Mild waited until he felt the cold had properly numbed the heat in his face before heading back inside. Style followed him, settling back onto her bench with a knowing smirk.
Arm was sitting up in the bed, his back against the wall. He hadn't put his shirt back on. He watched Mild walk across the room with the same heavy, unblinking intensity.
Mild stopped at the edge of the bed. He didn't sit down. He looked down at Arm, his voice low and trembling with a mix of anger and confusion.
"Do you even know what you're doing?" Mild whispered. "That... that thing you said. The way you were looking at me. Do you realize how inappropriate that was? We aren't in a drama, Arm. This is my life. You can't just say things like that to me."
Arm leaned his head back against the wall, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his lips. The aristocratic mask was gone, replaced by something cocky and maddeningly confident.
"I know exactly what I'm doing, Secretariat," Arm said, his voice a low rumble. "I find teasing you... amusing. You're always so controlled, so careful. I wanted to see what it took to break that."
He shifted, the quilt sliding lower on his waist, purposefully drawing Mild's eyes back to his toned frame.
"And if the teasing works on you," Arm continued, his voice dropping to a challenge, "then why fight it? If you feel that reaction in your body, Mild, you can just go with the flow. Give in. It would make this long night much more interesting for both of us."
Mild felt a surge of indignation. "You're a narcissist. You think everyone is just a toy for your entertainment."
"Maybe," Arm replied, closing his eyes with a smirk. "But you're the only toy I've ever wanted to keep."
Mild stood rigid at the bedside, the confrontation feeling hollowed out by Arm's casual dismissal. He was ready to leave the room again, but Arm's next words stopped him cold.
"It's interesting," Arm said, his tone abruptly shifting. The cocky smile vanished, replaced by a look of profound, engineered sorrow that dimmed the fire in his eyes. "I just told you that you possess the only piece of jewelry that belonged to my younger sister, Shelmith, before she died, and you haven't shown a single flicker of remorse for my loss."
Mild's indignation instantly deflated, replaced by a wave of sharp guilt. Arm looked genuinely broken now, his shoulders slumped and his gaze distant. The weight of the silver feather beneath Mild's shirt suddenly felt immense. He had been so focused on his own escape and Arm's manipulation that he had completely ignored the genuine pain hidden beneath the revelation.
"Arm, I..." Mild stammered, his anger draining away. "I didn't mean to—I wasn't thinking."
"Of course you weren't," Arm whispered, his voice catching slightly. He looked down at his bare chest. "It's easy to dismiss me as a toy, Mild. But when you look at me, you only see the President. You don't see the boy who lost his sister and is trapped in a role he never wanted."
The sudden, raw vulnerability pierced through Mild's defenses. The sight of Arm, exposed and seemingly genuine, was devastating. Without conscious thought, Mild moved. His fear and anger dissolved into an overwhelming surge of pity and empathy. He wanted to comfort the source of the pain he was now fleeing.
Mild sat gently on the edge of the bed and tentatively reached out, pulling Arm into a spontaneous, tight hug. He completely forgot that Arm was almost naked, clad only in his silk boxers.
They held the embrace for a long moment. Mild felt the powerful warmth of Arm's bare, toned skin against his jacket, and the solid, reassuring beat of his heart. Mild subconsciously snuggled closer, sinking into the unfamiliar comfort of Arm's strong arms.
Then, the warmth registered. The proximity, the contact with Arm's abs and toned chest, and the intimate position they were in snapped Mild back to full, horrified consciousness. He was clinging to the boy he was desperately trying to escape, the boy who had just been teasing him about giving in to desire.
Mild stiffened and attempted to pull away, but before he could slide off the mattress, Arm's arms tightened like steel bands around his back.
"Don't go," Arm murmured, burying his face near Mild's neck. His grip was insistent, unyielding.
Mild struggled gently, panic rising in his throat. "Arm, let go. I can't—"
Arm lifted his head, his eyes heavy with the same intense look that had sent Mild running earlier. The genuine sadness was gone, replaced by a triumphant, possessive gleam. He had lured Mild back, and now he had him trapped.
"You could just give in, Mild," Arm whispered, his eyes scanning Mild's flushed face. "You could stop fighting what your body is clearly telling you. We could do anything you want, anything you feel like. No one has to know."
The blatant return to manipulation, using Mild's own compassionate impulse against him, extinguished the last vestige of pity. Mild's fear turned back into white-hot fury.
With a gasp of effort, Mild ripped his arm free just enough to draw back his fist. He didn't aim for Arm's face; he punched him hard, a sharp, desperate jab right into his defined abs.
Arm grunted sharply, his grip instantly loosening from the unexpected impact. Mild seized the opportunity, rolling off the bed and scrambling backward.
"You're disgusting," Mild hissed, grabbing his duffel bag. He didn't look back at Arm, who was doubled over on the bed, nursing his midsection. He bolted for the door, not caring about the cold or the darkness, just needing to be anywhere that Arm wasn't.
Arm remained doubled over on the rickety bed, the air knocked out of him. The punch hadn't just hit his midsection; it had bruised his ego. He watched the cabin door swing violently on its hinges, the cold wind rushing in to replace the warmth Mild had left behind.
He let out a low, breathless laugh that sounded more like a choke. He straightened up slowly, rubbing the spot on his abs where Mild's knuckles had connected. The skin was reddening, a physical mark of the "Masterpiece" fighting back.
"He actually hit me," Arm whispered to the empty room.
The play of pity had worked perfectly—until it didn't. He hadn't expected Mild's compassion to be so fierce that it turned into violence the moment it was betrayed. Arm felt a strange, toxic thrill. Most people folded under his gaze or his family's power, but Mild was like a glass blade: beautiful, fragile, but capable of drawing blood if gripped too tightly.
He reached for his rumpled shirt, sliding it over his shoulders but leaving it unbuttoned. He wasn't going to chase Mild—not yet. He knew Mild couldn't go far in this terrain. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, his mind already recalculating the "script." If Mild wouldn't be lured by pity or desire, he would have to be bound by something else: the truth of the pendant.
While the drama unfolded in the rural outskirts, the heart of the city remained a den of political maneuvering. At the Governor's residence—a sprawling estate that rivaled the Armitage's for sheer opulence—a young man stood in the sun-drenched library, checking his reflection in a gold-rimmed mirror.
This was Enock, the Governor's son and Arm's cousin. Where Arm was calculated and cold, Enock was vibrant, possessing a reckless charm that made him a favorite of the press.
He turned to his parents, who were seated at a breakfast table laden with silver platters.
"I'm going to visit Uncle and Auntie today," Enock announced, adjusting his silk tie. "And I want to check in on Arm. I heard he's been... 'off-campus' for a while. It's not like the Golden Boy to miss a Student Council briefing."
The Governor looked up from his newspaper, his eyes sharp. "Your cousin is under a great deal of pressure, Enock. The Armitages are navigating a delicate merger with the Foundation. Don't go there and cause trouble."
"Trouble? Me?" Enock smiled, a flash of white teeth that didn't quite reach his calculating eyes. "I just want to greet my favorite cousin. We have much to catch up on. I hear there's a new 'scholar' at St. Jude's who has everyone's tongues wagging. I'd like to see what all the fuss is about."
His mother sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "Go. Give them our regards. Just ensure you don't get caught up in whatever mess the Armitages are currently cleaning up. We have an election cycle approaching, and our family's reputation must remain pristine."
"Of course, Mother," Enock bowed playfully. "Pristine is my middle name."
As he walked out, his smile faded into a look of intense curiosity. He had seen the grainy photos leaked to the "concerned parties"—the ones of Arm carrying a boy into a low-rent apartment. Enock didn't care about the scandal for moral reasons; he cared about the leverage. If Arm was falling for a commoner, it was the perfect opportunity for Enock to step out of his cousin's shadow.
The cold morning air bit through Mild's jacket, but the sting of Arm's betrayal was sharper. He stood by the rusted water tower, his chest heaving, until a soft footfall sounded behind him.
"He's a mess, isn't he?" Style asked, leaning against the cold metal of the tower. She looked at Mild with a strange, flickering pity. "Look, Mild. It's freezing out here. If you catch pneumonia, nobody wins. Come back inside. I've made him put his clothes on and sit in the corner like a scolded dog. He won't touch you again tonight."
Mild looked at her, exhausted. He realized he had nowhere else to go until the morning trains started running. With a heavy sigh, he followed her back into the dim cabin.
Inside, Arm was dressed, sitting on the wooden bench while Style took the bed for herself this time, sensing the air needed to clear. Arm looked up as Mild entered. The teasing was gone; the mask of the "President" was shattered.
"The Rolex," Arm said suddenly, his voice quiet. "You asked why. It wasn't a test. It was because you were a ghost, Mild. You walked through the halls of St. Jude's like you were invisible, looking through me as if I didn't exist. I'm an Armitage. Everyone looks at me. But you didn't."
He looked at his hands. "I planted it because I knew it would force you to get to know me and then I would be able to find out more about Shelmith's death.. You're the only lead I have."
Mild sat across from him, stunned by the pathetic honesty of it. "You ruined me."
"I was obsessed," Arm corrected softly. "And the pendant... my sister Shelmith, I think she saw you long before I did. She saw the masterpiece before it was even painted."
While the trio sat in the quiet of the cabin, the Armitage mansion was in the midst of a silent explosion.
Enock stepped into the grand foyer, his coat over his arm, expecting the usual chilly elegance. Instead, he found his aunt pacing the marble floor, her face ashen, while his uncle gripped a telephone receiver so hard his knuckles were purple.
"I don't care what 'rumors' you've heard, Silas!" Arm's father roared into the phone.
On the other end, Style's father, a man of immense industrial power, spoke with a voice like grinding stone. "My daughter is in the middle of nowhere with your son and a scholarship boy, Armitage. I have reports that your heir's interests... lie elsewhere. If my daughter is being used as a cover for a deviant, the betrothal is terminated immediately. Your political party won't survive the scandal of a 'Rainbow Minister.' Fix it."
The line went dead. Arm's father threw the phone against the wall, the plastic shattering.
"Uncle?" Enock asked, stepping forward with a fake look of concern. "Is everything alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Not now, Enock!" his uncle barked, his eyes bloodshot. "
Arm's mother turned to Enock, her voice trembling. "Enock, dear, stay for tea. We just have some... administrative issues to handle with the school. Your uncle is just stressed."
Enock bowed, his smile widening. "Of course, Auntie. I'll just wait in the lounge. I have all the time in the world."
The atmosphere in the Armitage study was no longer just cold; it was desperate. The phone call from Style's father had been the final warning shot. The dynasty was on the brink of a collapse that even the "Perfect President" couldn't prevent.
Arm's father, Silas, looked at his wife. They shared a silent, panicked realization: Arm was too close to the flame. His obsession with Mild had compromised his judgment.
"Enock," Silas called out, his voice suddenly smooth, transitioning into the tone of a seasoned statesman. "Come in here. We have a matter of great family importance to discuss."
Enock sauntered into the study, his hands in his pockets, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk. He saw the shattered phone on the floor and tucked that detail away for future leverage. "I'm all ears, Uncle. You sounded... passionate on the phone."
"Family business is often passionate," his aunt said, stepping forward with a forced, maternal smile. "We have a task for you, Enock. One that requires your particular brand of charm and... discretion. Arm is currently overwhelmed with Student Council duties and his upcoming finals. We need someone to step in on a private investigation."
Silas leaned forward, lowering his voice. "It concerns Shelmith. We believe we've found a lead regarding the circumstances of her death. A boy at St. Jude's named Mild Runner Cho."
Enock's eyebrows shot up. "The scholarship boy? The one Arm has been... 'secretariat'?"
"Precisely," Silas said, ignoring the taunt in Enock's voice. "We believe Mild was in a secret relationship with Shelmith. He has in his possession a silver feather pendant—Shelmith's. He claims it was given to him by a courier, but we suspect he knew what happened that day because they had planned a meet up."
"Arm is too visible," Silas continued. "If he spends any more time with the boy, people will talk. We need you to take over. Befriend Mild. Use your status as the Governor's son to draw him in. Find out who gave him that pendant and what Shelmith told him."
Enock felt a surge of triumph. He was being handed the keys to Arm's kingdom. Not only was he being given a direct line to a family secret, but he was also being authorized to dismantle whatever "project" Arm was working on.
"The pendant should be the starting point of this." his aunt added, her eyes cold. " retrieve the name of the sender."
"I understand perfectly," Enock said, his smile turning predatory.
"Good," Silas grunted. "We'll talk to Arm about this. We will handle his... 'distractions' our own way. You are to report only to us."
As Enock walked out of the study, he felt the weight of the opportunity. He cared about the fact that he now had a license to hunt the boy who had brought the "Golden Boy" to his knees.
He pulled out his phone as he walked toward the foyer, scrolling through the leaked photos of Mild. Even in a grainy, low-light shot, the boy's beauty was staggering—ethereal, just as the rumors said.
"A promise of protection from the past," Enock whispered, "Well, Mild Runner Cho, it looks like your future just got a lot more crowded."
He headed for his car, his mind already spinning a web. He wouldn't use Arm's heavy-handed tactics. He wouldn't use Rolexes or threats. He would use a different path that was only known by him.