Before the stiff-collared official can issue a final, system-locking edict, the imperial tax inspector steps squarely into Ryan's path. Blocking the threshold with the rigid, humorless authority of an office manager guarding the last box of compliance paperwork, the inspector presses a demand for an official physical seal, pointing an ink-stained finger at the closing wooden market gates as the heavy iron mechanism begins its slow, grinding descent. The evening air hums with the exact artificial tension Ryan usually associates with a building security guard announcing that the lobby is off-line and all badges are temporarily suspended for the night.
Ryan lets out a quiet, measured exhale—the exact deadpan sigh he usually reserves for an automated transit barrier declining his travel pass at the station turnstile. Shifting the heavy strap of his canvas messenger bag, he maintains his placid, salaryman composure, treating the ancient tax dispute with the weary patience of someone trying to clear a minor administrative ticket at the end of a very long Wednesday. With mild deliberation, he pats his coat pockets, half-expecting to pull out a plastic loyalty card, a crumpled receipt, or an out-of-date parking validation instead of a feudal imperial seal.