The damp pre-dawn chill hung heavy over the timber-piled docks as Ryan approached the waterfront checkpoint, his charcoal coat buttoned tight against the breeze. Before he could slide past the weathered pilings toward the station, a sharp-eyed port inspector stepped squarely into his path. The official, clad in a stiff, archaic uniform that looked halfway between a Meiji-era magistrate’s robe and a modern biosecurity jacket, raised a rigid hand and demanded an immediate customs tax on the antique textile samples supposedly concealed within Ryan's canvas bag.
Ryan let out a long, bone-weary sigh, the exact same weary expiration he reserved for difficult venue auditors or stubborn beverage vendors trying to sneak unapproved freight charges onto an event invoice. He shifted the heavy messenger bag on his shoulder, silently calculating whether paying an arbitrary silk tariff with his remaining loose change would clear him in time to catch his connection. With the practiced patience of an events coordinator dealing with redundant red tape, he unzipped the bag just enough to reveal a crumpled run-sheet and a spare plastic ballpoint pen, offering the suspicious inspector a mild, placid nod in the hope that a boring display of office stationery would satisfy the morning audit.