Monday after school, the air is full of smog like usual. Not hot, not cold—just the kind that sticks to your sleeves and slows your steps a little. Father waits for me by the corner where the school’s cracked wall meets the street. He’s in his depot clothes, gray jumpsuit with the knees worn soft, jacket slung over one shoulder.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  I nod. I have the drawings rolled up inside the cheap plastic tube we got last night. My notebook is in my bag, pressed flat against my spine. It feels very light for something that might decide part of my future.

  The Office of Artistic Expression is further away from the school. Being a part of the Government, it used to be part of the postal service; now it only smells faintly of paper and disinfectant. The walls are painted a tired white, cracked along the baseboards. There is a portrait of the Chancellor above the counter, his strict eyes looking down as if making sure no one is having too much fun.

  We join a short line. Ahead of us, two young women in work clothes hold little clay figures wrapped in cloth. They have a quiet conversation while we wait. Within what feels like only a few minutes, we are called to the front.

  The woman at the front desk looks like she’s been here since the building was built. Gray hair tied in a bun, sleeves rolled up past the elbows, no ink smudges or other blemishes on her fingers. When it’s our turn, Father gives her my student ID and the folded registration sheet we filled in.

  Her eyes move slowly over the papers, then up at me. “Jun-Tao,” she reads, voice like worn paper. “You’re registering as an independent sketch artist?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  She lifts an eyebrow. “You’re young.”

  Father answers for me. “He meets the minimum age, ma’am.”

  She hums, not disagreeing, and gestures to the drawings. I unzip my bag and lay the tube with the sketches onto the counter: the tree, the soldering station, the gate. Her fingers don’t tremble, but they’re careful. She looks at them the way a mechanic looks at engine parts.

  “You drew these yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good lines,” she murmurs. She asks me to make a quick sketch on a piece of paper she hands me. Then she notices the notebook in my bag, just where I left it. “May I see this too?”

  I hand it over without hesitation.

  She flips it open near the beginning, where the superhero story lives—my experiments hidden as fiction. A boy with “drawing powers,” drawing things so perfectly that they start to seem real. A small city, loving parents. A hero who never wants to fight anyone, but has to if he wants to protect his friends.

  She turns a page. Another. Her mouth softens in a way that surprises me.

  “Do you want to register as a writer too?” she asks, looking at me over the top of the page.

  “No,” I say quickly. “Just drawing.”

  She doesn’t ask why. Literacy is not a virtue in the Capellan Confederation. ‘Subversive Thought Leaders’ and Paranoia made sure of that.

  “Because I do not like writing,” I continue. “I only wrote because school is too easy.”

  She studies me for a heartbeat, the instinct of a mother when a child is trying to skip homework, maybe, then shuts the notebook gently. “Hopefully your scores show that too.”

  She writes something in the logbook, neat block letters. “And why do you want to register, Jun-Tao?”

  I know the answer. I practiced with Father. “For Community Dedication. To support my family. And to build useful skills.”

  Her whole demeanor changes. With a grandmotherly smile she stamps the form. The heavy, mechanical thunk shakes the counter. A few moments later she types into a Noteputer built into the desk. Then she reaches into a drawer and pulls out a thin laminated card, my name already written on it, stamped with the crest of the local authority. “This is your permit. Keep it with you whenever you act in any kind of artistic manner in public.”

  Then comes the list. She recites it without looking at the paper, like she’s said it a thousand times:

  “No portraits of military facilities. No political symbols unless approved. No sales after curfew. Fifty-five percent tax, automatic when you deposit all earnings at a state bank. Your permit comes with an automatic account. Monthly renewal on the first day of the month. Any infraction means immediate suspension.”

  I nod after each line. She finally leans back a little, her voice soft and friendly. “I hope you enjoy being an artist.”

  “Thank you, I will,” I say.

  She hands me a plain canvas armband with a black ink stamp on it—Registered Artist. I slip it on, the fabric still smelling faintly of storage. Father tucks the paperwork she gives him neatly into his jacket pocket.

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  As we step outside, the sun already leans low, the streets bruised with long shadows. I trace the edge of the permit with my thumb. It’s smooth, thin, official.

  Father walks beside me without talking. He doesn’t have to. Both our thoughts are elsewhere.

  The next afternoon, after school, Father walks with me to a plaza. It isn’t large, just a stretch of smooth stone surrounded by vendor stalls. The kind that always smell faintly of smoke, old vegetables, and cheap soy broth. A handful of hawkers shout about fried buns and noodles, but most just sit behind their goods, waiting.

  My spot is small—a foldable table we bought from one of Father’s friends and two plastic stools. The front of the table holds my permit and the armband, placed just so. A sketchbook lies open, showing new drawings I made. Father had to remind me of that. “People need proof before they trust,” he said last night. I feel unsurprisingly nervous; this moment is pivotal after all.

  He sits beside me, a little to the side, arms crossed, in a nice jacket whose green colors match mine.

  It takes about a moment before someone actually stops. A woman carrying a canvas bag filled with vegetables leans over the table. Her face is lined, her hair pinned back tight. She studies the drawing and the permit with a kind of careful boredom.

  “You drew this?”

  “Yes.” I give the nod that makes me look like an overeager child.

  She smiles and glances at my father. “How much?”

  “Five fen,” I say.

  She seems to weigh the coins in her mind, then puts down a few copper bits. “Draw my granddaughter.”

  She points to a little girl clutching the hem of her coat. The girl stares at me, already bored. I flip to a clean page and begin.

  Drawing like this still feels strange. The lines are there moments after I imagine and focus. The strokes fall exactly where I want them, the shapes following my eye as much as my hand. A soft outline, hair pulled into neat braids, the gaze toward something in the unseen distance.

  It doesn’t take long.

  When I hand her the finished portrait, the woman smiles and compliments it. She slips the page into her bag and walks away with a farewell to both of us. The little girl turns back once and waves.

  More people pass. Some look, some don’t. A pair of factory workers ask for a sketch of the plaza gate. A young man has me draw his girlfriend. Four soldiers—probably off-duty—hover near the edge when I draw the girl, before one quietly puts down two jiao and orders a group portrait.

  Father watches all of it without interrupting. He has conversations with those he knows, but only smiles at the strangers.

  By the time the sun starts to lower, I have a neat stack of coins wrapped in paper—85 fen, which I mentally convert into eight jiao and five fen. My hand aches a little, but not from strain. A new kind of strain I haven’t felt in either life.

  Father comments after we put away the stall in the communal. “A good first day. Don’t expect every day to be like this,” he says.

  I nod, still counting in my head. Then he adds, voice low, “Remember the tax.”

  The word lands like cold water. Fifty-five percent. More than half. I nod again, slower. He doesn’t soften it, doesn’t pretend it’s fair.

  “Still,” he says, “it’s something. And it’s yours.”

  I hold the wrapped coins tighter. Even with the tax, it’s more than I’ve ever held in one day.

  We pack the table in silence. The plaza hums with the sounds of closing stalls, the smell of frying oil heavier now. As we walk away, the last of the sunlight stretches our shadows long across the pavement.

  Then a voice calls after Father. A man in a clean uniform, depot insignia sharp on the chest—one of the senior technicians.

  “Lian,” he says. “Lord Technician wants a word with you tomorrow.”

  Father straightens slightly. “What for?”

  The man shrugs, but his eyes flicker toward me and the sketches. “He heard about the drawings. Wants to see some himself. Maybe for… depot promotion.”

  I look up at Father. He doesn’t smile, and something shifts in his expression.

  “I’ll be there,” he says.

  The man nods and walks off.

  Father looks down at me. “Keep your armband clean,” he says simply, and that’s all the warning I need.

  The armband feels strange. Not because the fabric is rough or heavy—it isn’t—but because it feels heavier than it should. More people look at me now. Not in any dangerous way, not like the posters say they would look at spies. Just… different. A glance at the armband, then at my face, then back to their own business. A quick calculation of what kind of person I might be.

  Father notices it too. His hand rests lightly on my shoulder as we pass a patrol. Two soldiers give us the usual look—bored, alert underneath. Their eyes stop on the armband. One of them gives the smallest nod, just acknowledging what the stamp means. Registered.

  “Walk straight,” Father murmurs quietly, his usual tone abandoned in favor of clipped command.

  I do.

  The apartment block glows faintly in the fading evening, gray concrete turning to pale yellow where the lights hit it. Familiar. Our door is just as we left it.

  Mother’s boots are by the wall. She’s home.

  The kitchen smells faintly of solder and soup. She’s sitting by the small workshop table, still wearing her undershirt, uniform jacket hanging on the back of the chair. A magnifying lens is clipped to the lamp, and a small bundle of wires glows faintly on the bench.

  She looks up when we enter. “So?”

  “Eighty-five fen,” Father says.

  Her eyebrows rise a little. “That much on the first day?”

  She sets down the soldering pen carefully, wipes her fingers on a rag, and gives a small approving grunt. That’s as good as applause in this house.

  “Patrols didn’t give you trouble?”

  “No,” Father says. “They looked, that’s all.”

  Mother leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “Then it worked. You’re official now. If anyone bothers you, remember—you’re of the artist caste.”

  The way she says it—caste—carries weight. Here, caste matters more than fairness.

  I take the small paper bundle out of my bag and place the coins on the table. The copper and silver catch the kitchen light.

  Father starts to count it with the same steady rhythm he counts inventory at the depot. Mother just watches me with that half-narrowed gaze she has when she’s thinking.

  “Lord Technician wants to see him tomorrow,” Father adds casually, as if it’s nothing.

  Mother tilts her head. “Already?”

  “Apparently someone talked.”

  She lets out a slow breath, neither pleased nor worried. “House Qing-Liang can’t afford artists. They’ll want to use you without paying for it.”

  My stomach tightens a little.

  This is good. People noticing means opportunity. And when opportunity comes, good and bad walk behind it.

  Mother picks up one of the jiao coins and flips it once before setting it down. “Then tomorrow,” she says simply, like it’s already decided. “You make sure to look presentable.”

  Later, lying in bed, I stare at the faint outline of the armband hanging on the chair. Its black stamp looks washed out in the weak streetlight, like ash tossed onto fabric.

  I can still feel the weight of the eyes in the plaza. The tax. The soldier’s nod. Father’s steady hand on my shoulder.

  And tomorrow, people with actual power will look at me.