Before Ryan can even process the heavy, cold-welded brass ledger resting awkwardly in his arms, a soot-stained messenger in a damp, indigo happi coat forcefully parts the swirling morning fog of the transit platform. Clutching a crumpled dispatch note, the breathless courier urgently summons Ryan back toward the magistrate's gate to verify a disputed shipment of tempered katana blades that have apparently missed their customs clearance window. The man's frantic panic mirrors the exact, exasperating energy of a warehouse foreman complaining about a delayed venue drop-off right before a major corporate product launch.
Ryan lets out a long-suffering, bone-weary sigh—the exact hollow exhale he usually reserves for an unvetted supplier dumping a last-minute hardware requisition onto his desk on a Friday morning. Adjusting the heavy canvas strap of his messenger bag, which currently bulges with an absurd collection of ledgers, scrolls, and his stray office mouse, he shifts the massive brass-bound pages against his hip. With the deadpan, tired diplomacy of an events coordinator accustomed to untangling botched logistics, he offers the frantic messenger a mild, placid nod, fully prepared to treat a shipment of centuries-old steel with the clinical tedium of a standard inventory audit just so he can finally clear this administrative bottleneck and catch his connection.