Before Ryan can even adjust the strap of his canvas messenger bag against the damp morning chill of the bustling transit concourse, a weathered timber merchant materializes from the swirling maritime fog. Swathed in a coarse, sawdust-dusted indigo coat and clutching a fistful of splintered pine samples, the vendor fixes Ryan with an accusatory glare. With the sharp, aggrieved tone of a disgruntled supplier whose freight had stalled on a rural branch line, the merchant demands immediate payment for delayed bolt deliveries and structural timber, pointing a calloused finger at the heavy ledger tucked under Ryan's arm as if it were a signed purchase order.
Ryan lets out a long, slow exhale through his nose, his shoulders slumping with the familiar, bone-weary resignation of a corporate coordinator dealing with a delinquent vendor. Treating the heated confrontation with the exact same placid diplomacy he usually reserves for a late-arriving pop-up display stand, he offers a mild, apologetic nod. He patiently explains that the infrastructural delays were entirely the fault of the regional transit bottleneck rather than his own department's oversight, even going so far as to tap the corner of the ledger as though reviewing a contested line item on a quarterly invoice.
With the timber merchant still grumbling about inventory shrinkage and delayed building supplies, Ryan deftly side-steps the confrontation, checking his analog wristwatch as the morning clock inches past ten-thirty. He tucks a crumpled delivery slip into the side pouch of his bag alongside his growing collection of bureaucratic notices, hoping against hope that his next connection will actually arrive on schedule.