Cracks in the mirror.

Chapter 6: Cracks in the mirror.

The dining room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of utensils against porcelain. The warm scent of miso soup curled through the air, but it barely reached Shimo.

The competition was days away. Every second here was a second wasted.

She stared at the untouched food before her. The fish was grilled perfectly-too perfectly, as if mocking her own pursuit. The vegetables were cut with precision, each piece symmetrical. Everything on that plate followed the rules. Just like her art.

Yet, none of it mattered.

Her mother, Mirua, sighed, breaking the silence. "Shimo, at least eat something. You've barely touched your food."

"I don't have time," Shimo replied, voice flat.

Across the table, her father, Souichi, leaned back in his chair. His uniform, still crisp from work, stretched as he crossed his arms. He had been out patrolling all day, yet here he was, watching over her as if she were a case to be solved.

"Art takes more than just time, you know," he said, his voice steady. "It takes life."

Shimo didn't even glance up. "And perfection takes sacrifice."

Souichi frowned. "Perfection doesn't exist."

"Then I'll create it."

A heavy silence settled between them.

Mirua's chopsticks paused mid-air before she set them down with deliberate care. Her voice was softer this time.

"Shimo, you've always worked hard. But art isn't just about technical skill. It's about-"

"I know what art is about, Mom."

Shimo's fingers tightened around her fork. Her knuckles turned white, as if she were trying to strangle the doubt out of her own bones.

"I know what I have to do."

Souichi exhaled sharply. "You don't have to do anything. You chose this path. And if you're going to walk it, you better not let it swallow you whole."

Shimo's jaw clenched. "I'm not weak, Dad."

"No," he admitted. "You're not." His gaze, sharp as ever, held hers. "But even strong people break when they chase something that isn't real."

A cold feeling slithered up her spine.

She hated that. The implication that what she was chasing wasn't real.

Her mother reached for her tea, but her hands hesitated around the cup. "At least promise us that you won't-"

"I'll win," Shimo interrupted, standing up.

The chair scraped against the wooden floor, its sound cutting through the tension like a blade.

"That's all that matters."

She turned before they could stop her.

The dining room, the warm food, the two people who worried over things that didn't need worrying—she left them behind.

But the taste of their words followed her all the way back to her studio.

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The knock on the door was sharp. Precise.

It pulled Shimo from her work like a blade slicing through a canvas.

Her fingers, smudged with charcoal, lingered over the latest lines she had drawn. The arm was almost there. Almost. It was still missing something. The curve wasn't as smooth as it needed to be. The shadowing-too weak.

She needed to fix it. She needed to-

*Knock!*

*Knock!*

A sharp breath.

Shimo exhaled through her nose, stepping away from her work.

She opened the door to find Tokusake Ren standing there, holding a plastic container.

"Your mom told me to bring you food," Ren said, stepping inside without waiting for permission. "She said, and I quote, 'If she doesn't eat, she's not allowed to compete.' goes hard , I know."

Shimo scoffed, shutting the door behind him. "Like she could stop me."

Ren made a noise of amusement as he sat at the small table, setting the container down. He glanced around the room. It was more of a workspace than a living space. Easels lined the walls, unfinished sketches stacked on the floor, the faint smell of turpentine hanging in the air.

"You really live like this?" he muttered.

"Like what?"

Ren gestured vaguely. "Like you're preparing for war."

Shimo rolled her eyes and took a seat. She didn't bother opening the container.

Ren tapped the lid. "At least pretend you appreciate my hard work in delivering this."

She ignored him.

Instead, her gaze flicked back to the half-finished piece on her desk. Her mind had already returned to it, fingers itching to correct the smallest imperfections.

Ren noticed. He sighed. "You're really serious about this, huh?"

She turned her attention back to him. Blank. "Of course."

Ren tilted his head slightly, watching her.

"You know," he started, "there's someone in our class who also pursues perfection."

Shimo's expression didn't change, but something in her gaze sharpened. "And?"

Ren shrugged. "I'm just saying. It's rare to see someone as obsessed as you."

Her fingers twitched. She didn't like the implication that her pursuit was something rare. It was natural. It was the only way.

"Did they attain it?" she asked.

Ren hesitated.

Then, he leaned back against his chair, arms crossed.

"I'm not really sure," he admitted. "But if she failed... then I think no one can do it."

Shimo narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"

Ren smirked slightly, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. "That girl has some serious obsession problems. And honestly?" He tilted his head. "I think you two could be good friends."

Shimo scoffed. "I don't need friends."

Ren hummed. "Maybe. But you need someone who understands what it's like."

She didn't respond.

Because for the first time, she wasn't sure if she agreed or not.

Ren exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a lazy grin. "You know, I never understood people like you."

Shimo arched a brow. "People like me?"

"Yeah. You perfectionists." Ren leaned back, resting his foot on the table like he had all the time in the world. "Like, what's the point? You spend hours-days-months on a single thing, trying to make it 'flawless.' And for what?"

Shimo's jaw tightened. "For excellence. For mastery. For-"

"For what?" Ren cut in, his smirk widening. "For someone else to come along, squint at it, and go, 'Hmm... something's off'?" He let out a low chuckle. "Must be exhausting."

Shimo scoffed. "Only people who lack talent say things like that."

Ren laughed. "Oh, no, I know I lack talent. I embrace it, actually. Do you know how easy life is when you stop giving a shit about things like perfection?"

Shimo crossed her arms. "Sounds like an excuse for mediocrity."

Ren tapped his chin. "And yet, somehow, I'm still alive. Not crushed under the weight of my own expectations. Not agonizing over whether the curve of an arm is one millimeter off." He glanced at her desk. "Seriously. Do you even sleep?"

Shimo didn't answer.

Ren grinned. "That's what I thought."

She clenched her fists. "People who don't strive for perfection are just running away from their own shortcomings.

"And people who do chase perfection are just running in circles, Ren countered easily.

"Never satisfied, never happy, always thinking 'just a little more and I'll be good enough.' But when does it end?"

Shimo's nails dug into her palms. "When I reach it."

Ren snorted. "Reach what? Some imaginary finish line that doesn't exist?" He shook his head. "You perfectionists are hilarious. You treat life like a math equation. As if there's a right answer."

Shimo's stare was cold. "There is."

Ren's smirk faded slightly. "...And what happens when you get it wrong?"

Silence.

Shimo didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Ren leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His voice dropped, almost casual.

"Because you will get it wrong someday, Shimo. Maybe tomorrow , maybe a month or year later. But you will get it wrong. One day or another."

Her throat tightened.

"Then I'll fix it," she said, voice like steel.

Ren held her gaze for a long moment, then huffed a quiet laugh.

"Yeah," he muttered, shaking his head. "You and her would get along just fine."

Shimo ignored the way her stomach twisted.

"Perfection is real," she said, more to herself than to him. "And I'll prove it."

Ren just smiled.

"Sure, Shimo. You do that."

Ren stretched his arms with a lazy grin. "Well, I've done my job. Delivered the food, questioned your life choices-time for me to take my leave."

He stepped toward the door, then glanced back. "Try not to go insane over this, yeah?"

Shimo didn't bother replying. She simply watched as he left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence settled in.

A heavy, suffocating silence.

She exhaled, turning back to her canvas.

And just like that, Ren was gone.

And she was alone again.

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Shimo stood before her easel, the canvas stretched tight, the brush in her hand poised like a weapon.

A deep breath.

The scent of paint, turpentine, and paper filled her lungs, grounding her. She wasn't just holding a brush. She was holding control. Power. The ability to craft something untouchable, unmarred, absolute.

She pressed the bristles to the canvas.

Stroke.

"I know this is good."

Another stroke, slow and deliberate, her fingers tightening around the handle.

"I know this will be perfect."

A pause. The line was clean. Sharp. But was it enough?

Her mind whispered doubt, but she pushed it aside.

"No mistakes."

Stroke.

"Not one."

She stepped back, studying the curve of the figure's arm. Something felt off. Almost imperceptibly, almost nothing at all-except to her.

Her grip twitched. No.

Not almost.

Not nothing.

It was wrong.

Without hesitation, she grabbed a rag and wiped it away.

Again. Redid the lines.

Again.

Again.

"Perfection. No matter what."

The room was silent, save for the sounds of her own breath and the rhythmic, almost hypnotic strokes of her brush. The swish of paint meeting canvas. The scratch of graphite against paper. The rapid pounding of her own heart.

Her pulse throbbed against her skull. Her fingers trembled, either from exhaustion or adrenaline-she didn't know, didn't care.

"No matter what."

She adjusted her stance, her feet numb from standing too long. She hadn't eaten. Hadn't slept. But what did that matter?

Her mother's words, her father's concern, Ren's easy mockery-none of it mattered.

Only this mattered.

Only perfection.

Her hands ached. Her vision blurred at the edges.

She ignored it.

This wasn't just a painting.

It was proof.

Proof that she was right.

Proof that perfection existed.

That she could reach it.

Her brush faltered-just for a second. The stroke wavered, barely. A fraction of a fraction of a mistake.

Her breath caught.

A mistake.

No. No. No.

She clenched her jaw, wiping at the spot furiously, as if she could erase the flaw from existence. Redo it. Again.

Again.

Again.

The hours bled together, the night stretching on, the stars fading into dawn.

She kept going.

Her fingers bled against the rag.

She kept going.

Her limbs screamed in protest, her body betraying her.

She kept going.

Because no matter what—

No matter what—

She would make it perfect.