Before Ryan can even regain his balance against the damp station pillar, a frantic clerk in mud-spattered robes shoves his way through the morning commuter crowd. Panting with the wide-eyed panic of an IT support technician realizing a critical server backup has failed, the clerk presses a heavily sealed imperial warrant directly into Ryan's chest. The parchment, bound in thick twine and stamped with an ominous crimson wax insignia, demands immediate verification of incoming timber and cargo manifests down at the fog-shrouded municipal dockyards before the noon tide turns.
Ryan lets out a slow, long-suffering exhale through his nose—the exact, hollow sigh he usually reserves for a facility manager dropping an unbudgeted logistical audit on his desk five minutes before lunch. Shifting the heavy canvas messenger bag on his aching shoulder, he taps the face of his analog watch out of sheer, automatic muscle memory, ignoring the useless hands of the archaic epoch. With the placid, unimpressed diplomacy of a marketing coordinator managing a botched supply chain delivery, he offers the breathless clerk a mild, professional nod, resigning himself to another tedious detour before he can even think about catching his connection.