Before Ryan can pivot toward the dimly lit exit or figure out which feudal transit line this foggy platform connects to, a stiff-collared samurai inspector—whose pristine, high-collared tunic looks less like battlefield armor and more like the uniform of a humorless internal compliance officer—steps directly into his path. With the rigid posture of a senior department head auditing a questionable travel claim, the official taps the flat of his lacquered baton against the brass buckle of Ryan's canvas messenger bag. He demands an immediate, itemized tax assessment and import tariff for the synthetic weave and unlisted alloy hardware, treating the everyday satchel with the terrifying, unyielding suspicion of an unauthorized capital expenditure.
Ryan lets out a quiet, bone-weary sigh, the exact measured exhale he usually reserves for an IT helpdesk ticket closed without resolution on a Friday evening. Adjusting the heavy strap on his aching shoulder, he offers the stern official a mild, placid nod, entirely unfazed by the centuries-old audit. With the practiced patience of an events coordinator dealing with an overly aggressive venue marshal over a fire-safety regulation, he rests a hand on the bag's zipper, mentally preparing to unpack a crumpled event run-sheet and a pack of mints onto a nearby turnip crate if it means clearing this absurd administrative bottleneck before the evening commuter service departs.