Before Ryan could cross-reference the phantom export figures in the ink-stained ledger, the stern magistrate abruptly pivoted his scrutiny, slamming a mailed gauntlet against the wooden table. With the unforgiving intensity of an internal auditor discovering an unapproved petty cash withdrawal, the official demanded an immediate, itemized accounting of the strange, milled metal discs clinking quietly inside Ryan's coat pocket. To the magistrate, the smooth, copper-and-silver alloy coins bearing unrecognised foreign effigies looked less like loose change and more like illicit, uncatalogued scrip smuggled past the provincial customs barrier.
Ryan let out a soft, flat exhale—the exact, bone-weary sigh he usually reserved for a regional finance manager questioning a minor taxi-fare reimbursement on a monthly expense report. Shifting his canvas messenger bag higher on his shoulder, he reached into his pocket with the mild, methodical patience of a man simply trying to close out an administrative ticket before the weekend. Drawing out a handful of modern, nondescript coins, he offered them up with the deadpan diplomacy of a mid-level coordinator explaining a simple petty cash discrepancy to an overzealous auditor.
"It's just local currency for the suburban transit network," Ryan explained in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, holding out the alien tokens as if they were nothing more than standard cafeteria vouchers. "If the denomination doesn't match the municipal tariff schedule, I'm more than happy to file an expense adjustment form, but holding up the queue won't fix the regional exchange variance." Behind the magistrate, the massive iron portcullis of the port gates groaned on its heavy wooden tracks, continuing its inexorable descent as the afternoon shadows lengthened across the cobblestones.