The place was busy in the way banks were busy — not loud, not chaotic, but densely occupied, every desk attended to, every teller window with a line, people moving between stations with the purposeful efficiency of those who knew exactly where they were going. Elias stood just inside the entrance for a moment, hat in hand, and looked at his note.
He found the reception desk to his left and joined the short queue in front of it. Two people ahead of him, both of whom seemed to know what they wanted and got it quickly — a form handed over, a phone number confirmed, done. When he reached the desk the young woman behind it looked up at him with the alert, professional expression of someone mid-morning and still keeping pace.