Part X - More Than What You Draw
Isaiah stirred on the couch, sketchbook clutched to his chest. The morning sun filtered through the blinds, warm and soft, but exhaustion pressed on his small body. Maria, his mother, sat beside him, hand resting gently on his arm.
"You slept like you were running a marathon," she said, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead. "Couch doesn't usually hold you this long."
Isaiah groaned. "Long day… too long."
Her eyes landed on the sketchbook. "Still holding it like it's the only thing that matters?"
He hesitated. "Feels like it… sometimes. Like if I mess up, it all slips. Like if we… if Mama won't make it."
Maria's hand tightened gently on his arm. "Zay… you're more than what you draw. Don't let anybody—especially Eddie—make you feel like it's all that matters. You got talent, yes, but you got heart, too. That's what carries you farther than paper ever could."
He closed his eyes, and in that moment, Maria's voice drew him back, recalling a moment of absolute certainty.
"Zay," Maria had said, voice trembling, "this is for you. I've been working on it while you were sleeping. You'll want to sit for this one."
He opened the envelope, staring at the crisp paper inside: Dragon Ball — Copyright 1980 — Isaiah Tuffin. The black ink was stark against the white, official, and untouchable. Weeks of quiet paperwork—forms and letters—had secured his world. She looked at him, eyes glimmering, and whispered, "Now no one can take this. Not Eddie. Not anyone. It's yours. Always yours."
Isaiah stared at the document, his breath catching. He was only a child, but the word 'Copyright' felt like a spell—a lock and key to the precious worlds in his head. It meant the fighting was over. The paper felt heavier than gold in his small hands; it was the first thing in his life that felt truly permanent.
The certificate wasn't just paper; it was a bridge from surviving to building. From chaos to empire.
Isaiah's tiny fingers tightened around the sketchbook, the solid object grounding him in the reality the certificate had created. Maria's mind, however, drifted back to the genesis of this ambition.
The Prodigy of the Empire (Flashback)
He had been just a tiny boy, worn out after chasing pencils and pages, his small body weighed down by exhaustion. But even then, Maria sensed something extraordinary in him. Inside Isaiah, there were echoes of worlds she couldn't imagine: memories of marble floors, Parisian galleries, and empires built on ruthless signatures. Yet here he was, in South Central Los Angeles, his "empire" reduced to folded zines in a garage, held together by crooked staples, and cared for by a mother working double shifts.
Marcus, who watched Isaiah draw with intensity too sharp for a child his age, had whispered to Maria one night:
"This ain't just a hobby. Kid's different. Got that thing. Maybe… maybe we make it official one day. Put the company name on it. And pass it on."
Maria, exhausted from her hospital shift, had shaken her head. "He's three, Marcus. He needs space to be a child."
But the words lingered in her mind—Pass it on. Even at three, Isaiah had absorbed them, the seed of ambition quietly planted. Once, in another life, he had clutched empires to his chest. Now, he held a seed instead of a tree. Not yet, she thought. But one day.
The memory shifted to the garage office. The air was thick with paper dust and stale coffee. Maria, still in wrinkled scrubs, had sat across from Marcus as he paced, a zine clutched in his hand like it might burn him.
"You see this?" he had muttered. "Kid's three and already got people chasing his work like it's gold. Ten years I've been grinding', and I ain't never seen pages move like this."
Maria had rubbed her face. "And what you planning' on doin' with that look, Marcus? 'Cause that's the same look that got you in debt with that busted printer."
Marcus had leaned on the desk, eyes burning, though his shoulders sagged. "I'm thinkin'… maybe it's time. Not just corner stores and hustling out of the garage. Real press runs. Catalogs. Shelves downtown. Put Isaiah's name on it."
Maria's chest had tightened. She thought of her tiny boy asleep on the couch, pencil still clutched in his hand. "He's a child. He's got a life ahead of him; he doesn't need to be treated like he's already grown."
Marcus had dragged a hand across his face. "I know. But my company's hanging by a thread. One bad month and it's gone. And that boy? He's the only reason it's worth saving. He's got somethin' I never had. Maybe it's time to give him the shot I couldn't take."
Her voice had dropped, heavy with fear. "And if you're wrong? If it brings more eyes on him—Eddie's eyes?"
Marcus had stared at the zine in his hands—the crooked staples, raw edges, energy humming from every panel. "If I don't move now," he whispered, "someone else will. At least with me, he's protected."
Maria had leaned back, heart aching. She wanted him safe. But Marcus wasn't wrong. Some lights burned too bright to stay hidden.
End flashback
Life before had been chaos—hot streets, empty stomachs, constant fights to protect his pencils and paper. The memory of Marcus and Maria's conversation hung in him, a quiet promise that he could build something permanent.
Maria's voice drew him back completely. "Zay, you hear me?"
"I hear you," he said, leaning into her warmth. "Feels… real now. Like I'm not just surviving anymore."
She smiled softly. "You're building. And every day, you make it stronger. Even when it's scary."
The words lingered with him as the afternoon sun dipped lower. By late afternoon, Isaiah found himself heading to the garage—their workshop and distribution hub. After a full day of producing, folding, and organizing zines, he needed to count the day's earnings, check inventory, and prepare additional copies. The garage offered a quiet, semi-private refuge: a place to handle money, organize stacks, and plan the next moves without the interruptions of the neighborhood—or the ever-watchful eyes of predators like Eddie. Here, amidst coins and zines, he could see the tangible results of their work—symbols of the empire he and Marcus were quietly building.
By the time he arrived, the day's deliveries were complete: thirty zines at the corner store, twenty-five hand-to-hand at the rec center, a few extras at the barber shop. The stacks weren't just paper—they were proof, income, evidence of the fragile kingdom he and Marcus had carved out.
Inside, Isaiah counted coins with reverence, each quarter and dime a testament to hours of sweat and focus.
"You want a zine?" he asked, offering a copy to Rico.
Rico's hand trembled. The zine felt heavy—not just paper, but weighty with meaning. His own sketches, tucked in his notebook, echoed Isaiah's genius, attempts to match a shadow he might never catch. The sting of being second lingered. That night, Rico lay awake, ceiling fan slicing shadows across the walls. The certificate, coins, Isaiah's confidence—they pressed on him like a weight he couldn't shake. He whispered, "I'll be first. I'll be seen. I'll be better."
As evening settled over the neighborhood, the same golden light that cast shadows on Rico's ceiling spilled across the streets. Isaiah perched across from the liquor store, sketchbook under his arm, eyes scanning the block below. Marcus carried a stack of zines down the cracked sidewalk. Twilight draped the neighborhood in warmth and shadow, broken streetlights flickering over worn asphalt. This was Isaiah's patrol—a way of guarding the zines, keeping a pulse on the streets, and ensuring their work survived in a world full of predators.
The quiet of the evening was fragile, stretched thin over cracked sidewalks and flickering streetlights. Through the dim glow, Eddie slipped out like liquid, chains catching the light, a toothpick balanced between his teeth.
"Lemme see one of those books you keep running around with," Eddie said, leaning casually against a wall.
Marcus stiffened. "Ain't for sale."
"I ain't asking' to buy," Eddie said. "Just wanna read."
Marcus hesitated, handing a copy over. Eddie flipped it slowly, thumb sliding across the pages, laughing sharply as if he already owned it. "Y'all kids are wild. Energy balls, fightin' in the sky. This? This is hot. But y'all got no idea what to do with it."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "We're good."
"Nah. Y'all sloppy," Eddie said, dangling the zine. "Paper crooked. Staple bent. Distribution? Just a couple of kids hustlin' at recess. See, I could—" He paused. "—I could make this big."
Isaiah's small hands tightened around his sketchbook. Every block had one: a man who could smile you into a coffin.
Marcus tried again. "We don't need you."
Eddie chuckled. "See, that's where you wrong. You need somebody who knows how to move product. Somebody who knows how to make people pay. Y'all makin' art. I'm talkin' money." He tossed the zine back, stepping into the shadows, voice carrying over his shoulder: "Think about it. Could be the next hustle. Only question is: y'all in or out?"
Isaiah whispered, gripping his sketchbook tight: "We keep drawing. No matter what."
When he walked home that night, each step carried the weight of the day's work—coins counted, zines folded, stacks checked—but also a quiet satisfaction. Broken streetlights flickered overhead, the city alive with energy, yet in its chaos, he carried a small, personal order.
By the time he reached home, the familiar sight of the apartment brought relief. Anchored by Maria and the memory of the copyright certificate, he sank onto the couch, sketchbook pressed close, spreading his meager profits across her lap. Sleep soon claimed him, carrying dreams of pages, coins, and the tiny victories that built his paper empire.
Even in the quiet, he knew the world beyond the apartment pulsed with challenges. Every kingdom had its trials—but tonight, he rested.