Before Ryan could fully flatten the waterlogged tactical scroll against his sleeve, a sharp cough cleared the damp morning air as a second, higher-ranking shogunate inspector pushed past the ranks of guards. His lacquered ceremonial cap sat at an immaculate, uncompromising angle that instantly reminded Ryan of a regional compliance director preparing for a hostile quarterly review. Without a word of greeting, the stern official thrust a heavy, grease-spotted sheet of rice paper straight into Ryan’s chest—a formal, unreadable summons covered in dense, frantic brushstrokes and archaic vermilion seal stamps.
Ryan squinted down at the document, his tired eyes scanning the dense columns of ink with the practiced exhaustion of an events coordinator reviewing a botched vendor invoice. According to the hurried marginalia scrawled across the margin, the local garrison was facing a catastrophic deficit in missing rice tax ledgers—a discrepancy involving hundreds of koku of grain that bore an uncanny, terrifying resemblance to the phantom logistics transfers and capital expenditure overruns currently sinking his department back in Sydney. It was the exact same administrative trap, merely translated into feudal accounting.
With a quiet, patient sigh that ruffled the lapel of his pressed white collared shirt, Ryan adjusted the strap of his canvas messenger bag. He briefly considered reaching into his pocket for a red correction pen to log a formal dispute against the inventory shortfall, but instead offered the inspector a mild, weary nod. If the shogunate wanted to audit grain shipments from centuries past, they would simply have to join the queue behind the two o'clock executive review—provided he could manage to clear his inbox and find a way back to the station platform.