Before Ryan could take another step toward the misty rail platform, yet another breathless runner in a tattered linen happi coat bolted out from beneath the paper-lanterned eaves. With the frantic, high-stakes energy of an underpaid courier delivering a catastrophic late-night change order, the newcomer thrust a grease-stained Edo-period scroll straight into Ryan’s chest, frantically demanding immediate delivery to the local magistrate before the morning audit gates locked.
Ryan exhales a long, bone-weary sigh that ruffled the lapel of his pressed white collar, his fingers tightening around the strap of his canvas messenger bag. To anyone else, the archaic, ink-spotted parchment might have felt like a harrowing feudal summons; to a marketing coordinator perpetually accustomed to frantic last-minute vendor adjustments right before a product launch, it merely felt like an inconvenient inter-office delivery dumped on his desk just as he was trying to catch his train.
Tucking the damp, woodsmoke-scented scroll into his bag alongside his spare plastic ballpoint pen and crumpled run-sheets, Ryan gave the frantic runner a polite, placid nod. He mentally readjusted his morning transit schedule, wondering if he could drop the scroll into the magistrate's box on his way to the platform without completely blowing his arrival window.