Before the quartermaster can bark another order about the missing garrison supplies, the towering officer abruptly shoves a heavy, leather-bound requisition ledger for matchlock rifles straight into Ryan’s chest. The volume is thick with damp vellum and smells faintly of gun oil and old storage lockers, its pages itemizing hundreds of matchlock barrels with the exact clinical precision of a regional warehouse stock sheet. The quartermaster slams a heavy gauntlet down onto the wooden counter, demanding an immediate, binding administrative seal before the morning's deployment manifest can be cleared for departure.
Ryan offers a slow, long-suffering blink—the exact expression he usually reserves for a third-party vendor insisting that an unapproved equipment surcharge is "standard industry practice." Supporting the dead weight of the matchlock ledger alongside the massive cold-welded brass book already straining his arms, he lets out a quiet, tired sigh. With the practiced bureaucracy of a man attempting to close an out-of-scope ticket, Ryan reaches into his coat pocket as if searching for a corporate stamp or a standard blue ballpoint pen, treating centuries-old military ordnance with the mind-numbing tedium of an overdue office supply audit.
Hoping to bypass the checkpoint before the morning commuter rush or feudal muster overwhelms the platform entirely, Ryan offers a placid, diplomatic nod. He politely suggests that the firearm tallies might be better routed through the regional distribution desk for proper sign-off, keeping his eyes fixed on the misty tracks ahead as he maneuvers his bulging canvas messenger bag through the damp, crowded transit square.