The sound of the front door clicking shut echoed through the small apartment, sharp enough to cut through the rhythmic hiss of the shower. Mild froze, his hand suspended in the air as he rinsed soap from his neck.
His heart, already fragile from the week's trauma, surged into his throat. He lived alone. No one should be in his home.
Mild scrambled out of the shower, not even bothering to dry himself properly. He wrapped a thin, frayed towel around his waist, his skin still glistening and damp, and grabbed the utility blade he had left on the sink—the very same one he had almost used on his face.
He kicked the bathroom door open, his eyes wide and wild, ready to strike.
"Who's there?" he shouted, his voice echoing in the empty hallway.
The living room was silent, but the smell of Arm's expensive, wood-smoke cologne lingered in the air like a ghost. Mild reached the front door and saw that it was unlocked—a door he knew he had latched. He stepped out into the hallway of the complex just in time to hear the roar of a high-end engine peeling away from the curb below.
Mild slumped against the doorframe, the cold night air hitting his damp skin, causing a violent shiver. He didn't need to see the car to know it was him.
"Why won't you just let me go?" Mild whispered into the darkness, clutching the blade so hard his knuckles turned white.
What neither Mild nor Arm knew was that the black sedan hadn't been the only vehicle on the street. Parked in a deep shadow three houses down was a nondescript grey car. Inside, Skyler sat with a pair of night-vision binoculars lowered.
She had watched Arm sneak in, and she had watched him practically stumble out barely three minutes later, looking like a man who had seen a vision of heaven and hell at the same time.
Skyler tapped a rhythm on her steering wheel, her expression unreadable but her eyes burning with possessive fury. She knew Arm's weaknesses; she knew he was losing his grip on his "revenge" narrative.
"You're getting careless, Mr. President," she murmured to herself. "You're trespassing on property that already has a new owner."
Inside the apartment, Mild locked the door and slid down to the floor, his head resting against the wood. He was terrified. The note in his locker had been clear: Stay away from Arm or lose the scholarship. But how could he stay away when Arm was literally breaking into his home? To the "Superior Shadow" watching him, this would look like Mild was still engaging with the Armitage heir.
He felt trapped between two titans. Arm was a fire that wanted to consume him, and the anonymous sender was an ice that wanted to freeze his future solid.
Mild looked at the black modeling agency card sitting on the kitchen counter. He realized he couldn't stay in this apartment anymore. He wasn't safe here—not from his enemies, and certainly not from his own confusing, "fluctuating" feelings for the man who had just watched him bathe through a crack in the door.
***
The pressure on Mild had reached a crushing weight. Georgia's apartment—once his only sanctuary—was no longer an option. The anonymous note had been specific: any contact with his "past distractions" or the "Armitage circle" would be monitored. Fearing that the "Superior Shadow" would target Georgia just to get to him, Mild chose to disappear into the only place where he could be a nameless face in the crowd: a grueling, overnight shift at a 24-hour shipping warehouse on the city's outskirts.
The next morning, Arm didn't receive a text or a call. Instead, two men in gray suits met him at the school gate and escorted him to the East Wing. Madam Vora, the Grand Matriarch, sat behind a desk made of ancient oak. She didn't look up as he entered.
"Sit, Armitage," she said, her voice like grinding stones.
"Madam Vora, I have a Council meeting—"
"You have a funeral for your future if you don't listen," she interrupted, finally looking up. Her eyes were sharp with a power that made his father's look amateur. "The Foundation has been made aware of your... nocturnal excursions. Your parents agreed to an investigation, not a romance. Stay away from the Cho boy. There are powers moving in this country that make your Ministry seat look like a child's high-chair. If you involve yourself with him again, I will personally ensure the Armitage name is struck from every ledger in this city."
Arm left the room reeling. He wasn't just being threatened by a rival; he was being warned by the Foundation itself. He realized then that Mild's sudden, frantic avoidance wasn't just fear of the "joke"—Mild had likely been threatened by the same shadow.
At 11:00 PM, Arm dressed in a plain black hoodie and jeans—clothes that didn't scream "President." He slipped out of his estate and drove back to the ghetto. He let himself into Mild's apartment again, but this time, the air was cold.
The utility blade was gone from the sink. The textbooks were missing. Arm stood in the center of the dark living room, a terrifying sense of loss washing over him. Did I drive him away? Is he gone forever?
He wandered out into the dark, rain-slicked streets of the neighborhood, his heart hammering. He searched the nearby parks, the late-night libraries, his mind racing through every dark possibility.
Arm wandered the rain-slicked streets near the apartment, his mind racing. Finally, at 00:00—midnight exactly—a figure emerged from the gloom of an alleyway near the bus stop.
It was Mild.
He was wearing a heavy work jacket with a reflective vest peeking out from underneath. His face was pale, his eyes rimmed with red exhaustion, and his hands were stained with the industrial grime of the warehouse. He looked like a ghost of the "Masterpiece" he once was. When he saw the hooded figure in his path, his hand instinctively reached for the pocket where he kept his blade.
"Mild," Arm whispered, pulling back his own hood.
Mild gasped, the shock in his eyes turning into a jagged, raw terror. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over the curb. "You... you're still here? Why are you doing this to me?"
"I went to your house. It was cold, Mild. I thought you were gone," Arm said, his voice desperate. "Where have you been? It's midnight."
"I was working," Mild sobbed, the exhaustion finally stripping away his defenses. "I can't go to Georgia's. I can't go to school early. I just stay at the warehouse until the sun comes up because I'm terrified to be home. They told me they'd destroy me if I spoke to you! They said whoever is watching is superior to your family! If they see you here, right now, I lose everything!"
Mild looked around the dark street, his eyes wide and paranoid. "Please, Arm. If you ever actually cared about my future, leave me alone. I'm just a boy trying to survive, and you're a storm that won't stop blowing."
Arm stood frozen. He realized that by trying to "save" Mild, he was providing the evidence the "Superior Shadow"—Skyler—needed to ruin him.
The sight of Mild's terror and exhaustion—the grimy work jacket, the red-rimmed eyes—shattered the last remnants of Arm's composure. He took a protective step forward, ignoring the Matriarch's warnings.
"Mild, stop talking. You're burning up."
Before Arm could reach him, Mild's eyes rolled back. The sheer weight of grief, fear, constant avoidance, and the exhaustion from the night shift finally overwhelmed him. He collapsed forward, his body slumping heavily into Arm's arms.
Arm caught him instantly, the unexpected weight of Mild's frame jarring. Mild's skin was frighteningly hot to the touch.
"Damn it, Mild," Arm cursed, adrenaline flooding his system. He didn't hesitate. He hoisted the unconscious boy into his arms, carrying him the few remaining yards back to the stolen safety of the empty apartment.
Inside the dark, cold apartment, Arm quickly assessed the situation. Mild was burning up with a high fever. Arm stripped off Mild's clammy work jacket and vest, laying him gently on the worn sofa.
He knew he couldn't call a doctor; it would alert the Matriarch. He needed to handle this himself. He rushed to the tiny bathroom, soaked a towel in cool water, and returned to Mild.
With a deep breath, Arm began his work. He carefully unbuttoned Mild's shirt, peeling the damp fabric away from his chest. He saw the bruises of exhaustion on his skin and the faint lines of worry etched around his eyes even in sleep. Arm gently began wiping down Mild's chest, neck, and shoulders, trying to bring the fever down.
As he worked, moving the cool, damp cloth with agonizing tenderness, Arm's carefully constructed walls began to crumble. He moved the towel lower, wiping Mild's stomach and sides, his focus momentarily lost in the symmetry and fragility of the sleeping body beneath his hands.
The air was heavy, thick with steam and the scent of feverish sweat. Arm paused, his hand hovering over Mild's bare chest. His gaze drifted up to Mild's face, pale and peaceful in unconsciousness. The beautiful, cursed face that had been the epicenter of so much political chaos and personal torment.
Arm leaned closer, his own breathing ragged. His fingers traced the line of Mild's jaw—the jaw he had wanted to trace in the lodge hallway. He was consumed by an overwhelming, possessive affection. All the masks—the revenge plot for his parents, the grief over Shelmith, the feigned political indifference—vanished. All that remained was raw, undeniable yearning.
He lowered his head, his lips hovering a hair's breadth away from Mild's forehead. He wanted to kiss away the fever, to kiss away the fear, to claim him entirely.
Do I like him that way? The question screamed in Arm's mind, a terrifying, disruptive realization. Is this why I can't let him go? Why I feel nothing for Style? I have always liked girls, how could it be? What does he have that captures me so much? The possibility was a political and dynastic nightmare, a truth that would destroy his family's platform and his entire inheritance.
Arm recoiled instantly, shame and fear a cold wave washing over the heat of desire. He stumbled backward, steadying himself against the wall. He covered Mild quickly with a blanket.
He stood over Mild, his chest heaving, his heart torn between the need to protect the boy and the overwhelming desire to simply own him.
"You are mine," Arm whispered, the words heavy with desperate possessiveness. "No one else can have you. Not the Matriarch, not Kavin, not Zen, and certainly not that girl, Bella, who looked at you in the boardroom. You are my undoing, Mild, and I won't let anyone else finish the job."
He was caught in a terrifying cycle: Mild's presence exposed Arm's forbidden truth, forcing him to act, but his actions only drew him closer, proving the truth and endangering them both.
Arm stabilized Mild on the sofa, covering him with a blanket and placing a cool compress on his forehead. The fever was still raging, but Mild was breathing steadily.
With the boy unconscious and the house temporarily safe, Arm's "investigation" mandate kicked back in. He needed to find evidence related to Shelmith to justify his continued presence to himself.
He quietly moved through the tiny apartment. He checked the small desk and the few shelves. He found no messages, no secrets, only textbooks and utility bills. He felt a wave of crushing disappointment, fearing his whole sacrificial mission was pointless.
Then, his eye caught a glint of metal tucked under the pillow Mild was sleeping on. It was a silver chain.
Arm gently slid the chain out. It was a delicate silver pendant in the shape of a stylized feather, inlaid with a tiny piece of blue opal.
Arm froze. His heart hammered against his ribs. This wasn't just a pendant. This was the same feather pendant Shelmith had worn every single day after her sixteenth birthday. It was a unique, limited-edition piece given only to the children of specific political figures at a certain summit. It had been missing since her death.
How could Mild possibly have Shelmith's most treasured possession?
Arm carefully slipped the pendant into his pocket. He stared at the sleeping boy, the fever flush on his cheeks, the innocence of his unconscious face belying the possibility that he was connected to two years of pain and lies.
I will ask him when he wakes up, Arm vowed silently. I will find out how he got this. Did Shelmith give it to him before she died? Did he know her? Was he truly responsible?
The truth of Mild's connection to his dead sister was now literally in Arm's hand, deepening the possessiveness and the terrible, conflicting feelings he felt for the boy.