Artistic perfection.

Chapter 4: Artistic perfectionism.

The scent of turpentine lingered in the room, mingling with the faint aroma of tea that had long since gone cold by the doorway. Kiritsuga Shimo didn't notice.

Her brush hovered inches from the canvas, trembling-not from uncertainty, but from the unbearable demand she placed upon herself.

Her 20th attempt today.

The discarded canvases lay in the corner, their surfaces marred by strokes she had deemed unacceptable. A single mistake, a single deviation, and it all became worthless.

The room was a sanctuary of precision. Every brush sorted by size, paint tubes arranged in perfect gradient, palette wiped clean after each use. Disorder had no home here. Not in her space. Not in her work. Not in her life.

And yet, the silence was never empty. There was always something underneath it-a whisper, a presence, a flaw waiting to be exposed.

Downstairs, the front door creaked open. Her father's voice, warm and steady, carried through the house.

"Mirua, I'm home."

A soft reply from her mother followed, laced with quiet affection. A conversation hummed between them, domestic and safe, words flowing like a practiced dance.

Shimo's brush moved at last, carving a deliberate, precise line across the canvas. Her hand was steady, but her mind-oh, her mind was a battlefield.

It has to be perfect.

The mantra played on loop, louder than her father's footsteps on the stairs, louder than the echo of laughter below. Perfection wasn't an aspiration. It was law. A life without it felt meaningless.

Her father's knuckles rapped against the doorframe.

"Shimo?" His voice was careful, deliberate. He never startled her.

She paused but did not look away from her work. "Come in, Dad."

Souichi stepped inside, still in his police uniform, boots polished to a mirror shine. He carried order with him, in the cut of his hair, in the way he stood-unshakable, disciplined. She had inherited that from him. His sharp features, his unwavering presence.

"You've been here all day," he observed. His tone was gentle, but concern sat in the spaces between his words.

"Yes." Clipped, but not unkind. "I'm working."

His gaze swept the room-canvases discarded like failed blueprints, the untouched tea, the half-finished painting before her.

"Your mother worries," he said after a beat. "She thinks you're too hard on yourself."

Shimo's brush halted mid-stroke. Annoyance flickered in her expression before she forced it away. "Perfection requires discipline." Her voice was even, controlled. "She wouldn't understand."

Souichi exhaled, stepping closer. "She understands more than you think."

He studied the unfinished painting-a landscape so meticulously detailed it blurred the line between art and reality. Almost photographic. Almost. He saw what she saw, the tiny imperfections invisible to anyone else, the ones that gnawed at her, demanded to be erased.

"It's beautiful."

"It's not finished."

A pause. Then, quietly-"Will it ever be?"

She didn't answer.

When he left, the silence grew heavier, settling over her shoulders like a weight she had long since grown accustomed to bearing.

Her grip on the brush tightened. Her chest felt tight. The painting stared back at her, mocking her with its almost-perfection.

Her thoughts drifted-unbidden, unwelcome-to Renji.

The ghost in their family. The fracture they never spoke of.

He had been her opposite-a storm of chaos and spontaneity, of noise and unpredictability. His laughter had once filled these walls, reckless and free. And then, one day, he was gone.

They did not discuss his absence, but Shimo felt it everywhere. In the spaces he used to occupy. In the echo of his voice that lingered in the back of her mind.

"You're always so stiff, Shimo. Does everything have to be perfect?"

She had scowled at him then, the same way she always did. "Discipline is necessary."

Renji had only laughed. "Discipline? Or fear?"

She had never answered.

The hours slipped away unnoticed. Stroke by stroke, the painting took form, precision woven into every inch of the canvas. A landscape, unbroken and untouched by imperfection.

And yet, something was wrong.

She stepped back, eyes scanning the piece, searching for the flaw she could not name. Her breathing grew shallow. The walls seemed to press closer, the air thick with the suffocating weight of expectation.

Why can't I make it perfect?

The question echoed in her skull, louder than the whispers of doubt, louder than the phantom sound of Renji's laughter.

Her grip on the brush tightened-too tight.

Then, with sudden violence, she hurled it across the room.

A streak of crimson splashed against the pristine white wall. A violation of order. A rupture in perfection.

She stood there, breath unsteady, heart pounding.

Then, slowly, she sank to the floor, pressing her forehead to her knees.

She could still hear them.

"You need to loosen up, Shimo." (Renji, teasing.)

"Don't push yourself too hard, sweetheart." (Her mother, gentle.)

"Your standards are inhuman." (Her father, exhausted.)

"She's so cold, it's like talking to a machine." (A classmate.)

classmate, murmuring when they thought she wasn't listening.)

But above all, she heard her own voice, whispering into the void:

"What's the point of perfection if it never feels like enough?"

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The question hung in the air, lingering like the scent of turpentine, seeping into her lungs, into her thoughts.

No answer came.

Because there was none.

Because perfection was a promise that never delivered, a finish line that moved further away the closer she got.

Shimo closed her eyes. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her pants, knuckles pale. Somewhere downstairs, the distant murmur of her parents' voices continued, oblivious to the war waging in their daughter's mind.

Renji would have laughed at her. Would have called her a fool.

"You don't even know what you're chasing, do you?"

The thought burned. A cruel little ember in her chest.

Shimo forced herself to her feet, slow and mechanical, her body moving like an automaton following a script. She turned toward the canvas once more, gaze sharp, scrutinizing. Searching.

The landscape was flawless. Too flawless.

It had no cracks. No signs of life.

It was cold.

Dead.

Her fingers twitched.