Before the watch captain could issue a final, system-locking edict regarding the registry discrepancy, a soot-stained merchant abruptly elbowed his way through the gathering crowd. Clutching a heavy, coal-dusted ledger under one arm, the vendor shoved his face uncomfortably close to Ryan's paperwork, squinting aggressively at the vermilion stamps. With the sharp, abrasive tone of a rival supplier inspecting a competitor's botched delivery manifest, the merchant loudly declared that the travel seals looked entirely counterfeit—pointing out that the ink density was far too modern and the seal alignment matched an obsolete distribution code from a liquidated regional depot three provinces over.
Ryan let out a soft, exhausted exhale, the exact hollow sigh he usually reserved for a disgruntled vendor trying to reject a shipment over a minor barcode smudge. Shifting the heavy canvas messenger bag on his aching shoulder, he maintained the placid, unimpressed diplomacy of a coordinator handling a routine customer complaint at a registration desk. With mild, procedural patience, he tapped the corner of the disputed parchment, politely suggesting to the soot-stained merchant that any administrative discrepancies in the stamp impression were merely the result of a delayed batch routing through the auxiliary sorting office.