The 06:45 alarm hadn't even rung yet when the low hum of the Parramatta River ferry lane outside was pierced by the rattle of an early T9 commuter train rumbling past the balcony. Ryan was already awake, standing by the small kitchen counter as the stainless-steel kettle let out its familiar, cheerful shriek. He silenced it with a swift flick of his wrist, pouring the steaming water over a simple tea bag with methodical calm. The morning light cast a pale gray glow across the laminate floorboards and Chief, the struggling spider plant on the windowsill, offering the usual quiet anchor to the start of another week.
But the tranquil baseline of the Monday morning was abruptly shattered by a sharp, rhythmic pounding on his apartment door—not the polite double-rap of a neighbor or the lazy toss of a courier's parcel, but heavy, authoritative strikes that rattled the wooden frame. Cautiously setting his tea mug down, Ryan padded down the short hallway and unlocked the deadbolt. Standing in the dim, carpeted corridor was not a delivery driver in a high-visibility vest, but an incongruous figure in traditional, ink-stained robes, clutching a thick, heavy scroll tied with rough twine. Before Ryan could speak, the visitor pressed a damp, tightly rolled paper into his hand—a formal, calligraphy-stamped decree demanding his immediate appearance before the feudal magistrate's courtyard.
Ryan stared down at the crisp parchment, his brow furrowed with the familiar, grinding exhaustion of a man whose inbox had long since stopped making logical sense. It bore the unmistakable brushstrokes of classical administrative bureaucracy, complete with a vermilion signature stamp that looked suspiciously like the asset codes he had been scrubbing from his spreadsheets all last week. Glancing from the strange scroll to his watch—still blinking quietly at 06:14—he briefly considered how an imperial summons in the middle of Rhodes was going to affect his ability to catch the 7:42 train to Barangaroo. With a heavy, resignation-laden sigh, he tucked the historical decree into the pocket of his pressed charcoal trousers, wondering if the magistrate's courtyard had a reliable coffee cart nearby.