Most of the morning had passed when hunger became pressing. I hadn't eaten since the day before. Cautiously, I left my observation post, slipping into an alley via the fire escape. I moved away from the building and only felt safe enough to shop on a commercial street fifteen minutes away on foot.

I counted the money I had left. It was meager but enough to set up my observation post. I bought several days' worth of food, a razor, a notebook, and a pen. Then, at a clothing store, I picked up some changes of clothes. Finally, in a sporting goods store, I grabbed a bag for my things, an isothermal sleeping bag, binoculars, a Swiss Army knife, and water bottles. After that, I had almost no money left—just a few bills. I grimaced. This would have to be addressed sooner or later, but not now.

I filled the water bottles in a bar and, thus equipped, returned to my observation post.

For three days, from the rooftop, I watched the comings and goings. I counted fourteen people entering and leaving the building at all hours, even at night. I believed I had identified the leader: an older man who gave orders and was visibly respected by the others.

To better recognize them, I gave them nicknames. Besides "Leader," there was a man who seemed to be one of his lieutenants—I called him "Bear" because of his impressive build, and another "Model" for his distinguished appearance and refined dress sense. The man who had chased me the first day was "Runner." There was also "Eagle," "Gangster," "Snout," "Tranquil," "Chestnut," "Blond," "Confident," and the three women were "Smile," "Moon," and "Snow."

I definitely had a gift for finding nicknames—or maybe not.

I also assigned them a "danger level" based solely on my instinct. Gangster seemed the most dangerous, but Runner, Bear, and Model weren't far behind. These were men accustomed to confrontation—likely fighting, or worse—and, unsure of what I was capable of, I preferred to observe them from afar.

I carefully noted their movements in my notebook. Writing felt good. It calmed me and helped organize my thoughts. So far, I hadn't found any consistent pattern, except that they always moved in pairs at a minimum. They left at any hour of the day and sometimes even at night. They usually left by car, but sometimes on foot. They could be gone all day or less than an hour. The one consistent factor: they always appeared tense, their expressions closed, their eyes vigilant.

In addition to tracking their movements, I also made a detailed report of my recent days. I hoped writing it down would help make sense of it all. I noted it in plain text, then encrypted it and destroyed the original. I used a standard encryption: homophonic substitution. I replaced each letter of the alphabet with a letter six places below. To complicate matters, I used a variety of homophones for the most frequent letters, like "e" or "i." The intellectual exercise of transcribing and encoding my notes helped pass the time.

I had established a routine from my rooftop post. Early in the morning, I stored my bag in a corner with my supplies. Then I descended into the small alley next to the building using the fire escape. I went to one of the coffee shops several streets away for a quick wash, to fill my water bottles, and to dispose of my trash. Each morning, I chose a different coffee shop. I had perfected this routine to be absent for only about thirty minutes.

Twice a day, I ate some canned food cold and energy biscuits, then let the pigeons erase all traces of my meal. At night, I wrapped myself in the sleeping bag. I never slept more than two hours at a time. The slightest noise from the street below woke me, and I immediately checked its source.

I exerted my ribs as little as possible, and they gradually healed. By the third day, they were no longer painful, though some movements remained uncomfortable.

My sleep was particularly troublesome. Either it was heavy, and I woke up as if I hadn't dreamed, or it was agitated with nightmares. I often woke up shivering and sweating. My dreams were confusing—filled with combat, men fighting and dying—and I felt powerless to help them.

On the fourth day of my stakeout, while reviewing my notes from the night, I noticed a scribble at the bottom of the page. Sometimes, especially when writing by dim streetlight, I had trouble reading my notes in the morning. With my restless nights, much of what I had written often made no sense by daylight. I tried to decipher the scribble:

Position compromised, a man is coming up to the roof, retreat cut off.

I didn't remember writing that. No one had come to the roof since I’d set up my observation post. Where had this nocturnal paranoia come from? Perhaps one of my nightmares? Still, it made me think: if someone were to climb the fire escape, I’d have no way out. It was my only exit.

The realization unsettled me. How could I have been so careless? I spent the morning on edge, searching for a backup escape.

There was only one: climbing down the facade using a drainpipe. I leaned over the edge and assessed the distance. I wasn't especially afraid of heights, but I wasn’t sure the pipe could hold my weight. It would be all or nothing.

I regretted not considering this sooner. A simple rope would’ve reduced the risk. But then again, a rope could be spotted. It would alert them to a presence. And my supplies—my sleeping bag, my food—were in plain sight. I searched for a temporary hiding spot and stuffed everything into a rooftop ventilation duct.

I was still evaluating my options when I heard a suspicious noise in the alley below. I fought the urge to peek. Someone was climbing the fire escape. I hadn’t seen them approach—they must have circled around to catch any intruder off guard.

They were coming.