The magistrate's administrative dismissal is punctuated as a heavy wooden gate rattles shut behind Ryan, plunging him back from the dim, ink-stained chamber into the damp, lantern-lit alleys of Meiji-era Tokyo. The iron-reinforced timber slams shut with the finality of an office security door locking at the end of a long shift, echoing sharply off the moss-slick cobblestones. The chilly maritime fog clings to his pressed white collar and charcoal suit jacket like a damp synthetic uniform, carrying the heavy scent of burning coal and wet cedar instead of the familiar harbor breeze of the city he left behind.
Ryan adjusts the heavy strap of his canvas messenger bag, his shoulders aching with the quiet, bone-weary tension of someone who has just survived an exhausting quarterly audit he never asked to attend. He glances down at his wrist, where the small, steady digital glow of his watch feels absurdly out of place beneath the flickering amber paper lanterns lining the narrow thoroughfare. With the placid, deadpan resignation of a salaryman whose train has been canceled, he pats his coat pocket to ensure his improvised paperwork is secure, silently calculating how many minutes of his afternoon he has lost to this bureaucratic labyrinth before he can find a way back to the platform.