Before Ryan can slip past the timber lintel of the courtyard to reclaim his evening commute, the damp maritime air parts for a heavily armored precinct warden flanked by spear-carrying guards. The magistrate, whose expression carries the unmistakable, soul-crushing weight of an unannounced inventory audit, thrusts a weathered wooden rack forward. Resting upon it is an ancient, heavily pitted katana, its iron guard rusted a dull, mottled brown and its scabbard wrapped in frayed hemp. With the austere gravity of a corporate security director inspecting an unvetted asset left in a shared conference room, the official demands an immediate administrative verification of the weapon's serial provenance and manufacturing registry before the precinct gates lock for the night.
Ryan offers a quiet, long-suffering sigh that practically tastes of stale station platform coffee and uncompensated overtime. Shifting the heavy canvas strap of his messenger bag higher on his aching shoulder, he reaches into his coat pocket as if searching for a misplaced vendor contact card or a spare plastic pen. With the deadpan diplomacy of an events coordinator dealing with an erratic prop house delivery, he steps up to the rough-hewn rack, eyeing the rusted blade with the exact same clinical, exhausted detachment he brought to every routine equipment check at the office. "If we could just cross-reference the regional armory asset codes," Ryan murmurs, his voice entirely level, "I'm sure we can clear this compliance hold and I can finally catch my train."