Fractures in the Frame.

Chapter 5: Fractures in the Frame.

The gallery was small. Intimate. The kind of place where people whispered as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever fragile magic the artists had conjured. Shimo barely heard them. The scent of oil paint and varnish clung to the air, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming sight before her..

The painting.

She didn't know the artist's name.

Didn't care.

What mattered was the canvas-a chaotic swirl of colors, lines that bled into each other, shapes half-formed and dissolving as if the image itself was on the verge of collapse. The brushstrokes were sloppy, uneven. Some areas looked as if the painter had given up entirely, abandoning the form to reckless impulse.

And yet.

People were admiring it.

Shimo's fingers curled at her sides.

"They're calling this art?"

She couldn't look away. Not because it was captivating, but because it was wrong.

Her mind automatically dissected it, searching for composition, symmetry, balance-anything resembling structure. But there was none. Just messy, unfinished emotions spilled onto a canvas like a child's tantrum.

Her lips parted, breath slow and measured.

"This is worthless."

Yet the moment she thought it, something inside her twisted.

A voice, smooth with quiet amusement, pulled her back to reality.

"You look like you're about to set that thing on fire."

Shimo turned. A boy stood beside her, hands in his pockets, an easy smirk tugging at his lips. He was dressed casually, too casually for an art exhibit. Red, silky long hair, a jacket worn with the kind of careless confidence that suggested he didn't care for rules.

She didn't know him. Didn't care to.

Shimo's gaze flicked back to the painting. "It's awful."

The boy chuckled. "Strong words. What about it bothers you so much?"

She didn't hesitate. "There's no technique. No control. The colors clash, the lines are inconsistent, and the shading is practically nonexistent. It's a disaster."

He tilted his head, considering the piece with a thoughtful hum. "And yet, people love it."

Shimo exhaled sharply. "That doesn't make it good."

"Doesn't make it bad, either."

She turned to glare at him, but he was still staring at the painting, hands in his pockets, like he wasn't taking this conversation seriously at all.

"What, do you think it's good?" she challenged.

He grinned. "I think it's real."

Shimo's jaw tightened. "Real?"

He gestured vaguely at the painting. "It's messy. Unpolished. Feels like the artist put their whole soul into it, without caring about whether it looked perfect. Just wanted to say something, you know?" He shrugged. "I think that's kind of beautiful."

Shimo nearly laughed. She almost pitied him.

"That's just an excuse for lack of talent."

But the boy didn't seem offended. If anything, his grin widened. "Maybe. Or maybe it just means perfection isn't the only way to make something meaningful."

She froze.

Something about those words stung.

Before she could respond, a new voice cut in.

"Ah, looks like my piece has a strong reaction out of you."

Shimo turned sharply.

The artist.

They were a young woman, mid-twenties maybe, with paint-stained fingers and the kind of calm confidence that suggested she already knew what Shimo had to say. Her smile was small, curious.

Shimo didn't hold back.

"Did you even try?"

A few people nearby turned, sensing the tension.

The artist blinked, then laughed softly. "Interesting question."

"It's not a question," Shimo said coldly. "This is careless. You threw colors on a canvas and called it done."

The woman only tilted her head. "And yet, you're still looking at it."

Shimo's mouth opened, then shut.

"Art isn't just about precision," the woman continued. "It's about feeling."

Shimo hated that answer. It was vague, meaningless.

"Feelings don't matter if the execution is flawed."

"Maybe to you." The artist tucked her hands behind her back, unbothered. "But to some people, flaws make something even more valuable. It means it was made by human hands."

Shimo stiffened.

Flawed. Human.

The words slithered into her skull, sinking deep.

For the first time, she wanted to look away.

The boy beside her chuckled. "Damn, that's a good line."

Shimo turned, sharp as a knife. "You find this funny?"

"I find you interesting."

"Tch." She rolled her shoulders back, forcing herself to breathe, to push down the strange, nagging feeling curling in her chest.

She looked at the painting again. Ugly. Wrong. Yet-

Something in it felt like breathing.

Like movement.

Like life.

But she wouldn't admit that.

Not yet.

With a final scoff, Shimo turned on her heel. "Waste of time."

The boy watched her go, amusement glinting in his leaf green eyes. The artist simply smiled, as if she had already won.

•••••

Perfection is the only truth.

Not beauty. Not passion. Not reckless expression. Just flawless execution.

A misplaced stroke is an insult. A color outside the lines is a betrayal. The weak seek comfort in imperfection because they lack the discipline to reach perfection.

That painting-that mess of color and broken lines-was nothing more than an excuse for mediocrity.

Yet...

Why did I hesitate?

Why did the words "flaws make something more valuable" stay in my mind like a stain I couldn't wash out?

No, I refuse.

There is only one path forward, and I will carve it with precision.

Even if the world around me is cracked and uneven, I will remain-unshaken.

.

.

.

.

.

"Perfection isn't the absence of mistakes—it's knowing which flaws are worth keeping."

My father taught me that.

Perfection isn't subjective. It's an absolute. It's why I walk the way I do, with measured steps. Why I speak the way I do, without hesitation.

So why did that artist's words still linger?

"It means it was made by human hands."

Ridiculous. Weakness disguised as philosophy.

Yet the painting...

No.

I won't entertain this.

I straighten my posture, exhale, and let the cold night air cool the embers in my mind.

And then I hear a familiar voice.

•••••

The night was quiet, save for the distant hum of cicadas and the occasional crackle of Souichi Kiritsuga's radio. The man himself stood beneath a streetlamp, his police uniform crisp despite the long hours of patrol. His sharp eyes swept the street out of habit, always alert, always watching.

And then, he saw her.

Kiritsuga Shimo, his daughter, walked with precise, measured steps. Even now, she carried herself with an almost unnatural poise, as if even the way she moved had to meet some invisible standard. Her hands were clean, but he had no doubt they had been stained with paint earlier.

She noticed him almost immediately.

"Dad," she said, voice clipped, acknowledging him without warmth but not without respect.

"Shimo," he greeted, tilting his head slightly. "What are you doing out this late?"

She exhaled sharply through her nose, crossing her arms. "Needed air."

Souichi nodded. "Long day?"

"They're all long," she muttered.

A pause stretched between them, filled only by the distant noise of the city. Souichi studied her for a moment, noting the tightness in her shoulders, the way her jaw clenched just a fraction too hard.

He sighed. "Still chasing it?"

Shimo's eyes flickered. She didn't need to ask what he meant. "Perfection isn't something you chase. It's something you build."

Souichi let out a low chuckle. "That so?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "If you work hard enough, if you control every detail, perfection is possible."

He hummed, thoughtful. "And what happens when you reach it?"

Shimo frowned. "Then I move to the next thing."

"Always the next thing," he murmured, shaking his head. "You never stop to appreciate what you've already done, do you?"

Shimo's lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't have time for that."

Souichi sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Shimo... I work in a world where mistakes cost lives. But even in my line of work, I know one thing-perfection isn't what keeps people alive. It's learning how to adapt, how to move forward, even when things don't go as planned."

Her expression hardened. "That's different. That's necessity."

"And your art isn't?" he asked, arching a brow.

She flinched, just barely. "That's not the same."

"It is," he said, voice steady. "You think perfection will make you happy, but it won't. It'll just keep moving the finish line."

Shimo looked away frustration flickering across her face.

"You don't understand."

"I understand more than you think."

She scoffed. "Then tell me, what's the point of working hard if you're okay with being mediocre?"

Souichi's eyes softened. "The point is to live, Shimo. To feel proud of what you create, not just obsessed with what's missing."

Shimo's hands curled into fists. "If I don't aim for perfection, what else is there?"

"Peace," he answered simply. "And maybe, just maybe, a little joy."

She didn't reply right away. The streetlight above them buzzed faintly, casting long shadows on the pavement.

Finally, she spoke, voice quieter. "I don't know how to do that."

Souichi smiled, stepping forward to ruffle her hair. She tensed at the gesture but didn't pull away.

"You don't have to know yet," he said. "Just don't close yourself off before you get the chance to figure it out."

Shimo swallowed, something heavy settling in her chest. But she didn't reject his words outright.

For now, that was enough.

And the painting?

It stayed. Imperfect. Unapologetic. Whole.