There was no such thing as imperfection in this neighborhood.
Not a single crack in the pavement, not a single loose thread on a sweater, not a single moment where someone spoke without thinking first.
It was perfect.
Painfully, unnaturally, disturbingly perfect.
And she?
She wasn’t supposed to mind.
She wasn’t allowed to mind.
She wasn’t like them, but she had to pretend she was.
Because anything less than perfection meant disappearing.
She had seen it happen.
Fifteen brothers.
Thirteen stains.
She was the youngest.
She didn’t understand at first.
She thought the rules were normal.
Chores done precisely. Hair unfrazzled. Clothes pristine.
No mistakes. No hesitation. No individuality.
That was just how things were.
And when her brothers corrected her, fixed her errors before they became actual problems, she didn’t question it.
They were keeping her safe.
She thought they understood.
She thought they were pretending, too.
Then one by one, they vanished.
Not moved away.
Not sent to boarding school.
Gone.
Nothing left but a crimson stain in their rooms, a subtle shift in the seating arrangements, a quiet, practiced mourning that never lasted too long.
Because mourning imperfection was imperfect.
And imperfection did not last here.
Eventually, it was just her and the twins.
Two years older.
The last two left.
She thought they were still playing the game.
Thought they were just pretending like she was.
Until they stopped pretending.
Until they became plastics, too.
Until they started watching her the way their parents did.
Until her mistakes stopped being protected—and started being reported.
Ten flaws.
That was all you got.
Most kids made the first five before they could even talk.
Which meant there was never much room left.
Which meant you had to be careful.
TF141 thought it was just another high-society neighborhood.
Too much money.
Too much polish.
Too many people desperate to keep their illusions intact.
They played their roles.
Smiled.
Waved.
Blended in.
But something felt wrong.
Every smile was too wide.
Every strand of hair was too neat.
Every greeting was too rehearsed.
Still, they ignored it.
Until the dinner invitation.
Until they stepped into the house.
Until they saw her.
Perfect grades.
Star athlete.
Flawless manners.
She had cooked the meal, too.
And every single person at the table praised her for it, complimented her over and over again, showering her with approval.
She accepted it all without hesitation.
She responded exactly as expected.
But TF141 noticed the way her shoulders relaxed every time no one was looking.
Like perfection wasn’t just an expectation—
But a threat.
And suddenly?
Suddenly, they weren’t sure if she was playing along—
Or if she was fighting for her survival.