The echoes of Mild's sobbing had barely faded in the corridor when Style stepped out from the alcove of the faculty archives. She hadn't seen the tears, but she had heard the jagged, broken confession. Her phone was already in her hand, the screen glowing with a call to her father's encrypted line.
Style paced the quiet hallway, her voice a low, clinical hum as she reported the evening's events.
"The girl is no longer a factor, Father," Style said, her eyes fixed on the heavy oak doors of the Student Council office. "Mild admitted it tonight. His attraction to Georgia has evaporated. The boy is completely untethered, and Arm is the only thing he's looking at, even if he's terrified of it."
"And the boy's breakdown?" her father's voice crackled, sounding like dry leaves.
"It was perfect," Style replied, a predatory smile touching her lips. "He's desperate. He begged Arm for distance to save his scholarship. This is our opening. If we can't catch Arm in an act of passion, we will catch him in an act of intervention. Armitage won't be able to stay away. He's too possessive. He will try to 'fix' this, and when he does, he'll leave a paper trail or a witness."
"Then we accelerate the audit," her father commanded. "If the Foundation smells a 'moral' inconsistency, they will move to strike Mild. Arm will be forced to choose: let the boy be ruined, or burn his own reputation to save him. Either way, we win."
The next morning, Style didn't avoid Mild. She sought him out. She found him in the library, hidden behind a fortress of law textbooks, his eyes still puffed from the night before.
She sat across from him, sliding a high-end latte onto the table—an expensive, unnecessary peace offering.
"You look like hell, Mild," she said, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy. "I heard a rumor that the Foundation is moving up the 'Character Review' to this Monday. Something about an anonymous tip regarding 'distractions' at the upcountry retreat."
Mild's pen snapped in his hand. The ink leaked onto his notes like a dark omen. "An anonymous tip? I haven't done anything."
"It doesn't matter what you've done," Style whispered, leaning in so close he could smell her floral perfume. "It matters what it looks like. And right now, you look like a boy who is falling apart over the School President. If I were you, I wouldn't trust Arm to save you. He's the one who put the target on your back to begin with."
She watched with satisfaction as Mild's breathing became shallow. She was sowing the seeds of distrust, ensuring that when the pressure became unbearable, Mild would pull further away, forcing Arm into a reckless, public move.
Across the campus, Arm sat in his office, staring at the empty chair where Mild usually sat. He had heard Style's footsteps earlier; he knew she was circling. He also knew about the moved-up audit.
He picked up a gold-plated pen and began to write a letter on his official letterhead. Not a confession, and not an apology. It was a formal request to the Board of Trustees for an "Emergency Funding Reallocation."
His face was a mask of cold, porcelain perfection, but his mind was a battlefield. He remembered Mild's plea: 'I know you won't be the one to jump in and save me.'
"Watch me, Secretariat," Arm whispered to the empty room.
He wasn't going to jump in to save Mild; he was going to burn the entire ocean so there was no water left to drown in. But in doing so, he was walking directly into the trap Style and her father had set—a trap where his "kindness" would be documented as a "conflict of interest" and his "protection" as "corruption."
The aftermath of Mild's departure was not a explosion, but a cold, hollow silence that settled over the polished halls of St. Jude's. For Mild, the world had simply ceased to have color.
The phone call came on a Tuesday, a day of grey skies and relentless drizzle. The voice on the other end was clinical, stripping Mild of his last reason to breathe. His mother—his anchor, his only family—had been killed instantly in a hit-and-run while walking home from her late shift.
Mild didn't scream. He didn't even cry at first. He simply walked to his desk, closed his textbooks, and felt the light go out behind his eyes.
He didn't call Arm. He didn't call the school. He reached out to the only person he felt could be genuine: Georgia.
Together, in a small, rain-slicked cemetery far from the iron gates of St. Jude's, they held a funeral for Mrs. Cho. There were no navy blazers, no national flags, and no "Pearl Petals." Just two teenagers standing over a fresh grave.
"I'm done, Georgia," Mild whispered, staring at the casket. "The scholarship, the 'Masterpiece,' the lies... she was the only one I was doing it for. Without her, none of it matters. Arm can have his suits. Style can have her throne. I'm going somewhere the rain doesn't feel like a script."
Before Georgia could protest, Mild handed her a small envelope containing his mother's wedding ring. "Keep this safe. Don't tell them where I went. If you love me even a little, let me disappear."
When Mild failed to show up for the Monday morning briefing, Arm felt a flicker of annoyance. By Wednesday, that annoyance had turned into a cold, gnawing dread. By Friday, when he learned of the death of Mrs. Cho and the empty apartment, the President of St. Jude's finally broke.
Arm found Georgia in the narrow, bustling alleys of her neighborhood—a place where the smell of street food and diesel fuel replaced the scent of expensive cologne. He stood out like a sore thumb in his tailored overcoat, but Georgia didn't flinch.
"You've got a lot of nerve coming here," Georgia said, leaning against a rusted gate. Her eyes were red, her heart still heavy with the betrayal of the Audit Dinner, but her loyalty to Mild was a permanent scar. "You're the reason he's a ghost now."
"I know," Arm said, his voice stripped of its usual melodic command. "I know he chose the scholarship over you. I know I made him do it. But his mother is dead, Georgia. He's alone. He has no one."
Georgia's expression softened, but only slightly. "He chose that school over me, yeah. It hurt like hell. But I know why he did it—he did it for her. And now that she's gone, he doesn't have a reason to stay in your world or mine. He's just... gone."
Arm stepped closer, his hands trembling in his pockets. "Tell me where he is. I'll make sure he's safe. I'll give him whatever he needs."
"I'll tell you," Georgia snapped, her finger jabbing into Arm's chest. "But under one condition, Mr. President. You don't bother him. You don't try to 'build' him. You don't put him in a suit. You don't even talk to him if he doesn't want to see your face. You find him, you make sure he has a roof and a meal, and then you leave him the hell alone. If you try to turn him back into your 'Masterpiece,' I'll find a way to burn your world down myself."
Arm looked at the girl who knew Mild better than anyone—the girl who loved the boy, not the "Secretariat." He bowed his head. "I promise."
The search led them to Ban Nam, a tiny fishing village tucked away in a cove where the grey sea met the black rocks. It was a place where people went to be forgotten.
Arm walked the shoreline alone, the wind whipping his hair into a mess. He found Mild sitting on an overturned wooden boat, staring out at the horizon. Mild looked smaller than before. His charcoal suit was gone, replaced by a thick, oversized sweater and worn jeans. He looked like the boy from the rain-slicked sidewalk—vulnerable, real, and utterly shattered.
Arm stopped ten paces away, remembering Georgia's warning. He didn't call out. He didn't command. He just stood there, a silent sentinel in the mist.
Mild turned his head slowly. His eyes were hollow, the light of ambition and fear completely extinguished. He looked at Arm as if he were a ghost from a past life.
"Georgia told you," Mild said, his voice barely audible over the crashing waves.
"She was worried," Arm replied, staying back. "I'm not here to take you back, Mild. I'm not here to talk about scripts or scholarships. I just... I needed to know you were breathing."
Mild let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "Why? So you can admire the 'Masterpiece' one last time? The museum is closed, Arm. There's nothing left to see."
"I don't see a masterpiece," Arm said, his voice breaking as he finally let the mask fall. "I see a boy who saved a photographer's career in the rain. I see the only person who ever looked at me and didn't see a bank account or a political seat. I see you, Mild. And I'm sorry I tried to hide you behind a suit."
Mild looked back at the sea, a single tear tracking through the salt on his cheek. "Go home, Arm. Just... go home."
***
The silence in Mild's small apartment was thick enough to feel. Since his mother's funeral, he hadn't opened the curtains or turned on the light. He spent his days sitting on the floor by his mother's empty bed, the scholarship deadlines passing like distant echoes of a life that no longer belonged to him.
A sharp, persistent knock at the door broke the silence. It was Mrs. Gene, the homeroom teacher who had always seen Mild as her brightest hope. She didn't wait to be invited; she let herself in, her face falling as she smelled the stale air and saw the piles of unopened textbooks.
"Mild, look at me," she said, pulling a chair close to him. "The Foundation is already drafting the termination papers. You are three days away from losing everything you've worked for since you were a child."
Mild didn't look up. "It doesn't matter, Mrs. Gene. The person I was working for is in the ground."
"You think she wanted this?" Mrs. Gene's voice was stern but cracked with emotion. "She worked three jobs so you wouldn't have to live a life of silence and poverty. If you give up now, you aren't just losing a scholarship; you're erasing the only legacy she had. Your future was her dream, Mild. Don't let it die with her."
She left a stack of makeup assignments on the table. "One week. If you aren't back in that classroom in one week, I can't stop them from taking the scholarship back."
While Mild struggled in the dark, Arm was facing a storm of a different kind. He was summoned to his father's study—a room of cold marble and high-back leather chairs. His mother was there too, looking at him with a mixture of disappointment and calculated worry.
"The rumors are becoming a liability, Arm," his father said, tapping a folder containing reports of the Rolex scandal and the "scripted play" defense. "People are talking. They say you are obsessed with a commoner, a charity case who has now dropped out of sight."
"Mild is my Secretariat," Arm said, his voice a defensive rasp. "It's my responsibility to—"
"Your responsibility is to Style," his mother interrupted, her voice like a silken blade. "She is the daughter of a dynasty. You are seen with her, or you are seen alone. There is no third option."
His father stood up, leaning over the desk. "The Rolex incident was handled, but it left a stain. If you are seen near that boy again, it validates every 'deviant' rumor Style's father is trying to spread. You will take Style to the Centennial Prep Gala. You will publicly announce your commitment to the merger. And you will cut all ties with Mild immediately."
He paused, his eyes hardening. "If you don't, I will not only disown you, I will ensure that the Foundation sues Mild's estate for the recovery of every cent of his tuition. He is already grieving; do you want to make him a debtor too?"
Arm left the study feeling like a man walking toward a gallows. He knew his parents weren't bluffing. To save Mild from financial ruin, he had to stay away. To save his own future, he had to pretend to love Style.
Meanwhile, back in the dim apartment, Mild picked up the Greek philosophy book he had carried to the river. A small, handwritten note from his mother fell out from between the pages: "Keep going, my light. The sun always finds a way through the clouds."
The weight of everyone's expectations—Mrs. Gene's hope, his mother's sacrifice, and the Armitage's threats—began to crush him from all sides. He was caught between a life he no longer wanted and a future he was terrified to lose. Mild made his mind; he would return to school.
Mild returned to school the following day.
That evening, Georgia met Mild at the small park near his apartment. She saw the hollow look in his eyes and the way he flinched at every sound. She took his hand, her gaze fierce with a mix of leftover anger and protective love.
"Mild, look at me," she whispered. "I know everything is falling apart. I know about the Foundation, and I know about... him. But we can fix this. We can go back to how it was before St. Jude's ruined you."
"I don't know if I can, Georgia," Mild rasped. "I don't even know who I am anymore."
"We'll be secret," Georgia urged, her voice desperate. "The school doesn't have to know. Your mother's gone, and the Foundation is looking for any reason to drop you. If we keep our relationship in the dark, they can't call it a 'distraction.' I can be your anchor again."
Mild looked at her, searching for the spark he used to feel. He wanted to be "normal." He wanted to erase the memory of the river, the tunnel, and the way Arm's voice sounded in the dark. He believed that if he could just force himself to love Georgia again, the "fluctuating" feelings for Arm would eventually die.
"Okay," Mild whispered, pulling her into a stiff embrace. "We'll keep it secret. I want to be real again."
Georgia smiled thinking that Mild still had feelings for her. Mild felt sorry for her, he wished he could tell her the truth; that he doesn't feel the same way he used to, but how could he? He had once loved her and he believed that could still happen.