The Girl Who Belonged to the Bureau
Morning sunlight spilled through the arched windows of the Youth Arts Bureau, catching on the motes of dust that danced lazily in the air. The old walls, lined with calligraphy scrolls and faded posters from previous exhibitions, hummed with the quiet energy of a new day. Though the building wasn't grand in a Western sense, it bore the dignified charm of 1970s elite work units—polished wooden floors, carefully tended potted plants, and the crisp scent of ink, paper, and tea that lingered like old stories.
Jia Lan sat quietly at her desk near the window, bathed in golden light. Her presence didn't shout. It whispered.
Her skin, enhanced by her very first system reward—
> ✅ Day 1: Skin Like Porcelain – Graceful Glow (Permanent)
—looked like delicate glazed jade under the sun. Smooth, luminous, not the powdered paleness of artificial beauty, but a healthy, radiant glow that made others blink twice without understanding why.
She wasn't wearing makeup, yet every feature seemed harmonized. Her high-collared blouse of fine cotton accentuated the graceful slope of her neck, and her pleated skirt hugged her slim waist modestly. A pair of modest leather Mary Janes—polished to perfection—completed her look.
It was a quiet morning, the kind that padded softly into the day like a housecat.
Her coworkers arrived in twos and threes. The tap of leather soles against stone. Laughter hushed at the sight of her.
"She's already here?"
"I thought the newcomer would struggle, but she's more punctual than the Director."
Jia Lan nodded to their greetings, her smile light and unreadable. Her every motion radiated tranquility, thanks to the system's second gift—
> ✅ Day 2: Elegant Temperament Aura (Permanent)
Even those who might've harbored preconceptions about the "delicate, spoiled girl from a central elite family" found themselves second-guessing. She didn't speak much. She didn't have to.
It was the way she set her pen down without a sound. The way she adjusted the desk lamp with just the right tilt. The way she read a memo once, and already reached for the correct form.
A small cluster of staff peeked from behind their dividers. "She really has... presence. It's not fake, either."
The Bureau Director, Comrade Lu, entered a little after nine. A woman in her forties with square shoulders and a sharp gaze, she paused when she passed Jia Lan's desk. Her eyes caught the drafted slogan sketches on Jia Lan's clipboard.
A slogan commemorating Spring Harmony Festival had been handwritten in brushwork—just as the old bureau tradition demanded. Each stroke was full of emotion, yet refined, like a practiced ballet dancer's movement frozen in ink. The characters weren't only correct—they were alive.
Lu's brow lifted faintly. "Did you write these yourself?"
"Yes, Director Lu." Jia Lan rose politely.
"Where did you learn brushwork?"
"At home. My father practices calligraphy, and my late uncle was fond of seal carving," Jia Lan replied with sincerity.
It wasn't false modesty. It was merely her truth, polished smooth.
The real answer, of course, was that her third reward had just unlocked this gift within her.
> ✅ Day 3: Artistic Insight + Steady Hand (Permanent)
Suddenly, tasks that required intuition, layout, spatial sense—even brush technique—came naturally. She could sense the rhythm of design, how white space breathed around characters. Her hand no longer trembled, nor hesitated.
The Director hummed. "Keep these for the showcase design board. Someone from the Party Office may come by later to review them."
"Yes, Director."
---
By mid-morning, her desk had turned into a subtle nucleus. Not due to noise—she spoke rarely—but because her efficiency was undeniable.
Comrade Zhou, a wiry man in his late twenties, leaned over with a grin. "Comrade Jia, your layout suggestions for the children's art program—they're well-balanced. You have a background in visual arts?"
"Not formally," she said gently. "But I've always been fond of arranging things to look... harmonious."
"That's a talent in itself," he muttered, tapping his pencil. "Some people take five years and still can't make a slogan poster that doesn't look crooked."
Another colleague added, "She even holds her pen gracefully! It's like watching a dance!"
Indeed, even the act of dipping her brush into ink—lift, swirl, press—felt soothing to watch. Her aura was like jasmine tea, fragrant but not overwhelming.
It wasn't just appearance. It was presence. And no one could quite describe how or why.
---
At lunch, Jia Lan unpacked her homemade bento from a cloth wrap—each dish neatly arranged by her housemaid, Xiao Qin. There was lotus root stir-fried with green peppers, marinated egg, rice formed into a tidy mound, and a few seasonal pickles tucked into the side. Her thermos contained longan and red date tea.
Around her, the atmosphere shifted. No words were said, but a few glances lingered.
"Even her lunch looks refined," a junior clerk whispered.
"She's from a family that could afford delicacies even during ration years," someone muttered, not maliciously—just observantly.
Yet Jia Lan didn't flaunt. She offered pickles to the girl beside her, asking with sincerity, "Would you like to try the sour plum radish? It's homemade."
The offer startled the girl into blinking. "Oh—yes, thank you…"
They ate side by side, and for a moment, the air softened.
---
In the afternoon, she was tasked with drafting new titles for the upcoming Revolutionary Spirit Art Series.
While others brainstormed loudly, Jia Lan simply stood before the blackboard, chalk in hand.
Her handwriting curved across the surface—elegant but powerful.
"The People's Hands Paint the Nation's Soul."
"Brush in Hand, Heart to Country."
"Canvas of the Masses, Palette of Progress."
There was a pause.
Someone exhaled. "She's good."
"She doesn't even need to think long—she just knows."
The Director passed again and didn't say much, only marking one of the slogans with a red tick.
"That one's going on the cover."
---
When five o'clock rolled around, the chatter increased, chairs scraped back, and the workers began packing up. Jia Lan stood gracefully, collected her clipboard, and wrapped her brush in a cotton cloth with steady fingers.
Outside, the bureau gate shimmered in the late sunlight.
She stepped onto the quiet road, ready to return home, knowing her mother would be waiting with herbal soup, and her elder sister-in-law might already be choosing a new outfit for the next day.
Behind her, whispers lingered.
"She doesn't belong here."
"She belongs above here."