Before the stern magistrate could finish scrutinizing the silk travel permit, the damp evening air was split by the frantic clatter of geta sandals on stone. A soot-stained postal courier—looking remarkably like an overworked night-shift data entry clerk pulling an unexpected double—bolted from the shadows of the paper lanterns. Without breaking stride, the newcomer shoved a heavy, yellowed Meiji-era telegram directly into Ryan's chest, demanding his immediate, mandatory attendance at the district tax bureau before the evening bell finished tolling.
Ryan blinked behind strain-heavy eyes, catching the brittle, crackling paper with the mechanical, bone-weary reflex of an events coordinator intercepting an urgent, red-flagged compliance email right as he was packing up his desk for the evening. The telegram reeked of coal smoke and damp ink, its stark calligraphic characters carrying the exact same passive-aggressive administrative panic as an overdue notice from corporate accounts regarding unallocated regional catering expenses. It was the exact same relentless bureaucratic machinery, simply retrofitted for a nineteenth-century provincial audit.
With a long, hollow sigh that ruffled the lapel of his pressed white collar, Ryan adjusted the heavy strap of his canvas messenger bag. He briefly wondered if he could flag the tax bureau summons as an out-of-scope scheduling conflict, hoping to clear the ticket and catch his evening connection back to the modern T9 Northern Line before the municipal gates locked down for the night.