SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 318: Who I Don’t Want to Be

Hyena coughed, the wet, choking sound sharp in the darkness as we hit the ground.

I heard and felt the crack of bones beneath me as we landed. His thin frame had folded under the weight of the tackle. What’s more is that I could see the air leaving his lungs in a sharp and desperate wheeze.

He tried to scramble away, clawing at the wet concrete, fingernails scraping against the stone, eyes wide, wild, panic pouring off him in waves.

I stood.

And I let him see me.

The mask Camille had made reflected in his wide eyes, the dark, cold shape of it twisting in the flickering tunnel lights, the shadows catching on the sharp edges like a promise.

"You’re not going anywhere," I said, my voice low, distorted by the mask, resonating in the hollow of the tunnel.

Hyena whimpered, stumbling to his feet, holding his side where the tackle had hit hardest, blood mixing with the water at his feet.

Then, he screamed.

The sound was raw, feral, scraping against the walls as he lunged at me with a small, rusted blade that he had used to hurt Charlie, the tip shaking as it cut through the air.

I moved without thinking.

Hand-to-Hand Combat.

Precision Strike.

Jab.

Hook.

The skills flowed through me, every movement clean, sharp, controlled.

I deflected the knife with the back of my wrist, twisting my body, the blade scraping harmlessly past my shoulder.

My fist shot out, a clean jab to his jaw.

The crack of impact was sharp, the force sending him stumbling back, his arms pinwheeling as he fought to stay upright.

I followed.

A hook to the ribs, breaking them further, the impact folding him over, a breathless, high-pitched wheeze leaving his lips.

Another jab to the face, snapping his head back, blood spraying from his nose, his feet sliding in the shallow water as he staggered.

He swung wildly, the knife slashing at nothing, his eyes wide, unfocused, panic and rage mixing into something pathetic.

I caught his wrist, twisting it, the knife clattering to the ground, skidding away into the dark.

"PLEASE!" he screamed, his voice cracking, tears mixing with the blood on his face.

I didn’t stop.

Another hook, this time to the side of his head, dropping him to his knees, the water splashing around him, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.

His hands came up, trying to protect himself, but I batted them aside, my fist slamming into his cheek, splitting the skin, blood splattering across my glove.

I saw his eyes.

The panic.

The realization.

He knew he couldn’t win.

He knew he was going to die.

I grabbed him by the collar, lifting him slightly before slamming him back down into the water, the impact echoing in the tunnel, the ripples spreading out around us.

His head lolled, blood dripping from his nose, his mouth, painting the water red.

"Please..." he whimpered, barely audible.

I climbed on top of him, knees pinning his arms, my fists raised, the rage boiling in my chest, burning in my veins.

You hurt him.

My fist came down, crashing into his face, the impact shaking his entire body.

You hurt Charlie.

Another punch, splitting his lip, his head bouncing off the concrete, a strangled cry leaving his throat.

You hurt a child who trusted me.

Another.

Another.

Another.

The world narrowed to the sound of his bones cracking, the feel of his flesh breaking under my fists, the warmth of his blood splattering across my mask, dripping down my arms.

He wasn’t fighting back anymore.

He was just taking it, eyes dazed, unfocused, tears mixing with the blood as he stared up at me, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

My fists kept coming, the weight of every moment, every scream, every plea crashing down with each blow.

I saw the fear in his eyes shift.

It became acceptance.

The moment he realized he was going to die.

And he braced for it, eyes squeezing shut, his broken body tensing as he waited for the final punch.

I pulled my arm back, the rage screaming at me to end it, to finish it, to make him pay for what he did, for the terror in Charlie’s eyes, for the blood on my gloves.

The mask was cold against my skin, the darkness pressing in, the tunnel silent save for our ragged breaths, the drip of water, the slow, steady beat of my heart.

End him.

He deserves it.

Kill him.

But I didn’t.

I stopped.

My fist hovered above his face as I shook filled with rage.

I looked down at him, at the broken, bloody mess he had become, at the tears in his eyes, the way his lips trembled as he whimpered, waiting for the end.

And I pulled on the band Alexis had given me, the rough fabric biting into my wrist.

Breathe.

The rage didn’t vanish.

But I controlled it.

I wouldn’t kill him.

Not because he didn’t deserve it.

But because I didn’t want to be that person.

Not again.

Not ever.

Vengeance was a path that left nothing but emptiness, a hunger that could never be satisfied, a poison that would take everything from me until there was nothing left.

And I wasn’t going to let it.

I lowered my fist, breathing heavily, the sound harsh and ragged inside the mask, fogging the lenses, the cold tunnel air biting at the sweat on my skin.

Hyena opened his eyes, blinking through the blood, confusion flickering across his face as he realized I wasn’t going to kill him.

I leaned down, my masked face inches from his, letting him see it, letting him remember it.

"Hyena...You’re under arrest," I said, my voice cold, steady, final.

Hyena’s lips trembled, a broken, breathless laugh bubbling up, blood staining his teeth.

"Bastard..." he whispered, his voice barely audible.

I ignored him.

I pulled the zip-tie cuffs from my belt, grabbing his wrists, securing them tightly behind his back, ignoring the small, pained cries that left his lips.

I stood, dragging him up with me, forcing him to his knees, then to his feet, holding him up as he swayed, his head hanging, blood dripping from his face to the floor.

The tunnel was silent.

Calm.

Controlled.

And it was over.

I dragged Hyena back through the tunnels, his feet dragging, his breath coming in soft, broken wheezes.

As we neared the split, I saw the faint glow of flashlights, the echo of voices, the sharp, clean sound of a medic’s radio.

Anthony was there, crouched beside Charlie, who was wrapped in a thermal blanket, an oxygen mask on his face, his small hands clutching the edges of the blanket.

Charlie’s eyes met mine, wide, afraid, but alive.

And that was enough.

Anthony looked up, eyes narrowing as he saw Hyena, the tension in his shoulders relaxing as he nodded once, grimly.

"Medical’s here," he said, his voice low. "They’ve got him stabilized."

I nodded, dragging Hyena forward, dropping him to the ground in front of the officers and medics who stepped forward to take him, cuffing his ankles, securing him.

I stepped out of the sewers, pulling off the mask, letting the cold air hit my face, letting the adrenaline drain from my system, leaving me empty, exhausted.

My eyes met Charlie’s again.

He was safe.

Hyena was done.

And I was still here.

The rage was still there, simmering beneath the surface.

But I was in control.

I wouldn’t let it take me.

Not now.

Not ever.

Because this was the line.

And I don’t want to cross it.

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