Before Ryan could tuck the incriminating, still-warm invoice into his canvas messenger bag, a sharp, hurried voice cut through the hum of the lobby's central air conditioning. Stepping abruptly from the shadow of the mailroom alcove was Arthur Vance, one of the regional operations managers from the Barangaroo office, looking remarkably harried in a creased sport coat despite it being a Saturday evening. Vance clutched a sheaf of printouts in one hand, his eyes wide and jittery behind thin wire-rimmed glasses as he zeroed in on Ryan with the aggressive urgency usually reserved for a high-stakes Monday morning stand-up.
"Fujimoto," Vance barked, closing the distance before Ryan could retreat toward the elevators. Without so much as a greeting, Vance thrust a separate, bright pink paper directly toward Ryan's chest—an unaccounted catering invoice for a lavish regional breakfast meeting that had allegedly taken place at an auxiliary warehouse two weekends prior. "What is the meaning of this line item? Finance has been flagging unallocated hospitality charges bleeding straight out of your promotional budget, and if this hits the regional ledger before Monday's review, corporate compliance is going to lock down every active campaign code we have."
Ryan stared dumbly between the frantic manager and the warm freight invoice still clutched in his other hand, the boundaries between his grueling work week and his quiet residential building completely dissolving. The lobby floor-to-ceiling glass reflected the grey Sydney drizzle outside, turning the sleek Rhodes apartment entryway into a mirror of the very corporate pressure chamber he had tried to escape hours ago. With a slow, exhausted breath, Ryan tightened his grip on his bag strap, realizing there was no weekend left to retreat into.