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──── ' a guide on how to compromise with five hargreeves (for dummies) ' ──── [CH. VIII] ✦ ˚
"call me that again, and i'll tear your pathetic chest open."
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"I AM TELLING YOU, FIVE. You are not ready."
The mere force of Ophira's carefully calculated words alone managed to overlap the exhilarated guitar chords ringing out throughout the girl's room. More specifically, a limited edition vinyl, one of the many they kept neatly concealed underneath their desk. Father would've forsaken them if he caught them hung up on the smooth, lustrous surface of the pearly white walls, no matter how much they pleaded. On second thought, he would've forsaken them either way, seeing the mess both Ophira and Number Five had made on their bed.
An array of untidiness was what was expected of the 13-year-olds, but the clutter sprawled on the thick, plush surface of their beige comforter was bound to give the old man a heart attack. Scrunched pieces of paper cover the sleek floorboards, hastily missing the metal bin stacked aside in the corner. Dry vessels of now-deemed useless pens join the compacted scraps. And of course, the numerous books stacked upon the dusty-fawn-hued quilt (which Ophira proudly hand-crocheted themselves) had ripped pages scalloped across the ground, discarded in every which way. Documents and notebooks were cast aside in a stray cardboard box; the pages within resemble the crippled sheets laid acast, forgotten on the ground. Those same pages were engraved with an endless meddle of numbers and precise calculations, a meddle so endlessly complex it would give the ordinary human a heart attack.
