The rooftop was a purgatory of concrete and cold wind. It offered a perfect, unobstructed view of the Doomsday Chronicle's main entrance and the teeming life that flowed through it. For three days, this became their world. They worked in shifts, one watching while the other rested, their lives shrinking to the view through a pair of high-powered binoculars and the crackle of their encrypted comms.
The Chronicle was a city unto itself. They watched the dance of organized chaos: the star reporters striding in with arrogant confidence, the harried junior staff scurrying like mice, the grizzled, ink-stained pressmen in the loading bays below, the steady, unblinking security guards who saw everything and nothing. It was a haystack of a thousand needles, and they were looking for the one that was poisoned.
On the second night, Ronan, driven by a gnawing frustration, decided to push his abilities. He didn't just ask for a target; he tried to read the flow of fate around the building itself. He cast his dice, focusing his intent on the building's future. "Show me a moment of betrayal."
The feedback was violent. He didn't just see symbols; he was hit by a wave of conflicting visions. He saw a respected editor signing a commendation for a young reporter, but the ink on the page twisted into the Legion's sigil. He saw a security guard discovering a hidden listening device and dutifully turning it in, only to see the guard's reflection in a window smiling with malevolent glee. Truth and lies were so deeply interwoven they had become the same fabric.
"It's like the building itself is lying," he reported to Liam, rubbing his temples against a throbbing psychic headache. "Something or someone inside has an incredible power over probability. They're not just hiding; they're actively bending reality around them to create confusion."
Their frustration peaked on the third day. They identified a potential target: a quiet, unassuming archivist named Marcus who worked late every night and always left through a deserted side exit. His routine was suspicious. They followed him, a tense chase through the city's twilight streets, only to watch him arrive at a small, dimly lit apartment. Through a window, they saw him embrace another man. His secret was not one of treason, but of a forbidden love he hid from his conservative family.
It was a crushing dead end. They were no closer to finding their ghost. They were just voyeurs, peering into the mundane heartbreaks of a city that didn't know it was at war. And all the while, the gnawing feeling grew: they were not the only ones watching.