Mild's first sensation was the dull ache behind his eyes and the confusing, blissful absence of cold. He was cocooned in warmth, his head resting on something soft. The harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom was gone, replaced by the deep, soothing grey of a morning just before sunrise.
He opened his eyes. He was lying on his sofa, covered with a surprisingly heavy, soft blanket. A cool, damp compress sat perfectly positioned on his forehead.
He sat up with a gasp, the blanket falling away. The industrial grit was gone, his clothes were dry, and his skin was clean. The last thing he remembered was the fear, the exhaustion, and the terrifying sight of Arm's hooded figure at the bus stop.
He bolted upright, his gaze sweeping the tiny living room. Arm was sitting in the corner, near the single, dusty bookshelf, meticulously reading one of Mild's Greek philosophy texts. He looked like he hadn't slept, his expensive shirt rumpled and his perfect hair slightly messy.
"You're awake," Arm said, closing the book softly. His voice was low, stripped of its usual melodic command, sounding dangerously intimate.
Mild felt a tidal wave of conflicting emotions: gratitude for the care, terror over the broken lock, and utter confusion. He slid off the sofa, clutching the blanket to his chest like a shield.
"What are you doing here?" Mild demanded, his voice thin and raw. "You broke in. You carried me. You know they're watching! If the Matriarch sees you here—"
"The Matriarch can wait," Arm cut in, rising slowly. He didn't approach; he simply pulled the crumpled, damp work jacket from the night before off the back of a chair and tossed it to Mild. "You were burning up, Secretariat. You passed out on the street. I stabilized the fever."
Arm's gaze was heavy, holding none of the cruelty of the "Masterpiece" script, but all the confusing, possessive yearning. He didn't answer the question directly. Instead, he reached into his pocket and slowly pulled out the silver chain.
The feather pendant caught the faint morning light, the tiny blue opal glinting.
"I found this under your pillow," Arm said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I need you to tell me exactly how you got this, Mild. I need you to tell me the truth, right now."
Mild's eyes widened, the color draining from his face. He didn't deny owning it. He looked at the pendant, then back at Arm, and his body visibly shuddered. The truth wasn't fear of losing the scholarship; it was something much deeper.
"I… I didn't steal it," Mild stammered, his eyes darting to the corner of the ceiling, where a shadow seemed to linger even in the morning light. "I didn't know whose it was. I was given it."
"Given it by whom?" Arm pressed, stepping closer, closing the distance between them. "Who gave it to you?"
Mild backed up until his spine hit the cold wall. "It was two years ago, Arm. Right before the school year started. I was waiting tables at that tiny coffee shop near the train station, the one with the cracked tile floor."
He took a shaky breath, the memory surfacing, tinged with a strange, foreboding sadness.
"A delivery courier came in—not one of the regulars. He looked nervous, kept checking his phone. He ordered a coffee and then asked me for a pen and a small piece of paper. He wrote something down, put it in a tiny, folded napkin, and pressed this pendant into my hand. He told me to keep it and wear it."
"He said, and I remember this exactly: 'Give this to the boy who looks like the future. Tell him it's a promise of protection from the past.' Then he paid for his coffee with three large, old-fashioned bills, didn't touch the napkin, and walked out without waiting for change or the coffee."
"He just... gave it to you?" Arm stared, completely thrown off. This wasn't the confession of an obsessed admirer or a rival. It was a cryptic delivery. "A promise of protection? From whom?"
"I thought it was a joke," Mild whispered.
Arm looked down at the silver feather, then at Mild's terrified face. A nameless, third-party courier. A message that links Mild to Shelmith, but also links him to a larger, invisible game played by unknown forces.
Arm's father's rival? The Foundation? Or the "Superior Shadow"—?
Arm turned to leave, but Mild's voice stopped him, the fear replaced by a quiet, heartbreaking certainty.
"Did you… did you look through the door?"
Arm froze, his hand already on the cold metal of the doorknob. He didn't turn around. He closed his eyes, his breath catching in his throat.
"I didn't see anything," Arm lied, his voice a dry, strained rasp. "Go back to sleep."
Arm's hand tightened on the doorknob until his knuckles turned white. The memory of the steam, the water, and the raw, physical pull he felt for the boy flashed behind his eyes like a brand. He couldn't face it—not the truth of his desire, and not the guilt of his sister. Without a word, he yanked the door open and stormed out, the heavy thud of the deadbolt echoing like a final rejection.
***
The following afternoon, the school's atmosphere was suffocating. Mild was summoned not to the Student Council, but to the East Wing—the sanctum of the Foundation.
Madam Vora sat behind a desk of black marble. She didn't offer him a seat. Instead, she slid a manila envelope across the cold surface. Inside were high-resolution photographs:
Arm carrying an unconscious Mild into the apartment.
The shadow of a hooded figure (Arm) entering Mild's home at midnight.
A grainy shot through the window of Arm leaning over Mild on the sofa.
"These were delivered to me by a 'concerned party,'" Madam Vora said, her voice like a sharpened blade. "The Armitages have a legacy to maintain. You, Mr. Cho, are a smudge on that legacy. This looks like a scandal. It looks like... deviancy."
Mild felt the room spin. "He was helping me. I was sick—"
"I don't care about the truth," she snapped. "I care about the optics. You will sign a statement declaring that you lured the President to your home. You will distance yourself from him publicly and accept a 'mentor' in the form of Style's choosing. If you do this, your scholarship stays. If you don't, these photos go to the press, and you will be doomed."
Something inside Mild finally snapped. The grief for his mother, the fear of the "Shadow," the confusion over Arm, and the exhaustion of the warehouse shifts—it all boiled over into a white-hot rage.
"Is that all?" Mild whispered, then louder, "IS THAT ALL?"
Madam Vora blinked, startled. "Excuse me?"
"You keep holding this scholarship over my head like a noose!" Mild shouted, his voice cracking with a raw, agonizing power. "Every day I have to lie. Every day I have to be 'perfect' so you don't ruin me. I have to be a masterpiece for everyone. I am tired of being something that people own!"
He grabbed the photos and threw them back at her, the paper fluttering like dying birds.
"Keep the scholarship! Burn my name! Do whatever you wish with the photos!" Mild yelled, his chest heaving. "I'd rather be a debtor in the streets than spend one more second in this golden cage. I'm done!"
He turned and sprinted out of the office, ignoring the Matriarch's outraged calls.
Mild ran until his lungs burned and his legs gave out. He reached the center of the school's vast, empty athletic field. He collapsed onto the grass, the damp earth staining his uniform.
He let out a jagged, howling sob. "Why?" he screamed into the wind. "Why can't I just have it easy? Why did I have to go through all these?"
He clawed at the grass, his mind flashing back to the bathroom mirror and the utility blade. He should have done it. He should have carved the "Masterpiece" into a mess of scars.Maybe If he were ugly, he'd be invisible. If he were invisible, he'd be free.
The grass of the athletic field was damp, soaking into Mild's trousers as he sat there, his shoulders shaking with the force of his grief. The silver pendant lay in the dirt, a mocking glint of a world he no longer wanted to belong to.
"Mild."
The voice was unmistakable. It was the voice that had dictated his life for months—the melodic, commanding tone of the President. Arm stood a few feet away, his silhouette sharp against the afternoon sky. He had seen Mild bolt from the East Wing and had followed, his heart hammering with a mix of political dread and that new, terrifying possessiveness.
Mild didn't look up. He didn't have the energy to be afraid anymore. "Go away, Arm."
"I heard what happened with the Matriarch," Arm said, taking a cautious step forward. "She told me you threw the photos at her. You can't be that reckless, Mild. I can fix this. I can talk to my father, we can suppress the prints—"
"Fix it?" Mild snapped, suddenly standing up. He turned to face Arm, his eyes bloodshot and his face streaked with tears and dirt. He looked wild, uncontained. "You still think this is a script you can edit? I just told the most powerful woman in this school to go to hell. I've lost the scholarship. I've lost my future. I have nothing left to lose."
Arm reached out, his fingers twitching as if to grab Mild's shoulder. "Mild, listen to me—"
"No, you listen!" Mild shouted, stepping into Arm's personal space, his finger jabbing into the President's expensive blazer. "The 'Secretariat' is dead. The 'Masterpiece' is broken. From this moment on, I will not do a single thing you say. I won't stay in the apartment you broke into, I won't wear the suits you bought, and I won't be your puppet anymore. If you come near me again, I'll give them a reason to take those photos. I'll make sure everyone knows exactly what the perfect Armitage heir really wants."
Arm flinched as if he'd been struck. He had never seen Mild like this—devoid of the stutter, devoid of the deference. It was the raw power of a man who had already burned his own bridges.
"Mild..." Arm whispered, but the boy had already turned his back, walking away with a jagged, uneven stride.
From the shadow of the equipment shed, Skyler watched. Her grey eyes were fixed on Mild's retreating form. She had witnessed the fallout, seen the way Arm stood paralyzed in the middle of the field like a king who had just lost his crown. A cold, satisfied hum vibrated in her chest.
When Arm finally retreated toward the main building, looking defeated, Skyler made her move.
Mild had collapsed onto a stone bench near the edge of the field, his head in his hands. He heard the soft crunch of gravel. He expected Arm to be back for a second round, or perhaps Zen to come and gloat.
Instead, a small, pale hand entered his field of vision, holding a clean, white handkerchief embroidered with a tiny, inconspicuous daisy.
"You're... you're crying," a quiet, shy voice said.
Mild looked up. It was the girl from her class, the silent one—the one who was always there, blending into the background. Skyler. She looked worried, her head tilted slightly, her expression the perfect mask of a concerned classmate.
Mild took the handkerchief, his movements mechanical. "Thanks," he muttered, wiping his eyes. He didn't really look at her; to him, she was just another face in a school that had become a blur of pain. He handed it back almost immediately. "I'm fine."
Skyler felt a sharp, jagged pang in her chest. She had been watching him for two years. She had been the shadow that protected him, the one who sent the note to keep him safe from Arm. And yet, he looked at her and saw... nothing. He didn't even recognize the "Superior Shadow" in her eyes. It hurt more than any of the Matriarch's threats.
"What happened?" Skyler asked softly, sitting at the very edge of the bench, trying to draw him out. "Was it the President? People say he's... difficult. You can tell me, Mild. I'm a good listener."
Mild let out a long, exhausted sigh. He stood up, clutching his bag to his chest. He didn't feel like talking; he felt like fading away.
"It doesn't matter anymore," Mild said, his voice flat and hollow. "It'll all be over soon. I'm leaving St. Jude's forever. I won't have to deal with the Presidents, or the Matriarchs, or the 'Masterpieces' ever again. I'm going somewhere I can be invisible."
He began to walk away, his pace quickening as he headed toward the gates.
Skyler stood by the bench, clutching the damp handkerchief in her fist. Her shy expression dissolved, replaced by a terrifying, cold focus.
"You think you're leaving?" she whispered to the empty air, her voice no longer shy, but resonant with the power of her father's hidden office. "You think you can just walk out of the frame?"
She pulled out her phone and dialed a secure number. "He's trying to run. Block the transit lines. And tell Madam Vora to hold off on the termination papers. He isn't going anywhere until I say so."