won’t," I said simply, cutting another piece of steak. "Because even if everything goes wrong, even if I fail completely, at least I’ll know I tried to build something better instead of just accepting that nothing could ever improve."

Mark stood there for another moment, then turned and walked away without another word. I watched him navigate between the tables, noting how he moved with the paranoid caution of someone who’d learned not to trust his surroundings.

Then I returned my attention to my meal. The steak was getting cold, and there was no point in letting Mark’s issues ruin a perfectly good dinner.

His parting words had been meant as a warning, maybe even a threat. But all I’d heard was the bitter disappointment of someone who’d convinced himself that hope was a luxury he couldn’t afford. The Mark I’d once known had been replaced by someone who measured success purely in terms of personal survival and advantage, who saw every idealistic impulse as naive self-destruction.

I couldn’t save him from that worldview. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to try at all. But I also wasn’t going to let his cynicism infect my own approach to the challenges ahead.

The waiter, who recognized me, came to refill my water glass, and I nodded my thanks while continuing to eat. Outside, the evening was settling into that comfortable period between afternoon and night when restaurants filled up with people sharing meals and conversations.

Ordinary people living ordinary lives, most of them probably aware that representatives from thirty-four nations had recently endorsed a fundamental challenge to global power structures. Though most of them are probably still convinced that real change was impossible, that the best they could hope for was to find their own small corner of stability in an unjust world.

Mark represented that mindset perfectly—the belief that adaptation to existing circumstances was the only realistic option, that trying to improve those circumstances was naive self-destruction.

But Geneva had proven him wrong. Not completely, and not permanently, but enough to demonstrate that change was possible when people were willing to work for it instead of just accepting defeat as inevitable.

I finished my steak and signaled for the check, already looking forward to getting back to more productive activities. Tomorrow’s Enhanced Copy opportunity was still available, and there were several people whose skills could prove valuable in the challenges ahead.

Mark could keep his scars and his cynicism. I had better things to do with my time.