The drive back to the Gearhall was thick with a tension that had nothing to do with the city's snarled traffic. The secret ledger sat on the seat between them, wrapped in an old piece of canvas. It felt heavier than it should, weighted with the sheer gravity of its discovery.
"The Chronicle," Ronan said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "They didn't just infiltrate a business. They infiltrated the truth. The official record of the city. For how long? Years? Decades?"
"As long as they've needed to," Liam replied, staring out at the passing buildings. "Think of it. Every event, every tragedy, every political scandal… they would have been in a position to alter the first draft of history. To subtly change a quote, lose a photograph, misfile a key piece of evidence. It's the most insidious kind of power."
Borin's office felt smaller, more claustrophobic, when they returned. They laid the ledger and their findings on his desk. The old spymaster listened without interruption, his face an unreadable mask. When they were finished, he didn't speak for a full minute. He picked up the ledger, his gloved fingers tracing the Legion's symbol.
"Your work has been exemplary," he finally said, and the rare praise landed with the force of a physical blow. "But your discovery has escalated this conflict exponentially." He rose and walked to a large, detailed map of the city that covered one wall. "The Chronicle is not just a newspaper. It is an institution, with connections to every level of city government, corporate power, and the underworld. Its archives are a fortress. Its employees are zealously protective. We cannot simply walk in and demand answers."
He turned back to them, his eyes hard. "Are you certain of your interpretation, Seeker? Could this ledger be a fabrication, a false trail?"
"I felt the owner's fear," Liam said, his voice unwavering. "It was real. He wasn't creating a lie; he was hiding a truth he thought would save his life."
Borin nodded slowly. "Very well. Your new mission is one of infiltration and identification. You will find this ghost. To do that, you'll need the proper tools." He pressed a button on his desk. "I've summoned Quartermaster Greta. She will outfit you for a long-term surveillance operation. You will be ghosts hunting a ghost. From this moment on, you are on your own. Do not contact me unless you have the target's name or you are compromised. Is that understood?"
A few minutes later, they were in the Armory, a cavern of gleaming steel and advanced technology presided over by Greta, a woman with a cybernetic arm and a perpetually cynical expression. She tossed a heavy bag onto the counter.
"Long-range opticals, audio enhancers, thermal imagers, signal scramblers," she listed off in a bored tone. "And a few things that aren't in the official inventory. My advice?" She leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Assume you're already being watched. Assume your ghost knows you're coming. And try not to get yourselves killed. It creates a lot of paperwork."