The stern magistrate abruptly stepped closer, waving a dismissive hand to silence Ryan's polite administrative detour before demanding an immediate, rigorous verification of the forged crests on his provincial transit papers. With a calloused finger tipped in ink-stains, the official tapped sharply against the laminated surface of Ryan's modern corporate ID badge and regional transit pass, squinting at the high-resolution barcode and corporate logo as if inspecting a glaringly counterfeit seal from an unrecognised regional domain. The two guards flanking him leaned in, their wooden staves clicking against the cobblestones in an unhurried, rhythmic cadence that sounded distressingly like an office printer churning out an error log.
Ryan offered a quiet, exhausted sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of his canvas messenger bag as he endured the bureaucratic standoff with the weary patience of an events coordinator dealing with an overly aggressive venue compliance officer. To him, the surreal medieval checkpoint felt less like a grand historical anomaly and more like an unbearably tedious dispute with an obstinate accounts payable clerk over missing travel receipts. Adjusting his pressed white collar, he mentally glanced at an imaginary wristwatch, wondering if this administrative bottleneck would cause him to miss his connection entirely and throw off the rest of his morning run-sheet.