Before Ryan could even proffer his rumpled pocket notebook or hint at an expired Sydney lease to satisfy the magistrate's archaic family registry demand, a frantic disturbance erupted near the courtyard entrance. Out from beneath the damp, paper-lanterned eaves burst another courier—this one clad in mud-splattered Edo-period attire, his breathing ragged and his linen happi coat soaked through with evening mist. With the desperate, high-stakes energy of an underpaid IT support technician dropping a critical severity-one ticket right as the office lights were going out, the newcomer shoved a heavy, formal imperial decree directly into Ryan’s hands.
Ryan blinked behind strain-heavy eyes, catching the stiff, red-sealed vellum with the deadpan, mechanical reflex of an events coordinator intercepting an impossible last-minute client change order. The heavy parchment smelled faintly of wet earth and courtly lacquer, but the dense, authoritarian calligraphy laying out mandatory compliance metrics looked uncomfortably similar to the automated audit flags Corravale's regional software used to trap unapproved warehouse expenditures. It was the exact same corporate shakedown, merely translated into imperial edict.
With a long, bone-weary sigh that ruffled the lapel of his pressed white collar, Ryan adjusted the heavy canvas strap of his messenger bag. He briefly contemplated pulling out his spare plastic ballpoint pen to log a formal dispute against the unrequested mandate, wondering if he could somehow process this empire-wide decree as a miscellaneous administrative expense before his evening transit window closed completely.