The second round of heavy knocks rattled the deadbolt, accompanied by the muffled, unmistakable demand of the building manager threatening a formal strata breach notice if the door wasn't opened immediately. Heart hammering against his ribs, Ryan abandoned any thought of neatly packing away the anomaly; with frantic, silent urgency, he grabbed the base of the leaking industrial crate. The metal corners bit into his palms, freezing-cold and slick with chemical condensation that hissed softly against the laminate floor. Straining against the heavy, uncooperative weight, he dragged the box across the narrow hallway, slipping past the struggling green spider plant, Chief, and heaved it directly into the dim interior of his bedroom wardrobe.
With a desperate shove, he wedged the frost-coated crate deep into the shadows, right up against the strange, hollow wooden paneling at the back where the building's structural schematics intersected with his apartment footprint. He yanked the wardrobe doors shut just as another sharp rap reverberated through the unit. Panting softly, Ryan wiped his damp hands on his trousers, smoothed down the front of his slightly rumpled work shirt, and forced his features into the practiced, neutral mask of mild-mannered compliance that had seen him through a thousand difficult corporate audits.
Stepping back out to the entryway, Ryan unlocked the heavy timber door and pulled it open with a measured, unhurried click. The building manager stood in the dim hallway, his expression sour and suspicious as the lingering, stale tang of office air billowed out from the threshold. Ryan offered a polite, apologetic bow of his head, smoothly blocking the view into the apartment while politely inquiring what urgent strata matter required attention at this hour.