The shogunal customs inspector stared down at the small, unassuming metal tin resting in Ryan’s open palm with an intensity usually reserved for a major corporate audit. The official’s hand hovered over the ledger, his brush poised to log an egregious violation of trade restrictions. To the inspector, a modest cylinder of loose-leaf green tea was not a simple morning ration, but an illicit, unvetted foreign import that threatened the fiscal stability of the entire province. His severe frown conveyed the absolute, uncompromising weight of an authority figure determined to make an example of an easy target.
Ryan let out a quiet, bone-weary sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of his charcoal suit jacket. For a tired events coordinator accustomed to placating frantic venue managers over minor catering discrepancies, the shogunal officer's dramatic posturing felt painfully familiar—hardly different from dealing with an overly zealous customs agent at the airport arrivals gate. With the slow, deliberate patience of a man simply trying to survive the tail end of a very long shift, Ryan offered a mild, placid nod, treating the high-stakes interrogation like a standard logistical misunderstanding that could easily be cleared up with a quick form or a polite bow.
"It’s just tea," Ryan murmured in Japanese, though he knew the explanation would likely be met with another wave of bureaucratic red tape. He weighed the prospect of surrendering his comforting morning routine against the sheer exhaustion of arguing transit tariffs with a man wearing lacquered lamellar armor. As the clock ticked closer to his evening connection, Ryan simply adjusted the strap of his canvas messenger bag, wondering if he could somehow expense the confiscated leaves under miscellaneous office supplies before the platform gates locked for the night.