Before the first inspector's lacquered baton can complete its authoritarian arc, a second official—distinguished by an unbearably stiff Meiji-era collar and the severe, humorless expression of an internal auditor reviewing quarterly petty cash claims—steps directly into Ryan's path. With a sharp tap of his ledger, the official fixes his dark, suspicious gaze on the humble, store-bought woven umbrella tucked under Ryan's arm, demanding an immediate tax receipt and formal proof of import duty for the rainy-day gear. The demand carries the heavy, bureaucratic finality of a senior department head rejecting a travel expense report because a single taxi receipt is missing a secondary serial number.
Ryan lets out a quiet, bone-weary sigh, his shoulders sagging beneath his charcoal coat as the dusty afternoon heat presses down on the crowded marketplace. With the practiced patience of an events coordinator dealing with an overly aggressive venue marshal over fire-safety compliance for a spare power cable, he comes to a halt. He gently taps the hooked handle of the umbrella, offering a mild, placid nod while mentally calculating how many redundant verification forms he would need to fill out if he tried to explain that it was just standard personal property picked up at a local shop before the commute.