The morning light filters through the kitchen window, soft and gray. Mother is already at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back with a rubber band she probably found in some drawer last night. She loses them as often as she finds them.

  I rub my eyes as I sit down. The table is old, the surface patched with two different kinds of varnish, but it’s home. For a moment, there’s only the quiet sound of rice porridge bubbling on the stove.

  She looks at me the way only a mother can. “Eat first,” she says, setting the bowl in front of me.

  I do. Steam fogs my face. Warmth seeps into my chest. Hunger truly was the best appetizer.

  After a moment, she leans against the counter, a little hesitant. “Jun-Tao,” she says, and there’s a softness in her tone that makes me put the spoon down. “I’ve been thinking. If you want, I can start showing you some things. Small-scale electronics. The kind we use to make ovens and boilers.”

  I blink. I’ve seen her do that kind of work before — not the big depot repairs, but the quiet, precise kind that lets her sell the results in the nearby Market. “Even the soldering?”

  “Of course,” she says immediately. “You have steady hands. You pay attention. Those matter more than anything.”

  She walks to the cabinet of trinkets and memorabilia and pulls out a large, thick notebook filled with her own sketches. Diagrams, circuits, part numbers. The ink is faded in some places, smudged in others. “I’ll need a few things, though. Parts. Nothing too expensive, but it adds up.”

  I know what that means without her spelling it out.

  She meets my eyes, careful, like she doesn’t want me to feel cornered. “I was thinking… maybe we could use a little of the money from your portraits. Just a bit. And —” she hesitates — “if you keep selling on weekends, we can afford more. A proper workbench, even.”

  I set the spoon down properly this time. Not because I’m upset. Because I knew that the money would be used, at least I will profit from it.

  “That’s fine,” I say. “We can use it.”

  She raises an eyebrow, not expecting it to be that easy. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’ll sell once a week. Sundays.”

  She lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. “You make it sound like a corporation.”

  “Maybe it is. Jun-Tao Industries.”

  Her eyes crinkle a little at the edges. Pride mingling with humor. “Good. Then we’ll start small. You’ll learn the basics first. How to solder. How to keep yourself safe and the workspace clean. By the end of the month, maybe we’ll even get you your own little bench.”

  School feels different now, though the building hasn’t changed.

  The same cracked flagstones at the entrance, the same sagging banners starting to get crooked enough that someone will have to correct them soon.

  It starts small — a nod from a boy in the courtyard, a longer glance from the girls in the back row. The kind of acknowledgement that spreads on its own. People adjust to you without realizing they’re doing it.

  The teachers notice. It is their job.

  In the first period after the Morning Block, Instructor Ren doesn’t raise his voice at me once. He doesn’t have to. When he calls for volunteers to check the board work, he looks at me like the decision’s already made.

  “Jun-Tao,” he says. Not loudly. Not warmly either. Just enough for everyone to turn their heads.

  I walk up, chalk in hand. There’s a quiet, steady weight in the silence behind me. They expect me to do it right.

  I finish the problem quickly. Multiplication with two digits.

  Instructor Ren nods once — not praise, just acknowledgement — and then does something I don’t expect.

  He turns to the class. “See? That’s what happens when someone pays attention. The rest of you should be taking notes.”

  The words are aimed at them, but the weight lands on me.

  By the second period, the distance has grown.

  The teacher asks me questions no one else gets. Not because I’m the best. Because it creates a gap. Small, clean, deliberate. The others shift in their seats, already realizing the teachers are acting differently.

  Third period, he has me sit near the front. “Easier to demonstrate,” he says, but I can feel the way the others close ranks behind me, how their conversations flow around the space I used to occupy.

  I’m not being punished. Not directly. I’m being lifted just enough so that everyone else knows I am not a part of the mass.

  By lunch, the whispers have changed tone. Not the sharp, testing kind from before. This is quieter. Resigned. Some nod when I pass, but fewer meet my eyes.

  When in doubt, defer to the higher status. And the teachers have made them doubt if being seen with me is good.

  I sit near the same cracked wall I always do, notebook in hand. A few classmates linger near the courtyard steps, laughing about something that doesn’t need me in it. I could walk over. I could say something.

  But the teachers have already done their work. They’ve taught the class how to build the invisible space around me. It’s how they keep things balanced. Yet it's the first time I have seen them do it to someone that isn't being noticed negatively.

  The boy who used to grin at me in the mornings glances my way. Just for a second. Then he looks back at his friends.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  It’s not hatred. It’s the beginning of something else. Something colder.

  If I go, I might smooth things out. Show them I’m not… whatever the teachers want me to be. Just another kid. It’d make me more approachable, keep that invisible wall from turning into a real one.

  I could make jokes. Pretend to care about what game they’re playing. Pretend their stories matter.

  It would make things easier later. When people like you, they listen more, focus less on the why.

  But then I look at them again.

  Their voices are too loud. Their laughter too loud. They move like they don’t notice the way this place presses down on everything. I know they do — everyone does — but they’ve trained themselves to ignore it.

  They’re still children. Boring children. They talk about things that don’t matter. They repeat the same games, the same conversations, as if the world outside these walls doesn’t exist.

  I could spend my time there, pretending. Or I could work on something that actually leads somewhere.

  Besides, if I get closer, they’ll expect more. Expect me to share. Laugh at the right moment. Care about their little dramas.

  And I don’t.

  I close my notebook halfway and rest it on my knee. The noise of the courtyard grows and shrinks around me, like I’m standing in a current but not part of it.

  There are reasons to go to them. And better reasons not to.

  The school day stretches long and is boring.

  You can feel the difference the Lord Technician's presence makes in the behavior of the workers. There’s a kind of order to the noise today. Not loud, but purposeful. Workers keep their conversations short. Tools get put down a little faster than usual.

  People know when someone important is maybe watching.

  Father meets me at the gate, one hand already rubbing at the back of his neck. “He’s here already,” he mutters. “Has been upstairs the whole day and just came down to see us working.”

  I follow him into the Main Chamber. The Vindicator in Bay Two looms above everything else, its hull still open like a ribcage mid-surgery. A cluster of technicians has formed a quiet perimeter around Bay One. That’s where the Lord Technician stands.

  He holds a cup of tea in one hand like it’s a weapon he’s entirely comfortable with.

  His gaze doesn’t wander. It remains on the Vindicator.

  I glance around the chamber again, eyes flicking between the technicians and the workbenches. Something nags at me. Why not upstairs? The office is quieter, private. Perfect for examining a draft.

  Instead, here. Among the noise, the steel, the smell of oil. Among people who are watching.

  Maybe it’s to showcase generosity, I think. To show that even a boy can be trusted with real work and real work is rewarded. Or maybe… maybe it’s a test. To make them seem greedy if they ask for too much, to catch them off-guard by exposing their ambition in front of everyone.

  It’s strange, though. The acoustics are terrible — a small error will echo. And there are dozens of eyes, all trained to judge more than just my work. Even the way they move, the way they shift, it says something.

  It’s almost theatrical. I can imagine the Lord Technician watching their reactions as much as he’s watching me. Controlling both the draft and the audience at once.

  Father clears his throat, the sound loud in the quiet chamber. “Lord Technician. My son is here with the draft.”

  He turns, tilts his head slightly, and sets the cup on the edge of a nearby tool cart. He gestures for me and the technicians still working to come closer.

  I walk forward, keeping my steps measured. No fidgeting. No rushing. I know enough to understand this is a performance, even if no one says it aloud.

  He doesn’t take the draft right away. His eyes flick briefly over me, then to Father, then back. “You’re the one who drew it.”

  He addresses me first and without a preamble.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Show me.”

  I unroll the paper carefully on the workbench. The edges stay flat — held there by being weighted down with clean tools. His eyes are steady when he leans over it. He studies silently for a while.

  Silence isn’t a gap with men like him.

  Finally, he taps a finger against the lower corner. “Clean. You understand space. You didn’t clutter the frame. Good.” He taps the emblem in the bottom right corner. “But if this is going to hang on a depot wall, House Qing-Liang’s mark should speak louder.”

  I expected that. I already pictured where the change would go.

  Father lets out a small breath through his nose. That’s as close as he as a father is allowed to show pride in public.

  The Lord Technician straightens up, brushing nonexistent dust off his coat. “You’ll make the adjustment. Bring it back. When it’s done, it will be placed properly.” He pauses, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “For this, you’ll be allowed to observe in the depot. Learn what real work looks like. If you’re sharp enough, you might even be useful.”

  Father gives a short, respectful bow. “That’s more than fair, Lord Technician.”

  Xiang looks at me again, not my father this time. “Do you understand what that means, boy?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “To learn.”

  His mouth curves, but not into a smile. “To be worth teaching,” he corrects.

  The technicians around us shift slightly, some amused, some measuring. This isn’t just for me — it’s for them too. A message.

  “Sir,” I say, keeping my voice steady and hopeful, “would it be possible… to have a letter of recommendation? To skip Technical II?”

  If I skip Technical II, I can spend more time learning directly under the shift leads, absorbing what truly matters in the depot.

  And… I realize another angle. The Capellan people values children who honor their parents. Filial devotion carries weight here. If I frame this request not as ambition, but as service to my father — to help him, to lighten his load, to learn so I can contribute — it makes my asking less about myself and more about duty.

  I straighten slightly, deciding on my words before I speak. It’s not just clever. It’s honest. I do want to help Father. And I do want the chance to learn, faster than the normal sequence allows.

  The Lord Technician freezes, just the barest flicker of surprise crossing his face. His gaze slides toward my father, sharp, calculating. “Do you think that wise?” he asks.

  Father remains politely nondescript. His eyes meet the Lord Technician’s evenly, bordering on socially inappropriate. “Yes,” he says, voice calm. “He’s ready. He’s observed and learned enough. It would serve him well.”

  The Lord Technician nods once, slow. He looks back at me. “A letter,” he says carefully, “is not just words. It carries expectation. Responsibility. You understand that?”

  “I do, sir,” I answer. “I want the chance to prove it. That I can help Father.”

  He studies me again, long and measured, then glances at the surrounding technicians — including all three shift leads. Wei Rong, Kara, and Jovan. They watch silently, expressionless, yet their attention feels heavy.

  Finally, the Lord Technician exhales softly. “Very well. You shall have the letter. The House of Qing-Liang nurtures its talents. It does not waste them.”

  We all understood it to be the propaganda it was, if some of us believed it I don't know.

  The meeting was dismissed shortly after.

  Father walks beside me, silent at first. I can hear the rhythm of his boots against the metal-plated floor, steady, deliberate. Finally, he glances at me, eyebrow raised.

  “Well,” he says quietly, “you didn’t ask for much, but you asked smartly.”

  I shrug, trying not to grin. “I thought… if I present it as helping you, it makes sense. We like that.”

  Father chuckles softly. “It does. And you’re right. That reasoning — filial, practical. You will see it often in such situations. But the rest… is on you now.”

  The weight of responsibility settles over me. The letter isn’t in my hands yet, but it might as well be. I can already see the possibilities: mornings with Wei Rong observing, afternoons helping Kara Minsun calibrate the servo lifts, evenings learning from Jovan Kreznik how the subtle timing of valves can save hours of repair when they burst.

  I glance back at the Lord Technician’s office as we pass. The open doors, the public display, even the faint echo of him talking… all of it reminds me that social perception is as good a weapon as a 100-ton Mech in this Successor State.

  And now, at least, I have a little knife of my own.

  Father pats my shoulder once, firm and grounding. “We’ll make sure you use this well,” he says.

  “Yes,” I answer, already planning the next steps. A small smile tugs at my lips. The depot has opened another door. It won’t be easy, but the path is clearer, and I can finally see some of the mechanics behind the power around me.

  And the earth hums.