SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery

I stared at Camille, trying to process what she'd just said.

"I'm sorry, what?" I repeated, pushing myself up slightly so I could look at her more directly. "The Masked Syndicate is having a what?"

Camille's smile turned into a full grin, clearly enjoying my confusion. "A museum exhibition. You know, where art and historically significant pieces are displayed for the public to view and appreciate?"

"I know what a museum exhibition is," I said, my tone flat. "What I don't understand is why the Masked Syndicate—a collection of personas I created to hide my identity from governments—is being displayed in one."

"Because I pulled some strings," Camille said, as if this explained everything. She shifted on top of me, propping herself up on her elbows so she could see my face better. "The masks, the outfits, the entire aesthetic of each persona. It's all there. Mr. Fox, Mr. Dust, Mr. Angel, Mr. Leviathan, Mr. Beetle, Mr. Jester. Everything."

"Camille—"

"Hear me out," she interrupted, her excitement building. "The Masked Syndicate is already well-known. Everyone knows those personas exist. And more importantly, everyone knows you were the man behind all of them. It's not a secret anymore, Rey. Your global broadcast made sure of that."

I opened my mouth to respond, but she kept going.

"So I thought, why not lean into it? Why not take something that was meant to be mysterious and covert and turn it into something that makes you more… human?"

"Human," I repeated slowly.

"Yes, human." She poked my chest again for emphasis. "Right now, to most people, you're this untouchable political figure. The man who challenged the World President. The guy who has multiple jobs and operates on a level most people can't even comprehend. You're impressive, but you're also distant. Almost like a machine."

I frowned. "I don't think I'm that bad."

"You're not," she said quickly. "To us, you're Rey. You're warm and caring and occasionally infuriating. But to the public? You're Reynard Vale, the political powerhouse. The strategist. The threat to the established order. And that's intimidating."

"Isn't that the point?" I asked. "Being intimidating keeps people from trying to mess with us."

"Sure," Camille conceded. "But it also makes it harder to build genuine support. People follow power, but they believe in people. And if you want your coalition to grow—if you want to actually challenge the World President—you need people to believe in you, not just respect your capabilities."

I stared at her, Deduction already piecing together where she was going with this.

"So you decided to humanize me," I said.

"Exactly." She looked pleased that I was following her logic. "The Masked Syndicate represents your creativity. Your adaptability. The fact that you're not just some cold, calculating political machine, but someone who can think outside the box. Someone who can become different people, play different roles, and still maintain a core identity."

"By putting my masks in a museum."

"By showcasing your artistry," she corrected. "Because that's what it is, Rey. Each persona you created had its own personality, its own style, its own presence. You didn't just slap on a mask and call it a day. You became those characters. And I helped bring them to life visually."

I had to admit, there was logic to it. The Masked Syndicate had been useful for a while, but those days were mostly behind me now. My identity was public. My connection to those personas was public. Trying to maintain them as mysterious figures didn't make sense anymore.

And if Camille was right—if this exhibition could make me seem more human, more relatable, more real to the people watching from the sidelines—then it might actually help the coalition's growth.

"You really think this will work?" I asked.

"I think it'll help," she said. "It shows that you're not just a threat to the World President. You're an artist. A creator. Someone with depth and complexity. And that kind of image? That's something people can get behind."

I reached up and tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. "You put a lot of thought into this."

"Of course I did," she said, her tone softening slightly. "You're important to me, Rey. And I want the world to see you the way I see you. Not as some untouchable figure, but as a person. Someone worth supporting. Someone worth believing in."

I felt something warm settle in my chest. "Thank you, Camille. Really. I appreciate what you've done."

She smiled, then bit her lip in that way she did when she was about to say something she knew I wouldn't like.

"What?" I asked immediately.

"Well…" She drew out the word, her eyes not quite meeting mine. "I might have a second confession. One that I, um, forgot to mention."

I felt a sense of foreboding settle over me. "What did you forget to mention?"

"It's really not that big of a deal," she said quickly. "Just a small detail. A tiny, insignificant—"

"Camille."

"Fine." She took a breath. "The exhibition opens tonight."

——

The limousine pulled up in front of the museum, and through the tinted windows, I could already see the crowd.

Press. Reporters. Photographers. Dozens of them, all waiting behind velvet ropes with cameras raised and microphones ready.

The museum itself was an impressive building—classical architecture with modern touches, wide marble steps leading up to massive glass doors that were currently lit from within, casting warm light onto the evening crowd.

And there, displayed on a massive banner hanging from the museum's facade, were the words: THE MASKED SYNDICATE: AN EXHIBITION OF IDENTITY AND ARTISTRY

I looked down at myself, still processing how I'd gotten here.

Camille had outdone herself with the outfits. I was wearing a perfectly tailored black suit with subtle silver threading that caught the light when I moved. The fit was immaculate, the fabric expensive but not overdoing it. It made me look exactly like what I was supposed to be—someone important enough to warrant this kind of event, but not so flashy as to be unapproachable.

Beside me, Camille wore a stunning black dress with a high slit and intricate beading that formed abstract patterns across the fabric. Her dark hair was styled in elegant waves, and she wore minimal jewelry—just enough to accent without overwhelming. She looked like she belonged on a red carpet, which, I realized with some discomfort, was essentially what we were about to walk.

"I can't believe you forgot to mention that today is the opening night," I said, turning to look at her.

She had the decency to look slightly sheepish. "I didn't forget. I just… strategically delayed telling you."

"That's the same thing as forgetting."

"No, forgetting implies it wasn't intentional," she said, smoothing down her dress. "This was very intentional. If I'd told you earlier, you would have spent the whole day worrying about it. Or worse, you would have tried to find a way out of it."

"I wouldn't have—" I stopped, because she was absolutely right. I would have done exactly that. I would've tried my best to avoid it.

She gave me a knowing look. "See? I know you too well."

"So your solution was to ambush me?"

"My solution was to give you just enough time to get ready but not enough time to overthink it." She reached over and adjusted my collar, even though it was already perfect. "And it worked, didn't it? You look amazing, we're here, and you didn't spend the entire day spiraling about public appearances."

I sighed. "I don't spiral."

"You absolutely spiral," she said with a grin. "But it's cute, so I forgive you."

Maurice cleared his throat from the front seat. "We can wait as long as you need, sir. But the press is getting restless."

Through the window, I could see photographers jockeying for position, cameras raised and ready. Some were already taking pictures of the limousine itself, probably hoping to catch a glimpse through the tinted windows.

"Ready?" Camille asked, her hand finding mine.

I looked at her—at the excitement in her eyes, the confidence in her posture, the genuine belief that this was the right move.

And despite my reservations, despite the cameras waiting outside, despite the fact that I was about to walk into a museum exhibition celebrating personas I'd created for completely different purposes…

I trusted her.

"Ready," I said.

She squeezed my hand once, then reached for the door handle.

The moment the door opened, the cameras exploded with light.

Flash after flash, a strobe effect that would have been disorienting if I hadn't been prepared for it. The sound of shutters clicking filled the air, punctuated by shouted questions and requests to look in various directions.

Camille stepped out first, graceful and confident, every inch the famous fashion designer she was. She turned back and extended her hand to me, and I took it, stepping out into the chaos.

The crowd pressed against the velvet ropes, and I could hear my name being called from multiple directions at once.

"Mr. Vale! Over here!"

"Reynard! Can you look this way?"

"Mr. Vale, what do you think of the exhibition?"

"Are all the Masked Syndicate pieces on display?"

I kept my expression neutral but not cold, letting Camille guide me toward the museum steps. She'd done this before—walked red carpets, attended high-profile events. She knew how to navigate this world in a way I didn't.

We paused at the base of the steps, and Camille turned to smile at the cameras, her hand still holding mine. I followed her lead, turning slightly to give the photographers their shots while trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt.

"Just a few more seconds," Camille murmured, her smile never wavering. "Then we can go inside."

"I'm holding you to that," I muttered back.

She laughed, the sound genuine and bright, and I saw several photographers lean forward eagerly to capture the moment.

Finally—finally—she tugged on my hand, and we started up the marble steps toward the museum entrance.

The glass doors opened as we approached, warm light and the murmur of conversation spilling out into the evening air.

I glanced back once at the crowd of press still taking pictures, still shouting questions, and then looked forward at what waited inside.

The Masked Syndicate exhibition.

My personas, put on display for the world to see.

I looked at Camille one more time.

"I seriously can't believe you forgot about an event like this."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​