Before the stern station master could reject Ryan's makeshift run-sheets, a breathless, soot-stained attendant shoved his way through the billowing clouds of steam, clutching a crumpled piece of flimsy paper. Without a word of greeting, the frantic worker pressed the damp, soot-smudged telegram directly into Ryan's chest, demanding immediate proof of identity before anyone was allowed onto the iron-plated carriage. It was the kind of sudden, chaotic escalation Ryan usually reserved for a venue caterer losing a shipment of promotional displays ten minutes before a brand activation.
Ryan blinked down at the paper, his tired eyes scanning the hurried handwriting stamped with a familiar, bureaucratic transit code that mirrored his own corporate ID numbers. With the heavy resignation of a marketing coordinator reviewing a botched audit log, he turned the telegram over, noting the urgent routing instructions scrawled across the back. It felt less like a historical edict and more like another passive-aggressive inter-office memo designed to stall his morning commute.
Sighing quietly, Ryan reached into the breast pocket of his charcoal coat and withdrew his worn transit card and corporate badge, holding them up beside the telegram for the attendant's frantic inspection. He offered a placid, exhausted nod, hoping that showing proper administrative compliance—whether in Sydney or across this strange, mist-shrouded rail corridor—would finally satisfy the gatekeepers and let him secure a seat before the morning schedule completely collapsed.