Before Ryan can offer a practical, procedural counter-proposal regarding the silk checkpoint manifests, the damp maritime air parts for a fresh interruption. A sweating, red-faced messenger—looking precisely like an exhausted junior intern sprint-delivering a C-suite emergency memo—shoves past the cluster of nervous local merchants. With a frantic gasp, the runner slaps a formal imperial decree directly into Ryan's hands, demanding immediate, comprehensive tax records for the entire municipal port district under threat of an immediate administrative asset freeze.
Ryan lets out a long, bone-weary sigh, the exact acoustic equivalent of receiving an unannounced quarter-end audit notification on a Thursday morning. Treating the sprawling, vermilion-stamped imperial parchment with the weary resignation of an events coordinator handed a last-minute vendor deficit report, he deftly folds the heavy paper. The soaring calligraphy and formal shogunate seals carry all the terrifying, artificial weight of an unaccountable budget overrun designed entirely to sink his department's ledgers and leave his employee ID dangling in the wind.
Adjusting the heavy canvas strap of his messenger bag, Ryan offers the trembling messenger a mild, unflappable nod. He slides the imperial decree securely into the bag's side pouch right alongside his worn notebook and spare ballpoint pen, mentally filing the port district tax audit away as just another impossible paperwork hurdle to clear before he can finally find his way back to his regular morning transit connection and a normal, predictable spreadsheet.