As the office clock clicked past half-past twelve, Ryan packed up his open spreadsheet, eased his chair back, and decided to take his lunch break outside. The ground-floor food court was buzzing with the usual midday crush of corporate workers jostling for salads and rice bowls, so he opted instead for a quiet patch of timber decking down by the Barangaroo waterfront. The air off the harbour carried a crisp, salty edge, lifting the midday chill just enough to make a short walk refreshing after hours under the steady fluorescent hum of the fifth-floor marketing pod.
He found an empty, weather-worn wooden bench overlooking the bobbing white hulls of commuter ferries cutting across the grey-blue expanse of the water. Bracing his hand against the smooth, slatted armrest to lower himself down, his fingers brushed against a small, cold fixture embedded flush into the timber. Looking closer, he spotted a tiny, circular brass disc stamped with a clean, unassuming asset code—B-14—fastened securely into the grain. It was the sort of municipal or property management marker installed by city maintenance teams years ago, completely invisible to the thousands of commuters who sat here every day to eat their lunch. Ryan offered the small brass disc a quiet, thoughtful nod, unwrapping his modest sandwich as the gentle wash of the harbour tide rolled rhythmically against the seawall.