I breathe in the morning smog of Tikograd. My shoes scuff against the cracked pavement, and I hum a little tune under my breath. The armband on my sleeve fulfills its function — being visible.

  The street between the apartment block and the school isn’t long, but it feels stretched, like every meter grew overnight. People notice me. Not me, exactly — the band, maybe I walk differently now? — in a way that shows I’m not just another student shuffling to class anymore. A fruit seller wiping down her stand pauses just long enough to glance at my arm, then at my face. Old man Tao, pushing a cart, squints like he’s trying to place me somewhere on the long invisible ladder that runs through everyone’s head.

  The worst are the parents bringing their children to school. They stand at the gate in little clusters, tired faces under gray sky. A few nod in that careful, polite way, the kind used for someone who has become slightly more important than them, but not enough to matter. Most just watch, measuring.

  Their children catch their stares, then look at me the same way — more curious than friendly, just trying to figure out what changed.

  Inside the compound, the noise hits like a wave. Students talking, laughing, running, teachers trying to herd them with clipped voices. It’s the same as every morning, except it isn’t.

  It takes about two minutes before someone says something.

  “Jun-Tao!” A boy from the next class jogs up, cheeks flushed from the cold. He’s holding a crumpled handbill, probably one I made for a single Fen from cut-up paper. “You’re selling portraits now?”

  The way he says it isn’t admiration. It’s interest.

  “Yeah,” I say. I keep my voice even. “I am registered.”

  That gets attention. Conversations nearby slow down, then pick up again in new directions. Two girls lean closer, whispering something sharp and quick. A group of boys by the wall glance over like they’re deciding whether to care.

  One of them — tall, blunt, always loud — asks, “How’d you even learn to draw like that?”

  For a heartbeat, my mind flashes through the truth: a quiet room, a coaster changing shape under my hand, lines falling exactly where I want them. But that isn’t useful. That just gets you attention you don’t want.

  “I just drew,” I say. “Didn’t have notebooks or pencils before. I used scrap paper. Mostly on dirt. Whatever I could find.”

  That’s technically true. The first real drawings were this week, but no one needs to know that part.

  Someone whistles low. Another mutters something about talent. One girl stares at me like she’s not sure whether to be impressed or suspicious. I can feel the shift in the air — soft, but there.

  Not all of it is good.

  A shorter boy near the fence snorts. “So you think you’re better than the rest of us now?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  But the look on his face says it doesn’t matter. People believe what makes sense to them.

  It felt strange, standing on the other side of it. Usually, I was just another face in the crowd — part of the low murmur when someone else became interesting. But now, when they leaned in with their questions, they didn’t overlap or shout.

  One asked about the drawings. Another about the how. A third wanted to reaffirm the previous social hierarchy. Not coordinated, but patterned — the kind of soft pressure that builds without anyone realizing it.

  I’d only ever felt that kind of weight with the crowd, never aimed at me. It didn’t feel like power. It felt like standing in the eye of something too big to name, where everyone waits for your next word to enact a reaction they already decided.

  When the bell rings, I slip into line with the others. The whispers follow me down the corridor, thin threads tugging at the back of my neck. No one touches me. No one has to. The armband does what it was made for.

  The depot still smells like it always does — sometimes I think I am too preoccupied with the way things smell. On the other hand, it is one of the ways one can enjoy life without stepping on someone else's face. I wait by the entrance, backpack still on my shoulders, watching the end-of-shift shuffle as worker drones stream out. Their coveralls are streaked with the day’s labor, some faces tired, others just dulled by habit.

  Father isn’t out yet.

  I step inside and keep to the narrow strip of floor where the light still works. Overhead, the ceiling lamps flicker at odd intervals, the hum of distant machinery a constant undercurrent. Father stands near his workstation, sleeves rolled up, laughing at something a colleague says. Not loud, but the kind that makes other people feel at ease.

  He’s not in charge, not really. But when two other technicians ask something, they tilt their heads toward him, not the others. He gives short, efficient answers. The real power sits upstairs with the Lord Technician, but down here, Father has enough weight to be noticed.

  One of the men — short, with thinning hair and hands wrinkled by things other than age — waves at me as he approaches Father.

  “Lian,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “I’m heading out. Here’s what’s left.”

  They talk for a moment in that quick, clipped way of people who’ve done this a hundred times. Something about finishing the pressure gauge recalibration of the Vindicator, parts for one of the faulty hydraulic knee joints, and a delivery that hasn’t arrived.

  Then the man glances at me. “Your boy,” he says, smiling a little too wide. “Heard he’s drawing portraits now. Got half the market aunties talking.”

  I nod, polite.

  He crouches a bit, like he thinks that’s how you talk to a child. “So. How’s school, Jun-Tao?”

  The way he says it is awkward — like he’s picking a sentence from a manual. I can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes, waiting for the right child-appropriate reaction.

  “It’s boring,” I say.

  He laughs too loudly, slapping his thigh once. “Good, good. Keep at it. Don’t end up like us old dogs, eh?”

  I don’t bother answering that. He doesn’t expect me to. My mind even draws a blank on what the socially correct response would be.

  Father gives him a look halfway between amusement and resignation. “Go home, Chen.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Chen grins, waves again, and disappears toward the gate.

  When he’s gone, Father exhales quietly and turns back to me. “Perfect timing,” he says. “We’ve got a meeting upstairs.”

  Upstairs. That means directly with the Lord Technician.

  I follow him through the depot’s central corridor. The deeper we go, the quieter it gets, like the air itself knows to lower its voice. The stairs to the upper offices are old wood, polished smooth by boots over the years. A junior clerk at the door nods us in with a practiced, bored gesture.

  Father straightens his jacket and looks at me.

  I adjust my bag and look back.

  He doesn’t need to say anything. I already know: don’t slouch, don’t speak unless spoken to, keep your eyes open but not too open. All the little rules that make the difference between being a guest and being a problem.

  The Lord Technician’s office is warmer than the floor below — not just from heating, but from the way the lights don’t flicker here. The air smells faintly of polished wood and old machine oil, like someone made the pleasure first and then added the work as an afterthought. It just felt like an overly luxurious dentist's office to me.

  The man behind the desk is tall, less in the way that fills space. More like someone used to having space made for him. Uniform pressed sharp enough to cut, hair combed back with the precision of a blueprint.

  “Lian,” he says, voice level. Then his eyes slide to me. “And this is your son.”

  Father nods once. “Yes, Lord Technician.”

  The man leans back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled in front of him. “I heard something interesting from our Comrades. Said a boy was registered and drawing portraits at the plaza.”

  His gaze doesn’t sharpen, but it doesn’t soften either. It just fixes on me, like a clamp.

  “That was me,” I say. My voice doesn’t crack, but I hear the effort it takes to keep it steady. Still flawed in comparison to the adults in the room.

  He hums, a small sound that could mean approval or nothing at all. “They said it looked… professional. Clean. Not childish.” A pause. “You’re not trained, are you?”

  “No, Lord Technician.”

  His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “That’s even more interesting.”

  He stands, walks over to the side table, and picks up a small sheet of thick paper. “I’m thinking of a notice board. Something attractive. Something that makes the depot look… competent. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want you to make one. A draft. Something we can use to post schedules or job listings without it looking like a stack of garbage. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Yes,” I say again, because what else would I say?

  He sets the paper on the desk in front of me. Not gently — precisely. “Good. Deliver a sketch by the end of the week. If it’s good, we’ll make it official. If it isn’t…” He lets the silence stretch long enough to fill the room.

  Father doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He coughs, clearly artificial.

  The Lord Technician’s eyes flicker toward him for half a heartbeat. A small adjustment follows — shoulders less stiff, the edges of his words smoothed like sanded steel.

  “What I mean,” he continues, voice suddenly lighter, “is that this is a good opportunity. For someone your age to contribute this early… that’s not common. It speaks well of your initiative.”

  “I understand, thank you for the opportunity,” I say.

  “Even if the sketch isn’t perfect, it’ll be a start. A boy who can make the depot look better — that’s something to be proud of.”

  Father slightly lowers his shoulders. The air in the room loosens, just a little.

  The Lord Technician nods once, satisfied, and sits back down. “You may go. And, Lian…” He looks past me to Father. “You should be proud. Not everyone gets noticed, especially this early.”

  On the way down the stairs, the hum of the depot returns, wrapping around us like a familiar, greasy blanket.

  Father exhales slowly through his nose. “That went well,” he says.

  I don’t answer. The paper in my hand feels heavier than it should. Not because of weight — because of everything it carries. Everything is heavier than it should be lately.

  Outside, the light has shifted, the streets touched by that grayish gold that doesn’t quite count as sunset. For a second, the memory of the Lord Technician’s voice lingers in my ears. A reminder of where I stand on that invisible ladder everyone keeps in their heads.

  The earth hums.

  The kitchen light buzzes like an insect trapped behind glass. The table is set with a pot of cabbage stew, a heel of bread, and a small bowl with the two Jiao left from paying taxes and the stall.

  Father sits at his usual spot, back to the wall. Mother sits at the head of the table, arms crossed, hair pulled into a loose knot that’s falling apart. He peels the bread into careful pieces, not out of hunger but habit. I sit between them, still wearing my uniform shirt. The paper the Lord Technician gave me rests on the table, edges perfectly straight, untouched.

  “So,” Mother says, tapping a finger against the table. “You’re officially working with them now.”

  “Not exactly,” I answer. “They want a draft.”

  “Which is work,” she replies, not unkindly. “Work without a clear promise is still work.”

  Father lets out a low breath, looking at the paper like it’s a new kind of problem. “They’ll have to give something. That kind of request isn’t small. It means they noticed.”

  Mother snorts quietly. “Noticed isn’t the same as rewarded.”

  We eat in silence for a while — the kind of silence that isn’t empty, just heavy with things unsaid. The cabbage stew tastes thin even though the rations are perfectly calculated to give us the necessary caloric intake.

  Father finally speaks again. “Money would be good. A clean payment. Simple. No strings.”

  Mother nods. “Yes. Simple is safe.”

  I swirl my spoon in the broth, watching the way the light bends across the surface. “But it wouldn’t change anything.”

  That earns me two looks — they knew the son I portray long enough to know what I want.

  “I mean,” I continue, “coins get spent. A week later, it’s gone. If they’d let me… I don’t know… skip Technical II. Or see how the electronics are actually made. That would stay.”

  Father leans back slightly. “An apprenticeship.”

  Mother tilts her head, expression sharpening. “That would be… ambitious.”

  “But not impossible,” Father says after a beat. His tone is thoughtful now, weighing something invisible. “The Lord Technician likes initiative. That’s why he smoothed his words when I coughed. He’s the type who wants people to look grateful.”

  Mother clicks her tongue. “Careful with that, Lian.”

  “I am,” he says. “But I also know the kind of people who sit behind polished desks. They like to think they’re discovering something valuable.”

  “And if they offer nothing?” she asks, turning to me.

  “Then we act like we expected something,” Father answers before I can. “A favor. A training day. Even a walk through the drafting floor. Anything. Don’t let them close the door without leaving a mark on it.”

  Mother pushes herself away from the counter and sits. Her hands fold neatly on the table. “Money is good. Learning is better. Both is best.” She glances at me. “But opportunity comes wrapped in other people’s expectations. Remember that.” Her right hand slowly combs through the part of her hair that contains the spot where a scar lets nothing grow.

  I nod. I already know. It’s the same unspoken rule as the armband — visible, measurable, but never fully yours. Not without influence.

  Father taps the edge of the paper. “Make something they can’t ignore. But don’t give it to them for free. Before you show it to them, show it to us. Why didn’t you tell us you could draw this well?”

  Outside, a tram rumbles past, shaking the window just enough to rattle the cutlery.

  For a moment, the kitchen feels smaller. Not in a bad way — just like the world outside it has started to lean closer.

  I stare at the table. The wood grain is uneven, little rivers and knots swirling around each other. It’s easier to look at that than their faces. “I… wanted it to be a surprise.”

  Father blinks once. “A surprise?”

  I nod. “Usually,” I say slowly, the words tasting as heavy as I need them to be, “the surprises are bad.”

  It lands in the kitchen like a dropped wrench — small sound, big echo.

  Mother’s breath catches. It’s quiet, but I hear it. She looks at me, not like she’s angry, but like something in her chest just bent out of shape.

  Father leans back in his chair, hand still holding the piece of bread. His jaw tightens — not in anger either, but like he’s holding something back. His eyes close for a moment. When he opens them, there’s that tired weight people carry when they don’t want their children to see them break.

  “Jun-Tao…” he says softly. But nothing follows. No lecture. No correction. Just my name, and everything it carries.

  Mother presses her thumb against her forehead and laughs, just once — not the kind that’s happy. The kind people make when they’ve run out of words that don’t hurt. “Our son thought the only good surprise was one he had to make himself.”

  No one corrects her.

  Father sets the bread down. His hands flatten against the table, steadying himself against something invisible. “Meiyu, that’s not how it should be.”

  I shrug a little, not because I don’t care, but because I shouldn’t know how to answer.

  Mother is the first to move. She stands up, walks around the table, and pulls me into her arms. It’s sudden — warm, a little shaky. Father rises too, slower, but with a kind of quiet determination. His arms fold around both of us.

  The three of us just stay there. No speeches. No forced smiles. Just the sound of breathing, the warmth of their arms.