Before the magistrate could properly catalogue the baffling plastic rectangle, a towering, heavily armored official stepped into Ryan's path, slamming a mailed fist against the wooden crossbeam of the checkpoint gate. The man fixed Ryan with an unyielding glare, demanding immediate, notarized proof of noble lineage to clear the barrier—treating the missing hereditary seals with the exact, inflexible gravity of an internal corporate compliance audit rejecting an unvetted vendor invoice.
Ryan let out a quiet, bone-weary sigh, the universal exhale of an events coordinator stuck behind a desk late in the afternoon when someone insists on holding up a routine process. Shifting the heavy canvas messenger bag higher on his aching shoulder, he offered the stern magistrate a mild, conciliatory nod. With the deadpan diplomacy of a man simply trying to close an administrative ticket before his evening transit connection departed, Ryan suggested politely that his laminated corporate badge usually sufficed for access control, treating the feudal aristocracy requirement like a clerical oversight on an outdated run-sheet.
As the magistrate narrowed his eyes at the plastic credential, squinting at the micro-print as though deciphering an alien spreadsheet, Ryan cast a sidelong glance toward the flickering lanterns lining the perimeter. The absurdity of arguing lineage in the middle of a transit transfer felt distressingly similar to explaining why a phantom logistics account lacked a manager's sign-off. He just wanted to clear the gate, file his notes, and make sure he didn't miss his connection back to the mundane rhythms of the city.