The web of manipulation was tightening, and Mild was no longer just a student; he was the focal point of a three-way tug-of-war between power, piety, and ambition.
Mild took Style's words to heart. If his excellence was his only armor, he would become a machine. He began to use his proximity to Arm not to resist, but to observe. He memorized the Foundation's bylaws, looking for loopholes. He played the part of the perfect, broken soldier so well that even Arm began to believe he had finally won.
Mild didn't fight the "golden cage"; he polished the bars until they were invisible. He was waiting for the moment when the dynasties would clash, hoping to slip through the cracks when they finally broke each other.
To celebrate the "successful" merger of the student bodies, the school organized a mandatory leadership retreat for all prefects and monitors. It was held in the lush, emerald hills of the upcountry—a place of rolling mist, ancient trees, and air so clean it felt sharp.
"You're coming, Secretariat," Arm commanded, not looking up from his desk. "I need my aide to manage the itinerary. And Style will be there. We need to maintain the appearance of the 'Happy Union.'"
Mild nodded, but his eyes were on his heavy backpack, bulging with textbooks. Even in paradise, he couldn't stop running from the fear of failure.
The retreat was housed in a rustic lodge, but the water system had failed on the second night. The only option for bathing was the CelestialRiver, a crystal-clear stream that cut through the valley, surrounded by dense ferns and the constant, rhythmic chirping of hidden birds.
Mild, terrified of the communal bathing scheduled for the afternoon, woke at 4:30 AM. The world was a deep, bruised purple. He crept out of the lodge, his towel and a small book of Greek philosophy tucked under his arm.
He reached the riverbank where the water pooled into a natural basin. The mist clung to the surface like a shroud. Thinking he was alone, Mild shed his clothes. In the dim light of dawn, his skin looked like pale silk against the dark, jagged rocks. He stepped into the icy water, a shiver racking his frame, and began to wash, the sound of the flowing river drowning out the world.
Behind a massive, moss-covered oak, Arm stood perfectly still. He had followed Mild from the lodge, driven by a restless, gnawing need to be near him.
From his vantage point, Arm watched every movement. He watched the way Mild's shoulder blades moved like wings under his skin. He watched him dive into the center of the pool, emerging with water cascading over his face and chest.
Arm had spent months trying to "design" Mild, to dress him in suits and mold his mind. But seeing him like this—stripped of the charcoal suits, stripped of the titles, just a boy in the raw, ancient beauty of nature—hit Arm with the force of a physical blow.
Mild was breathtaking. His quiet strength, his vulnerability, and the sheer, unadorned grace of his body ignited a fire in Arm that no "objective" or "strategy" could account for. Arm's breath hitched. His heart, usually so calculated and cold, hammered against his ribs. For the first time in his life, Arm felt a yearning that wasn't about power or possession. It was a raw, aching desire to be known by the person in the water.
Shame, sudden and hot, flooded Arm's system. He was the President. He was an Armitage. And yet, here he was, hiding in the bushes like a common voyeur, undone by the sight of a fellow boy.
Unable to bear the intensity of his own reaction, Arm turned and walked away into the woods, his footsteps heavy and uneven, leaving the "Masterpiece" alone in the morning mist.
***
The atmosphere at the upcountry retreat was a fragile glass sculpture, ready to shatter at the slightest vibration. While the morning mist still clung to the river, the hidden gears of obsession and espionage were already grinding.
Even before Style set foot in St. Jude's, she had been a silent ghost in Arm's life. Her father, a man who viewed information as the only true global currency, had hired a private intelligence firm to shadow the Armitage heir for months.
Style sat on the porch of the lodge, sipping a bitter herbal tea. In her mind, she reviewed the reports she'd received weeks ago: photos of Arm staring at Mild in the library, logs of Arm's late-night drives past Mild's modest apartment, and transcripts of Arm's increasingly erratic commands to his council.
"He thinks he's the architect," Style whispered to herself, watching the tree line. "But he's just a character in a play I've already read." She knew about the "Masterpiece" long before the gala. She had been sent to St. Jude's not just to get to know him but to act as a governor on an engine that was beginning to overheat.
When Mild returned to the lodge, he found the dining hall already bustling. He immediately opened his Advanced Calculus text, using the thick book as a physical shield between himself and the room.
Arm arrived minutes later. The usual "melodic drone" of his voice was gone, replaced by a jagged, tense silence. He sat across from Mild, his eyes fixed on the boy's hands as they turned the pages. Arm's mind was a chaotic loop of the river scene—the way the dawn light had caught the droplets on Mild's skin.
"You're working on the weekend again, Secretariat," Arm said. It wasn't a tease; it sounded like an accusation. His voice was lower than usual, thick with the residue of his morning shame.
Mild didn't look up. "The Foundation doesn't recognize holidays, Mr. President."
"Eat something," Arm snapped, pushing a plate of fruit toward him. "You're pale. You look like you're fading away."
"I'm fine," Mild replied, his voice a whisper.
Across the table, Style watched them both. She noticed the way Arm's fingers drifted toward Mild's hand before jerking back. She noticed the way Arm couldn't maintain eye contact for more than a second.
"The air is so refreshing here, isn't it, Arm?" Style said, her voice a sharp needle popping the bubble of their tension. "Though I imagine some people find the woods... overwhelming. Too many shadows. Too many things hidden behind trees."
Arm's head snapped toward her. His eyes narrowed, a flash of defensive lightning. "The woods are just trees, Style. Only people with guilty consciences see shadows."
"Or people with secrets," she countered, flashing a brilliant, empty smile.
Later that morning, as the students prepared for a hiking exercise, Style slipped into Arm's private cabin under the guise of looking for a map. She didn't need a map; she needed a confirmation of the "yearning" she had sensed at breakfast.
She found it in a leather-bound sketchbook Arm usually kept locked in his briefcase. It was open on the bedside table.
It wasn't filled with political strategies or organizational charts. It was filled with sketches of Mild. Mild at his desk. Mild looking out a window. And the most recent one—a hurried, charcoal rendering of a figure in the water, blurred by mist but unmistakable in its reverence.
Style felt a cold shiver of triumph. Arm wasn't just obsessed; he was compromised. His "Masterpiece" had become his master.
She heard footsteps on the porch and quickly replaced the book. As she stepped out, she ran into Mild, who was carrying a stack of files for the afternoon session.
"He's in a dangerous state, Mild," Style whispered as she passed him. "A man who wants something he can't have is a man who eventually burns down the house to keep the warmth. Be careful where you walk. The river isn't the only thing that's deep around here."
Mild stood alone on the porch, his heart racing. He looked toward the treeline where Arm was standing, barking orders to the monitors. For the first time, Mild didn't see a predator; he saw a man who was falling, and he realized with a jolt of terror that Arm intended to take Mild down with him.
The afternoon's "Leadership Challenge" was designed by Style herself. It was a complex orienteering exercise involving a series of puzzles and physical obstacles, culminating in a "communication tunnel"—a narrow, winding cave that required teamwork to navigate.
"President Armitage and Secretariat Mild will lead the final leg through the tunnel," Style announced with a disarming smile. "It requires absolute trust and precise coordination in a confined, dark space. A perfect demonstration of synergy.You should move together, no leaving one behind."
Mild's heart sank. He hated confined spaces, and the thought of being trapped with Arm in the dark sent a tremor of anxiety through him. Arm, however, seemed to relish the idea, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
The entrance to the communication tunnel was a small, foreboding crevice in the rock face. As Arm squeezed in first, Mild followed, the rough stone scraping his shoulders. The air grew heavy, smelling of damp earth and something indefinable, almost primal. Arm held a small, high-powered flashlight, its beam barely cutting through the oppressive darkness.
"Stay close, Secretariat," Arm's voice echoed, lower and rougher in the confined space. "Don't get lost."
Mild could feel Arm's presence just inches in front of him—the heat radiating from his back, the faint scent of expensive cologne mixing with the earthy musk of the cave. The air was so thick, it felt like he was breathing Arm.
They moved slowly, carefully, navigating sharp turns and low ceilings. At one point, Mild stumbled, his hand instinctively reaching out. His fingers brushed against Arm's hip, a spark of unexpected electricity. Arm froze, his breath catching.
"Careful," Arm whispered, his voice oddly strained. He turned slightly, the beam of his flashlight momentarily sweeping across Mild's face. In that fleeting moment, Mild saw it—a raw, intense look in Arm's eyes that was not about control, or disdain, or even the "Masterpiece." It was pure, unadulterated longing.
Mild felt a dizzying confusion. He quickly averted his gaze, his cheeks flushing in the darkness. No. It's the cave. It's the closeness. I'm imagining things.
As they pressed on, the confinement grew more extreme. They had to squeeze through a particularly narrow passage, their bodies pressed flush against each other. Mild could feel every curve of Arm's back, the solid muscle of his thighs against his own. A jolt, involuntary and powerful, shot through Mild. His mind screamed danger, but a part of him, a deeply buried, long-ignored part, registered the undeniable thrill.
Arm, too, was struggling. He kept the flashlight pointed forward, but his hand trembled. He could feel Mild's soft breath on his neck, the tentative brush of his body against his own. The scent of Mild—clean and faintly academic, like old paper and fresh air—was intoxicating in the close space. Every nerve ending in Arm's body screamed for him to turn, to pull Mild closer. The perfect, polished President was crumbling under the weight of his own raw desire.
He stopped, pressing his back against Mild for a moment longer than necessary. "Are you... are you okay, Mild?" His voice was thick, almost a plea.
Mild could feel Arm's racing heartbeat against his chest. He was hyper-aware of Arm's entire body, the subtle shifting of his weight, the tension in his muscles. His own heart hammered a frantic rhythm.
He's the most handsome man in this school, probably the entire country, Mild thought, a wave of bewildered disbelief washing over him. He has Style. He has everything. He can't possibly… not for me. This is all in my head. He's just playing with me.
The idea that Arm, the unattainable, devastatingly attractive President, could harbor genuine feelings for him, Mild, the scholarship student, the "Secretary," was utterly disorienting. It felt like a cruel joke, a new form of psychological torture.
"I'm fine," Mild managed, forcing the words out. "Let's… let's just get out of here."
Arm finally moved, his body stiff, his yearns battling against his carefully constructed persona. He led them through the final stretch, bursting out into the cool, open air.
Style's RevelationStyle was waiting for them at the exit, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. She watched Arm immediately create distance between himself and Mild, his face flushed, his composure visibly shaken. Mild, too, seemed shell-shocked, avoiding Arm's gaze.
"Excellent synergy, you two," Style purred, her eyes fixed on Arm. "You certainly generated a lot of... heat in there."
Arm shot her a furious, warning look, but Style simply shrugged, turning to Mild.
"Mild," she said, her voice dropping, "you may be his 'Masterpiece,' but you are also his Achilles' heel. He sees you not just as a possession, but as a desire he can't control. And that, my dear scholar, is a weakness I intend to exploit."
Mild looked at Arm, then at Style. He wasn't imagining it. Arm's yearning was real, and Style had seen it all. He was trapped not just by circumstance, but by the very heart of the man who sought to control him. The golden cage had just become electrified.
***
The cool, highland air did nothing to soothe the fever burning in Mild's mind. The confined space of the tunnel had stripped away the layers of pretense he used to survive at St. Jude's.
Back in the solitude of his tiny room at the lodge, Mild sat at his desk, his calculus textbook open to a page on derivatives. But for the first time in his life, the numbers didn't make sense. All he could feel was the ghost of Arm's solid frame against his back and the terrifying, magnetic pull he had felt in the dark.
It's impossible, he whispered to his reflection in the window.
He listed the reasons like a logical proof:
Status: Arm was the "Masterpiece," the heir to a dynasty. Mild was a scholarship project.
Appearance: Arm was the most handsome man in the school—sharp, golden, and perfect. Mild felt like a shadow in a charcoal suit.
History: Arm had bullied him, manipulated him, and threatened his friends.
Yet, he couldn't shake the memory of Arm's eyes in the flashlight's beam—the vulnerability, the raw hunger that looked nothing like a "test." The realization that he might be attracted to the man who ruined his life felt like a betrayal of Georgia, Kavin, and himself. He was terrified that the "golden cage" wasn't just built of Armitage money, but of his own heart's sudden, traitorous yearnings.