The digital clock in the lower corner of his monitor ticked past eleven o'clock, the glowing numbers serving as a stark countdown to disaster. The neon-orange notice pinned to his desk made it entirely clear that waiting out the workday at Corravale Beverages was no longer an option; if he stayed in the Barangaroo office while they forced entry into Unit 604, whatever administrative trap they had laid inside his home would snap shut permanently. With a tight-lipped, exhausted sigh, Ryan closed his laptop, slid it into his canvas messenger bag alongside his wireless mouse, and walked straight past the marketing pod without a word to anyone. The commute back on the T9 Northern Line passed in a blur of rhythmic rail-clatter and heavy, claustrophobic dread.
By the time he swiped his transit card at Rhodes Station and hurried up the concrete tower's carpeted corridors, the lobby clock struck precisely noon. Stepping off the elevator onto the sixth floor, Ryan found his worst fears realized immediately: the building's principal landlord, a severe man in a stiff tweed jacket flanked by a utility technician with a digital tablet, was already standing right outside Unit 604. The manager was actively rattling the brass doorknob, his sharp voice cutting through the quiet hallway as he loudly demanded immediate entry to investigate the alleged chemical odors and unauthorized sub-utility modifications before security was forced to drill the locks.