The "Sanctuary Customs and Border Protection Agency" was, to put it mildly, an absolute architectural disaster.
Galleon had built it in less than twelve hours. It sat squarely on the main dirt road leading toward the northern lake, completely blocking the most active dimensional rift zone. It was essentially a heavily reinforced wooden shack constructed from repurposed timber, corrugated steel roofing, and a disturbing amount of barbed wire.
Nailed to the front of the shack was a large, hand-painted wooden sign in aggressively bold red lettering:
**FUCK OFF OR PAY TOLL. NO EXCEPTIONS.**
Sebastian was sitting in a faded, striped canvas lawn chair directly in front of the shack. He was wearing his gray sweatpants, a plain black t-shirt, and a pair of dark sunglasses to block the harsh mid-morning sun. In his right hand, he held a ceramic mug of hot peppermint tea.
