Before his 06:45 AM alarm could even begin its usual electronic chirping, Ryan was jolted awake in the dark by a sharp, rhythmic pounding on his apartment door. Groggily assuming it was another strata compliance inspector or an irate neighbor complaining about imaginary chemical coolant leaks from his wardrobe, he blindly threw his charcoal suit jacket over his shoulders and shuffled his feet into his work shoes. But when he turned the deadbolt and swung the heavy timber door open, the familiar, brightly lit sixth-floor hallway of his Rhodes building was entirely gone. In its place hung a suffocating blanket of maritime fog, thick with the scent of damp earth and burning coal, illuminated only by the dim, yellow flicker of a gas-lit streetlamp casting long shadows across wet cobblestones.
Standing just outside the threshold—right where his welcome mat ought to be—was a brisk, formal courier in a stiff wool overcoat and a peaked cap, holding out a grease-stained ledger with the unyielding urgency of an overnight courier delivering a catastrophic late change-order. Ryan suppressed a long, bone-weary sigh, blinking against the chilly Meiji-era air as the distant, ghostly whistle of a steam locomotive echoed through the historic Tokyo fog. With the practiced, placid resignation of an events coordinator accustomed to venue layouts changing entirely overnight, he adjusted his collar, stepped right out of his apartment doorway and onto the slick cobblestone street, and mentally wondered if this detour would still let him make his morning connection.