Before the soot-dusted stationmaster can squint any closer at Ryan's paperwork, a burly, sweat-soaked blacksmith from a makeshift forge beside the tracks shoves his way through the misty commuter crowd. With the frantic urgency of an impatient warehouse supervisor complaining about an overdue delivery, the heavily muscled artisan drops a massive, cold-welded brass ledger directly into Ryan's hands. He barks an uncompromising demand for immediate verification of the heavy-metal tally sheets before the station whistle blows, treating the missing inventory with the fierce, unforgiving gravity of a failed quality control audit.
Ryan lets out a quiet, bone-weary sigh—the exact hollow exhale he usually reserves for an unvetted vendor dumping a last-minute hardware requisition onto his desk right before a major company event. Adjusting the heavy canvas messenger bag higher on his aching shoulder, he peers down at the cold, brass-bound pages filled with archaic kanji and complicated iron tallies that looked suspiciously like the corrupted asset codes on his corporate spreadsheets. With the practiced, deadpan patience of a coordinator managing a botched product launch, he offers the blacksmith a mild, placid nod, treating the feudal industrial audit with the same tired professionalism he brought to every absurd morning commute.