The moment Arm brought up his deceased sister, the temperature in the room dropped lower than any financial threat. Shelmith's death was the single, unhealed wound in the Armitage dynasty.
Arm stood before his parents, the mask of the ruthless heir firmly in place, but his words now carried a chilling undercurrent of genuine pain and misplaced blame.
"Shelmith's death wasn't an accident caused by political rivals, Mother," Arm stated, his voice a low, terrifying monotone. "It was caused by a distraction. It was caused by Mild."
His mother gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "What are you saying, Armitage? We investigated every political angle!"
"You missed the one she kept secret," Arm said, reaching for the confidential folder he'd brought from Shelmith's secure archive. He slid the laminated screenshots across the polished mahogany desk.
"Shelmith was obsessed with online dating," Arm explained. "She needed validation outside of this house. Two years ago, she met his profile on Tinder. She kept it secret, but I found the conversations by mistake. Her phone wasn't filled with political documents, Mother—it was occupied by pictures of that beautiful boy."
Arm pointed a rigid finger at the screenshots. "I saw the last message. They were planning a meet-up for that afternoon. Shelmith left the estate to meet Mild."
Arm's eyes turned to glass, reliving the moment of his failure. "I saw the message just before a Foundation crisis pulled me away. I planned on tailing her to ensure she was safe, but I failed. On the very day she left the security of the estate to chase after a commoner, she was involved in the accident. Mild was the magnet that pulled her to her death."
His parents were stunned into silence, the political threats forgotten. The shock of this personal tragedy, hidden under a cloak of secrecy and dating apps, was overwhelming.
"I didn't try to save his scholarship out of affection," Arm clarified, hammering home the lie that concealed his complex feelings. "I did it because he owes us. I did it because his presence here is a constant reminder of my failure to protect her."
The revelation shifted the ground entirely. The motivation was no longer about a political seat; it was about closure and revenge, sanctioned by familial grief.
His mother, tears welling in her eyes, finally spoke. "If Shelmith was meeting him, she might have told him things. She was researching Father's rivals, Arm. If she was obsessed with this boy, she might have confided in him. He could be a witness."
His father's face was grim. "The police closed the case as 'accidental.' We never believed it. Now, we have a lead."
The ultimatum was officially discarded. The new command was clear:
Go Easy on Mild: "Forget the revenge for now, Arm. You will go easy on him. He must not be pushed away; he must be drawn in."
Gain His Trust: "You will try your best to gain his trust. He will feel protected by you. You will make him believe you are his only anchor in this hostile school."
Bring Him to Our Side: "We need him. Bring him into the family's sphere. He might be the key in the investigation of Shelmith's death."
Arm had successfully replaced his 'affair' with a 'duty.' He was now mandated to keep Mild close, to protect his scholarship, and to feign kindness, all for the sake of uncovering the truth about his sister.
"Understood," Arm confirmed, a flicker of genuine relief mixed with the cold calculation of the mission in his eyes. He now had the perfect, unimpeachable reason to stay by Mild's side.
***
The following morning, the atmosphere at St. Jude's shifted from an arctic freeze to a calculated, confusing warmth. Arm had his new mandate: he had to be the savior he was previously forbidden to be.
While Mild sat in a secluded corner of the library, staring at the shredded remnants of the Apex Talent & Image card, Kavin approached him. He didn't say a word; he simply picked up a piece of the black plastic and examined the jagged edge.
"This agency is elite, Mild," Kavin said, his eyes narrowing. "They don't take walk-ins. Someone gave this to you." He looked toward the Student Council balcony where Arm usually stood. "He's still playing with you. He gives you a map to a door he's already locked."
Kavin's suspicion was growing. He realized that Arm's "severing" of ties was too clean, too theatrical. He began to keep his own camera focused not on Mild's beauty, but on the shadows behind Arm, looking for the strings being pulled.
Arm found Mild in the courtyard later that afternoon. Instead of the cold, dead-eyed President, Arm approached with a soft, weary expression.
"I heard about the agency," Arm said, sitting on the stone bench beside Mild. Mild immediately stood up to leave, but Arm caught his sleeve. "Wait. I didn't know my parents would move that fast. I tried to give you an out, Mild. I'm sorry it backfired."
"Sorry?" Mild laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. "You fired me in front of everyone, Arm. You called me unstable. You told me we were done. Why are you even talking to me? Is this a new 'rehearsal' for Style's cameras?"
"No," Arm said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The board was watching. My parents were watching. I had to make them believe I didn't care, or they would have taken your scholarship right then. I'm trying to protect you the only way I know how."
Mild pulled his arm away. "I don't trust you. Not after the 'joke' at the lodge. Not after the office. Every time you're 'kind,' I end up bleeding."
Arm leaned back, shifting the conversation.
"You know," Arm said, feigning a casual curiosity, "you're always so focused on books and your mother. Have you ever actually... lived? Have you ever tried online dating? Apps like Tinder?"
Mild looked at him with genuine confusion. "Online dating? I barely have enough money for a data plan, Arm. Why would I spend time talking to strangers on the internet when my real life is already a disaster? No, such a thought has never even occurred to me."
Arm's heart skipped a beat. Mild's denial was immediate and appeared entirely sincere. If Mild wasn't the one talking to Shelmith, then who was using his face to lure her to her death?
"It was just a thought," Arm teased, trying to mask his internal turmoil with a smirk. "With your looks, Mild, you'd have a line of admirers around the block before you even finished your profile. You'd have people obsessed with you."
"I don't want admirers," Mild snapped. "I want to be left alone."
From the shadows of the second-floor corridor, Style watched the interaction through a high-powered lens. She was looking for a touch, a lingering look, a moment of "deviant" weakness she could report to her father.
However, Arm was one step ahead. Every time he spoke to Mild, he angled his body so that his back was to Style's known vantage points. He kept his hands in his pockets, and his expressions, while "kind," were carefully calibrated to look like a mentor counseling a troubled student.
Style slammed her locker shut. "He knows," she hissed. "He's playing a different game now."
Arm watched Mild walk away, feeling the weight of the mystery deepening. He had to gain Mild's trust to find out more about Shelmith—but the more he tried to "save" Mild, the more Mild looked at him with nothing but fear and exhaustion.
Mild arrived at his locker between classes, his fingers trembling as he dialed the combination. When the metal door swung open, a heavy, cream-colored envelope fell out. There was no stamp, no return address—just his name written in a terrifyingly elegant, sharp script.
Inside, a single card read:
"No matter what Armitage promises you, no matter how many 'savior' roles he plays, do not accept the restoration of your relationship. If you let him back in, consider your scholarship—and your future—erased. I am a shadow that even the Armitage family fears. Stay away, or lose everything."
Mild's breath hitched. The paper felt like silk, and the ink was a deep, midnight blue. This wasn't the work of a student pulling a prank. The note claimed a status superior to Arm's family, which felt impossible in the hierarchy of St. Jude's.
Mild leaned against the lockers, his heart racing as he scanned the crowded hallway, seeing enemies in every face:
Zen: The archery captain had the motive; he hated Arm and wanted Mild isolated. But did he have the "superior" power?
Kavin: He was a Suriya heir, wealthy enough to challenge Arm, and he desperately wanted Mild to leave the Armitage orbit.
Bella: The girl whose crush had turned into a silent, watchful resentment—could her family be the hidden power?
Style: Was this a trap to test if he would run back to Arm?
The Wall of SilenceTerrified of losing the only thing his mother had died for—his degree—Mild implemented a policy of absolute avoidance.
When Arm tried to catch him after History class to "discuss the investigation," Mild didn't just walk away; he ran. He took the long route through the service tunnels to avoid the Student Council wing. He stopped eating in the cafeteria, hiding in the library archives where even Arm's "secret guards" struggled to follow him.
Arm, noticing the sudden, frantic shift, cornered Mild near the gym. "Mild, stop! We need to talk about the agency rejection. I..
."
"Don't come near me!" Mild shouted, his voice cracking with a fear that wasn't just about the "joke" anymore. He backed away, his eyes darting to the security cameras, wondering if the "Superior Shadow" was watching. "Stay away from me, Arm. If you care about me even a little, never speak to me again."
Arm stood in the middle of the hallway, stunned. He had his parents' permission to be kind, he had a mission to find Shelmith's killer, and yet Mild was looking at him like he was a death sentence.
He retreated to his office, where he found Style waiting, a smug look on her face.
"He's avoiding you like the plague, Arm," she remarked, inspecting her nails. "It seems your 'trust-building' exercise is a disaster. Maybe he realized that being near an Armitage is a one-way ticket to a hit-and-run accident."
Arm's eyes darkened. He realized that someone was interfering with his "script," someone who knew exactly how to pull Mild's strings.
Deep within the historic east wing of St. Jude's—a section reserved for the Foundation's highest donors—the Grand Matriarch, Madam Vora, sat in a high-backed velvet chair. She was the only person in the country whose signature could override the Armitage family's political standing.
Across from her sat a girl who, until now, had been a ghost in the hallways. To the teachers, she was just Skyler, a quiet scholarship student with average grades. To the world, she didn't exist.
Skyler's eyes were a sharp, piercing grey, reflecting a cold intelligence. As the illegitimate daughter of the Country's President, her existence was a state secret, but her power was absolute. Her father's shadow protected her, and Madam Vora was her only confidante.
"The note has been delivered," Skyler said, her voice a calm, melodic chill. "Mild is terrified. He's avoiding Armitage like a wounded animal."
Madam Vora smiled thinly. "The Armitages think they run this school, but they forget who owns the land it sits on. Why this boy, Skyler? He is a commoner, a mess of scandals."
Skyler leaned back, a faint, obsessive smile playing on her lips. "He is a masterpiece that they all keep trying to smudge with their dirty hands. Arm wants to mold him, Kavin wants to save him, and Zen wants to break him. But I... I have been sitting behind him in every lecture for two years. I have watched the way the sun hits his neck. I have watched him cry for his mother in the library stacks. I have seen the parts of him the 'President' was too arrogant to notice."
Skyler's obsession was not loud like Arm's. It was a silent, predatory devotion. She had been the one who:
Quietly tipped off the Foundation about the Rolex to see how Mild would handle the pressure.
Watched from the shadows of the gym while Zen threatened him.
Noticed the exact moment Mild's heart broke when Arm called their connection a "joke."
"He doesn't need a savior or a sculptor," Skyler whispered, her eyes dark with fixation. "He needs to be hidden. And I am the only one with a shadow deep enough to hide him in. If Armitage tries to touch him again, I will have my father dissolve the Armitage Ministry seat by Monday."
In the crowded cafeteria, Mild sat at the very back, his back against a cold stone pillar. He was hyper-aware of everyone around him. Every time a student walked past, he flinched, wondering if they were the "Superior Shadow."
He felt eyes on him. He turned slightly and saw Skyler sitting three tables away, seemingly focused on a book. She had always been there—quiet, unremarkable, a face in the crowd. He didn't realize that she was currently memorizing the rhythm of his breathing.
Arm entered the cafeteria, his presence demanding the room's attention. He scanned the tables, his eyes landing on Mild. He began to walk over, his expression softening, ready to try his "calculated kindness" again.
Mild's heart hammered against his ribs. If he talks to me, I lose the scholarship. I lose everything.
Just as Arm was five steps away, Mild stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over, and bolted for the exit. He didn't see the dark, satisfied glint in Skyler's eyes as she watched him run. He only saw the exit.
Arm stood frozen in the middle of the cafeteria, his hand half-extended. The rejection was public and jarring. He looked around, feeling the eyes of the students—and the hidden eyes of Style's cameras—on him.
He felt a strange prickle on the back of his neck. He turned and his gaze met Skyler's for a fleeting second. She didn't look away; she gave him a small, polite nod, the picture of a perfect, invisible student.
Arm frowned. He didn't know her name. He didn't know her power. But for the first time, the "President" felt like he was no longer the one holding the script.
Arm couldn't stand the sight of Mild avoiding him like a plague. The mandate from his parents—to gain Mild's trust and investigate Shelmith's death—felt impossible when Mild wouldn't even stand in the same room.
He decided that if he couldn't talk to Mild at school, he would ambush him in the neutral territory of his home, where the shadows of the Foundation couldn't reach them.
Late that evening, Arm drove his black sedan to Mild's quiet, dimly lit apartment complex. He bypassed his security detail, opting for a reckless solo mission. He picked the lock on Mild's worn front door with professional ease, slipping inside the small, dark living room.
The apartment smelled faintly of cheap soap and old paper. The silence was broken only by the sound of running water coming from the small bathroom down the narrow hall. Mild was taking a shower.
Arm planned to wait quietly on the sofa, forcing a confrontation, but the sound drew him forward, his curiosity—or perhaps his obsession—overriding his common sense. He approached the bathroom door, intending only to announce his presence.
Arm reached for the door handle, but it wasn't fully latched. A narrow gap, less than an inch wide, revealed a sliver of the brightly lit, steamy bathroom interior.
Arm froze. He didn't mean to look, but his eyes were drawn to the gap, and through the steam and the crack in the door, he saw him.
Mild was standing beneath the showerhead, his body slick with water. The harsh bathroom light stripped away the expensive clothes and the layers of grief and anxiety, revealing the pure, unblemished physical form that Arm had only glimpsed in shadows and frantic, clothed moments. He saw the sharp lines of Mild's collarbone, the curve of his waist, and the water tracing the taut muscles of his back.
Arm felt a sudden, violent reaction in his body—a physical, visceral pressure that was raw and utterly unlike the calculated yearning he usually managed. This wasn't the "Masterpiece" he admired from a distance; this was a flesh-and-blood man who ignited an immediate, uncontrollable need.
The shock of the sight, combined with the guilt over his sister and the fear of his parents, slammed into Arm like a physical blow. He was instantly lost for words, the carefully constructed speech about Shelmith and trust dissolving into a painful, suffocating heat.
Unable to handle the raw, genuine pressure of his body's overwhelming reaction, Arm didn't stay to talk. He didn't even risk a second glance. He whirled around, his expensive leather shoes scraping against the worn linoleum floor.
He darted silently out of the apartment, pulling the door shut behind him with a near-soundless click. He scrambled back to his car, starting the engine with a shaking hand.
Arm sped away into the night, leaving the apartment complex behind. He was breathing heavily, his entire body trembling. The shame wasn't just in seeing Mild naked; the shame was in the realization that his carefully controlled hatred and his noble investigation were a vicious lie. He still desired Mild with a terrifying intensity, and that uncontrollable desire was a weakness that could still ruin his family, the investigation, and, most importantly, Mild's life.
He drove aimlessly, unable to face the fact that the "Script" was still being written by his own, untamed heart.