The City That Smells Like Fresh Paint

New Canvas City never slept — because it was too busy being beautiful.

Every building wore a mural. Every sidewalk had a painted border. Even the street signs had little illustrated characters pointing the way. The city buzzed and glowed like a living sketchbook, and at the very heart of it rose Artwork Tower — tall, angular, and covered from base to rooftop in thousands of paintings done by thousands of hands.

Captain Pencil sat on the tower's wide rooftop ledge, legs dangling, watching the morning traffic below. His giant pencil rested across his knees, still faintly warm from yesterday's creative blast.

"You left cereal in the sink again," said a voice behind him.

Paintbrush Woman stood with her arms crossed, paint-streaked and unimpressed.

"I rinsed it," he said.

"You rinsed *around* it."

From inside, Marker Tiger's laugh boomed through the open rooftop door, and somewhere below, Ms. Crayon Cat meowed in agreement.

Gray Before Breakfast

The argument about the cereal ended fast — because the city screamed.

Not with voices. With silence.

Captain Pencil looked up from the ledge and went completely still. Three blocks away, a giant mural of a dancing elephant — one he'd flown past every Tuesday for years — was blank. Not faded. Not chipped. Just gone. Flat white wall where color used to be.

"That was there yesterday," Paintbrush Woman said quietly.

A drone hummed past overhead — one of the city's public news drones, the boxy kind with a camera eye that broadcast live to the New Canvas City news feed. Its camera swung toward the blank wall and kept moving.

Then Captain Pencil's phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number. No name, no photo. Just four words and an attached photo:

*You're already too late.*

The photo showed eight more blank walls across the city. Eight murals, gone. And in the corner of the photo, barely visible, was a small drawing — a single gray X.

"Who sent this?" Paintbrush Woman grabbed his phone.