Before Vance could press his point about the unallocated hospitality charges or the property manager could bark another demand through the intercom box, the lobby's brass elevator doors began their slow, mechanical slide toward a close. Cutting through the gap just in time, a second frantic courier—slick with rain and wearing a high-visibility vest—shoved his way past the threshold. Spotting Ryan standing trapped between the towering freight crates and a furious corporate liaison, the courier thrust a damp, heavy-stock customs manifest directly into Ryan's hands with desperate urgency, muttering something about an international clearance failure before spinning around and bolting back out into the damp Sydney evening.
Staring down beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the lobby, Ryan watched the elevator doors lock shut, sealing off his escape route. The document trembling in his grip was an official-looking international customs manifest stamped with the asset codes of a phantom freight forwarding depot, listing his own sixth-floor apartment as the final receiving port for tons of industrial refrigeration equipment. Vance’s eyes darted down to the paper, his expression shifting from corporate annoyance to a cold, knowing calculation that made the damp draft off the river feel freezing against Ryan’s skin.