Before Ryan's fingers could find anything more useful than a stray lint ball and a damp receipt for office stationery, the chatter of the makeshift market abruptly died down. The weathered vendor lowered his ink-stained ledger, stepping aside with a nervous bow as heavy wooden sandals clattered against the cobblestones. Out from the shadow of a paper-lanterned eaves walked a stern-faced magistrate in severe, lacquered armor and pleated silk robes, flanked by two impassive guards bearing wooden staves. The magistrate halted directly in Ryan's path, fixing him with an intense, unblinking glare that felt entirely too reminiscent of an unscheduled corporate audit. With a sharp, authoritative snap of a lacquered folding fan, the official demanded to know why a low-ranking clerk was wandering the merchant ward in strange Western-cut trousers while in possession of a missing imperial heirloom scroll—explicitly gesturing toward the calligraphy-stamped parchment Ryan had hastily shoved into his coat pocket.
Ryan sighed with the deep, bone-weary exhaustion of an events coordinator who had spent far too many Monday mornings dealing with unreasonable venue managers. Adjusting the straps of his canvas messenger bag and straightening his pressed white collar, he met the magistrate's imposing gaze with the mild, placid patience he usually reserved for his department's nitpicking compliance officers. Rather than panicking or drawing a sword he didn't own, Ryan calmly reached into his jacket, pulled out a small plastic pen, and politely offered to file an administrative grievance or fill out an official lost-property form if it meant he could clear the checkpoint in time to catch the 7:42 train out of the district.