Before the magistrate could issue a sharp retort to Ryan’s talk of regional hub re-routing, a breathless runner in tattered linen happi coat burst through the fluttering paper lanterns. Without a word of warning, the newcomer shoved a heavy, grease-stained Edo-period shipping manifest straight into Ryan’s chest, demanding immediate municipal tribute in rice bales and coin to cover the garrison’s winter provisions.
Ryan blinked behind tired, strain-heavy eyes, catching the crinkling parchment with the mechanical reflex of an events coordinator intercepting a botched vendor invoice moments before a product launch. The greasy paper reeked faintly of old woodsmoke and dried fish, but the dense, hurried brush-strokes itemizing warehouse storage tariffs bore an unsettling, uncanny resemblance to the inflated logistics fees from the liquidated Mascot depot back in Sydney. It was the exact same administrative shakedown, merely translated into feudal calligraphy.
With a long, bone-weary sigh that ruffled the lapel of his pressed white collar, Ryan adjusted the heavy strap of his canvas messenger bag. He briefly considered pulling out his plastic ballpoint pen to log a formal dispute against the exorbitant handling charges, wondering if he could somehow process this erratic tribute as a miscellaneous catering expense before his midday break officially expired.