The sharp, metallic clang of a heavy tavern bell cut through the dusty afternoon air, freezing Ryan mid-stride just as he aimed to clear the marketplace perimeter. A cluster of merchant stalls ground to an abrupt halt, and nearby shopkeepers hastily lowered their heads as a district trade inspector swept out from under a tiled eaves-roof. The official, flanked by ledger-toting clerks, pointed a lacquered wooden baton directly toward Ryan with all the subtle grace of a senior department head demanding an unscheduled quarterly review in an open-plan office.
Ryan let out a quiet, bone-weary sigh, his shoulders sagging beneath his charcoal coat as he adjusted the canvas messenger bag on his shoulder. Treating the feudal shakedown with the exact same deadpan, professional resignation he usually reserved for sudden venue audits or last-minute catering disputes at the office, he came to a polite stop. With the practiced patience of an events coordinator accustomed to placating overly zealous authorities, he offered a low, deferential nod, fully prepared to endure another round of arbitrary compliance checks before he could finally catch his transit connection home.