The magistrate snatched the smooth, rigid sliver of modern plastic and high-resolution barcode from Ryan’s outstretched hand, holding it up to the dim, flickering light of a paper lantern with an expression of profound administrative suspicion. To the heavily armored official, the corporate security badge and transit pass looked less like a passport and more like an incomprehensible heresy—a flat, unyielding tablet stamped with alien glyphs and a suspiciously flawless corporate logo that defied every known regional tax registry from here to the coast. He tapped a lacquered fingernail against the glossy surface, demanding to know what obscure merchant guild had issued such blasphemous credentials and why the portrait thereon wore a pressed white collared shirt instead of traditional robes.
Ryan offered a quiet, bone-weary sigh, shifting the heavy canvas messenger bag higher on his aching shoulder as he braced for yet another tedious compliance bottleneck. Treating the medieval interrogation with the exact same deadpan patience he usually reserved for an automated security gate rejecting his employee ID at the office turnstiles, he kept his hands respectfully empty. "It's just a standard-issue workplace credential," Ryan murmured mildly, adopting the placid tone of an events coordinator explaining a missing vendor badge to an overzealous security lead. He glanced past the magistrate's shoulder toward the darkening alleyway, silently calculating how many precious minutes of his afternoon run-sheet were being squandered on a dispute that felt suspiciously like an audit he never asked for.