I dry my hands on a rag, even though they’re already clean. It’s something to do — better than sitting still and letting those words echo again.

  'All surprises are bad ones.'

  They’re simple words. No tremor in his voice when he said them. That’s what makes them hurt more. He wasn’t trying to wound us. He was stating a fact.

  There’s a drip from the faucet I keep meaning to fix but never do. The world is full of little things you don’t fix, because there’s no energy left to fix them.

  Meiyu stands by the counter, hands still and wet. She’s not looking at me. She’s looking at Jun-Tao — our boy, sitting small at the table like he’s apologizing for existing.

  I feel something knot between my ribs. Guilt, probably. Or anger at a world that keeps winning small, invisible fights.

  “Jun,” I say quietly. My voice is rough from work. “You know that we love you.”

  He looks up just a little, not enough to meet my eyes. “Yes.”

  The words hang there.

  Then the second half comes.

  “I'm sorry.”

  I close my eyes for a heartbeat. He says it like he did something wrong.

  Meiyu’s hand goes to her mouth, not dramatically, just tired.

  I sit down slowly, the chair legs scraping against the floor. I’ve spent years trying to keep the worst parts of this city away from him. Turns out they’d already gotten inside.

  I reach over and rest a hand on the back of his head. His hair’s still a little uneven from the cheap cuts we give him at home. “Jun… we didn’t want it to be like that for you.”

  His shoulders stiffen, then sag. “I know.”

  Meiyu responds first, soft but firm. “Then we’ll make new ones.”

  Jun-Tao shifts slightly. “…What?”

  “Good surprises,” she says. “Ones we choose.”

  I clear my throat. “There’s that small civic garden by the municipal archives. We used to pass it every Sunday shift. We could go there this weekend.”

  Her eyes flicker toward mine, surprised, then warm. “And the observatory dome. They open it for the public once a month. That’s this weekend.”

  The faucet drips again. The kitchen smells like old metal and leftover cabbage. I get the toolbox out from under the sink.

  Mother and Father said we’ll go to the civic garden this weekend. And the observatory dome. Just saying it out loud makes the boredom go away.

  The thought sits quietly in the back of my head as I walk. I keep my pace even, my posture straight. People glance at me more than they used to — not as sharply as that first morning, but steady, like they’re checking something off in their heads. The fruit seller barely slows her hand as she wipes the counter. A man leaning against the wall tilts his head a little. A pair of students adjust their bags when I pass. Of course they need to slow down to do that, and when I am in front of them they suddenly keep up with me.

  It’s not strange anymore. Just part of the walk.

  At the school gate, parents cluster like they always do. The looks are shorter now. Less measuring, more… settled. Like they’ve already filed me into some internal category. I can’t tell if that’s better or worse.

  Inside the courtyard, the morning noise hits — running feet, thin laughter, the bark of a teacher’s orders cutting through the fog. It’s the same rhythm as every day, but I’ve started to hear the small edges in it. Who looks too long. Who looks away fast.

  “Jun-Tao!”

  It’s the same boy from before, the one with the handbill. He grins, wide and eager. “Heard my dad say they called you to the depot. That true?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  His grin stretches wider. “No one gets called there unless they messed something up, or they’re old.”

  Two girls slow down nearby, pretending not to listen. One tilts her chin slightly — a practiced, unsubtle movement. Measuring again. I keep my voice flat and let their questions run their course.

  The tall boy from the fence steps closer. “So they giving you a job now?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Close enough,” he mutters.

  The conversation grows legs fast — one question here, one there. Light touches. Prods. Everyone talks a little bit, not because they care, but because that’s how the people of the Capellan Confederation have power.

  The bell rings, and we fall into lines. The distance between me and the others is just enough for them to close it or widen it later. That’s how people work.

  Lunch break.

  I find a spot near the cracked wall where the sun just barely reaches over the roof. I pull out my Notebook and sit with my back against the wall.

  Time to make something official. This is what they’ll judge me on.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  I start slow. A few anchor lines. A frame. The depot isn’t a place you decorate; it’s a place you make look reliable. My hand moves almost by itself now, small arcs cutting through the paper cleanly.

  A bold top border to carry the depot’s name. A clean grid for schedules and postings. A simple emblem worked into the bottom corner. I add a small geometric pattern as background.

  I keep the lines straight. No unneeded flourishes.

  This isn’t about art. It’s about what people see when they walk past.

  I glance at my work halfway through. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it looks official already. Like it belongs on a wall.

  For a moment, the noise of the school fades. I’m not here. I’m there, in the depot, standing in front of the Lord Technician. If it’s good, we’ll make it official.

  I pity the artists that have to worry about failure.

  The depot in the afternoon feels different than in the evenings.

  In the evenings, it breathes out — tired workers pushing their way through the gate, the smell of a hard day's work floating behind them like smoke. But now, when the day is still halfway alive, it breathes in.

  Noise isn’t coming from some distant corner. You can hear the rhythm of hammers, the hiss of steam valves, the click of boots moving on patterned schedules. Everyone’s part of something, even if they don’t want to be.

  I step inside with my backpack on my shoulders. Father had already given the guard in the front an explanation this morning, so no one bothers to stop me. A few heads turn. Not for long. Just the kind of glance that says, I know you are there now.

  This is what normal looks like when you’ve been noticed. Not fame. Not respect. Just quiet, consistent awareness.

  The Main Chamber that houses the Mech Bays is full of servitors and technicians.

  Father is in Bay Two, elbow deep in the head of the Vindicator being worked on. He waves down at me without straightening. “Don’t stand in the path,” he exclaims. “If someone hits you, you’ll regret it.”

  I step closer to the right side rail and lean against a stack of wire spools. It’s warmer here than outside, the heat from the machinery seeping into my back. Father and two other technicians talk about the ejection system. Their voices aren’t loud, but they carry weight — the kind that makes other workers walk quietly while crossing the bay.

  I start watching, not just listening.

  The way people move here isn’t random. Some point. Some follow. Some wait before they move, eyes flicking toward whoever’s standing nearest the central workbench further down the chamber. The man there isn’t shouting orders, but every small motion he makes — hand, eyebrow, chin — makes someone else act.

  It’s subtle. Not written down anywhere. But it’s there.

  Power, here, isn’t uniforms or shouting. It’s gravity. The kind you don’t argue with because it’s already pulling you in.

  I pull the draft from its tube and start adding a few faint marks along the border. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s to keep my hands busy. Maybe it’s to understand what I’m seeing.

  Father wipes his hands on a rag, then joins the conversation near the center table. I can tell when he’s contributing — people tilt their bodies slightly toward him, just enough to make it clear they’re listening. But when the senior tech speaks, the tilt shifts again.

  Hierarchies are like rivers. Even when quiet, they flow in only one direction.

  One of the technicians catches me watching while passing and smirks. “Sketching already, little artist?”

  I nod. It’s easier than explaining. He chuckles, shakes his head, and goes back to work.

  Father eventually circles back to me, brow shiny with sweat, sleeves pushed up. “You’re early,” he says.

  “I wanted to watch.”

  He looks at me for a second longer than usual. Just… measuring. Then he nods once. “Good. You should learn what the inside looks like when it’s not dressed up for the visitors.”

  I glance past him at the senior technician again. “Who’s in charge here?”

  Father follows my gaze and huffs a quiet laugh. "Officially? The shift leads." He looks at the shift lead, a man in his late 40s who orders the others around with quiet authority. Rarely raises his voice, but everyone listens when he speaks. "Unofficially?" He points with his chin at the other technicians. “Whoever everyone believes is competent. Otherwise, there would be a change in leadership through the Lord Technician.”

  I think about that for a while. It fits what I’ve seen. Power doesn’t need a title to make people act. It just needs controlling the social roles and then squashing the challengers.

  “That is Wei Rong, the other two, Kara Minsun and Jovan Kreznik, are currently off duty. Each runs their shift in a different way, but they overlap enough to keep the place from collapsing.”

  I follow his gesture with my eyes.

  Wei Rong stands near the diagnostic platform, his hands clasped behind his back. He doesn’t bark orders. He doesn’t need to. One hand points and a servitor brings him the tool he needs to solder the Mech arm — like gears locking into place.

  “They don’t like being called bosses,” Father continues, quieter now. “But they’re the ones that keep this place breathing. The Lord Technician makes the big decisions, sure. But if any one of those three decided to stop cooperating—” he makes a small gesture, hand slicing the air “—things would start breaking down in less than a week.”

  I glance at him. “And you?”

  He exhales through his nose, a half-smile flickering. “I keep things from breaking before they notice. That’s different.”

  The hiss of steam fills the short silence.

  A loud clang echoes twice from the far side of the chamber. Rong snaps his head in that direction. He doesn’t shout — the clanging stops immediately. His right hanger-on goes to check the source out.

  “See that?” Father mutters. “Power isn’t who talks loudest. It’s who doesn’t have to.”

  I look down at my notebook again. The draft suddenly feels thin. Like a child playing at having something others want.

  The work rhythm of the depot continues — metal meeting metal, boots hitting concrete, the soft rise and fall of voices that belong to people who already know their place.

  “You’ll meet them soon enough,” he says. “Just… remember. Listen more than you talk. And if Wei Rong looks at you like you’re wasting time or in the way, you probably are.”

  I nod.

  And for the first time, I understand a little more about the place where my father spends most of his life.

  “Can I… help with something?” I ask quietly. Not because I expect them to say yes, but to test how words travel here.

  Father gives me a long look. “Not yet. Just watch. Learn. You’ll get your chance when it matters, not when you want it.”

  The clang of metal on metal continues as he goes back to work, but now I hear it differently. Not as noise. As part of a pattern, part of a system I’m slowly starting to understand. My pencil moves again, tracing the bold top border of the draft.

  I hear Father’s footsteps approach, slow but deliberate, stopping just behind me.

  “That… that’s going to be the draft you show the Lord Technician?” His voice carries a mix of curiosity and surprise. He doesn’t know much about art—not really—but he can tell when something is done well enough.

  I glance up at him. “Yes, I think so.”

  He leans over slightly, hands on his knees. His eyes scan the border, the grid, the emblem tucked neatly in the corner. “It looks… good.” His words are simple, but I know him well enough to hear the weight beneath them. “Clean lines. Enough flourishes to show some face. The others who check these things? They’ll find no fault.”

  I nod slowly. The thought steadies something inside me. Approval without coddling— the kind that is useful.

  He straightens, brushing a smear of sweat off his forehead. “Lord Technician will be here tomorrow,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “so it needs to be ready. Make sure nothing smudges. Nothing that can be used to show carelessness.”

  “Yes, Father. This is just scrap paper, I can make another one if this one is destroyed.”

  "It’s good enough to already be the finished board. It lets him see you worked with purpose, that’s what he likes most.”

  I trace one last line along the edge, feeling the draft settle under my pencil.