Before Ryan can maneuver past the town crier's clanging bell, a weathered merchant intercepts him with the aggressive urgency of an accounts payable clerk chasing an overdue invoice. Shoving an ink-spattered parchment manifest directly into Ryan's chest, the vendor barks a demand for immediate payment in heavy silver coins before the municipal port gates close for the midday audit. The itemized charges listed on the rough-cut scroll mirror the absurd freight tariffs and handling fees Ryan usually faces when an external warehouse attempts to gouge his department's event budget at the last minute.
Ryan lets out a long, soul-weary exhale through his nose—the exact hollow sigh of a coordinator staring down an unbudgeted line item right in the middle of a stressful workday. Treating the feudal shakedown with the deadpan diplomacy of a man perpetually stuck cleaning up administrative errors, he pats down the pockets of his charcoal suit trousers. Finding no ancient coinage on his person, he calmly reaches into his canvas messenger bag and pulls out a spare plastic ballpoint pen, holding it up with mild, professional detachment as though expecting the bewildered merchant to accept it as an office-supplies requisition voucher instead.