The West Wing was bathed in a deceptive, scholarly silence. Inside the private study, Mild was beginning to let his shoulders drop, lured by the warmth of the fireplace and Enock's rhythmic, soothing voice.
"You see, Mild," Enock murmured, leaning closer as he pointed to a faded document on the coffee table. "My cousin Arm views people as assets. I view them as stories. And yours is far too beautiful to be cut short by—"
The heavy oak door didn't just open; it slammed against the stone wall with a crack that sounded like a gunshot.
Arm stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the harsh fluorescent light of the corridor. His tie was loosened, his hair disheveled, and his eyes were dark with a volatile mixture of insomnia and rage. He looked less like a President and more like a ghost seeking vengeance.
Mild scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs. The water bottle slipped from his hand, spilling across the rug. "Arm?"
"Get out," Arm said, his voice a low, serrated edge. He wasn't looking at Mild; his gaze was pinned on Enock, who remained sprawled on the sofa with a look of bored amusement.
"Armitage, cousin," Enock drawled, not moving a muscle. "I believe there's an administrative order with your name on it. 'Zero-Contact,' wasn't it? You're risking an awful lot just to say hello."
Arm stepped into the room, ignoring the warning. He grabbed the back of the armchair Mild had been sitting in, his knuckles white. "I know your game, Enock. You don't care about Shelmith, and you certainly don't care about him. You're just here to see if you can break something I built."
"I'm not a building, Arm!" Mild shouted, his voice cracking. "I'm not something you 'built'!"
Arm finally looked at Mild, and for a second, the rage faltered, replaced by a desperate, suffocating possessiveness. "He's lying to you, Mild. He's using the 'Soft Approach' because he knows you're tired. He'll lead you right back to my father the moment he gets what he wants."
"And you?" Mild hissed, stepping back toward Enock. "You threatened to destroy Georgia's life! You're the one who put me in a high-security dorm! At least Enock treats me like a person, not a prisoner!"
Enock stood up slowly, placing a protective hand on Mild's shoulder. The touch was light, but to Arm, it was a declaration of war.
"You heard him, Arm," Enock said, his smile sharpening into a predatory grin. "You've played your hand. You used fear, and you lost. Now, why don't you go back to your suite before the guards find you? I'd hate for the Golden Boy to get a black mark on his record."
Arm lunged. He didn't go for Mild; he went for Enock's throat. The two cousins collided, crashing into the coffee table and sending leather-bound books flying. It was a messy, undignified scuffle—the high-society masks completely shattered.
"Stop it!" Mild screamed, clutching his head. "Both of you, stop!"
Arm pulled back, breathing heavily, his hands trembling as he stared at Enock, who was wiping a trickle of blood from his lip with a laugh.
"See, Mild?" Enock whispered, looking past Arm to the terrified boy. "This is the 'protection' he offers. Violence and obsession."
Arm looked at Mild, desperate for a sign of the pity he had manipulated earlier, but he found only cold, crystalline revulsion.
"I did it for you," Arm rasped, the lie tasting like ash.
"No," Mild said, his voice eerily calm. "You did it for yourself. Both of you."
Mild grabbed his jacket and bolted from the room, leaving the two heirs in the wreckage of the study. He ran toward the dorms, but as he turned the corner, he saw a shadow move.
Skyler was standing there, her silver eyes reflecting the dim hallway lights. She held a small, black device in her hand—a remote.
"The boys are fighting over the prize," she whispered to herself as Mild ran past, unaware of her presence. "But they forgot that a masterpiece belongs in a gallery. And I've already built yours, Mild."
She pressed a button on the device. Far out in the parking lot, a faint, rhythmic hiss came from the undercarriage of Enock's sports car.
Mild ran back to the high-security dorm, his mind numb with shock. He felt dirty and exposed, caught between Arm's savage obsession and Enock's manipulative charm. He collapsed onto his narrow bed, covering his head with the pillow, desperately wishing for the invisibility he used to possess.
He didn't notice the precise ping of a security alert going off in the West Wing, nor did he hear the distant, muffled sound of screeching tires and a sickening crunch of metal from the high-performance car park.
Hours later, the dorm room was still cold, but Mild had regained a semblance of composure. He knew he couldn't run again; Arm had secured his compliance using Georgia. Mild had to find a way to dismantle the control from within.
He heard a keycard swipe. The door hissed open, and Arm walked in. He looked devastated. His lip was split, his eye was already bruising, and his usually immaculate clothes were torn and dusty. He carried the weight of the fight, the Zero-Contact order, and the knowledge of his failure.
Mild sat up. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice flat.
Arm closed the door, leaning his head against the cool metal. "They're suspending me from the Student Council," he rasped, his voice raw. "My father is threatening to disinherit me. He thinks I'm mentally unstable because I fought with Enock over you."
"Good," Mild said without sympathy. "Maybe you'll finally see what you've become."
Arm pushed off the door and crossed the room, sinking heavily onto the floor in front of Mild's bed. He didn't touch him. He just looked up, the pain in his eyes finally looking genuine.
"Why do you think I fought him, Mild?" Arm whispered. "He's my cousin. I broke every rule my father ever gave me to keep him away from you. Why do you think I would risk my entire future for a scholarship boy I supposedly just want to control?"
Mild swallowed hard, his careful defenses wavering. This was the opening. "Because you're a narcissist, Arm. You want to own the prettiest thing in the room."
"No," Arm countered, shaking his head. "If I only wanted to own you, I would have used the Foundation's laws, not my own life. I used Georgia because I knew you would hate me for it, but I needed you safe. Enock doesn't care about the truth; he cares about leveraging your relationship with Shelmith to hurt my father. He'll feed you lies until you're compromised, and then he'll toss you aside. I was protecting you from that."
Mild's face crumpled. He felt the sickening pull of conflicting emotions. "Protecting me? You humiliated me, blackmailed me, and put me in a prison! What kind of... relationship is this, Arm? Why do you care so much about saving me, when you're the one who started the fire?"
heard him, Arm," Enock said, his smile sharpening into a predatory grin. "You've played your hand. You used fear, and you lost. Now, why don't you go back to your suite before the guards find you? I'd hate for the Golden Boy to get a black mark on his record."
Arm lunged. He didn't go for Mild; he went for Enock's throat. The two cousins collided, crashing into the coffee table and sending leather-bound books flying. It was a messy, undignified scuffle—the high-society masks completely shattered.
"Stop it!" Mild screamed, clutching his head. "Both of you, stop!"
Arm pulled back, breathing heavily, his hands trembling as he stared at Enock, who was wiping a trickle of blood from his lip with a laugh.
"See, Mild?" Enock whispered, looking past Arm to the terrified boy. "This is the 'protection' he offers. Violence and obsession."
Arm looked at Mild, desperate for a sign of the pity he had manipulated earlier, but he found only cold, crystalline revulsion.
"I did it for you," Arm rasped, the lie tasting like ash.
"No," Mild said, his voice eerily calm. "You did it for yourself. Both of you."
Mild grabbed his jacket and bolted from the room, leaving the two heirs in the wreckage of the study. He ran toward the dorms, but as he turned the corner, he saw a shadow move.
Skyler was standing there, her silver eyes reflecting the dim hallway lights. She held a small, black device in her hand—a remote.
"The boys are fighting over the prize," she whispered to herself as Mild ran past, unaware of her presence. "But they forgot that a masterpiece belongs in a gallery. And I've already built yours, Mild."
Mild ran back to the high-security dorm, his mind numb with shock. He felt dirty and exposed, caught between Arm's savage obsession and Enock's manipulative charm. He collapsed onto his narrow bed, covering his head with the pillow, desperately wishing for the invisibility he used to possess.
He didn't notice the precise ping of a security alert going off in the West Wing, nor did he hear the distant, muffled sound of screeching tires and a sickening crunch of metal from the high-performance car park.
Hours later, the dorm room was still cold, but Mild had regained a semblance of composure. He knew he couldn't run again; Arm had secured his compliance using Georgia. Mild had to find a way to dismantle the control from within.
He heard a keycard swipe. The door hissed open, and Arm walked in. He looked devastated. His lip was split, his eye was already bruising, and his usually immaculate clothes were torn and dusty. He carried the weight of the fight, the Zero-Contact order, and the knowledge of his failure.
Mild sat up. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice flat.
Arm closed the door, leaning his head against the cool metal. "They're suspending me from the Student Council," he rasped, his voice raw. "My father is threatening to disinherit me. He thinks I'm mentally unstable because I fought with Enock over you."
"Good," Mild said without sympathy. "Maybe you'll finally see what you've become."
Arm pushed off the door and crossed the room, sinking heavily onto the floor in front of Mild's bed. He didn't touch him. He just looked up, the pain in his eyes finally looking genuine.
"Why do you think I fought him, Mild?" Arm whispered. "He's my cousin. I broke every rule my father ever gave me to keep him away from you. Why do you think I would risk my entire future for a scholarship boy I supposedly just want to control?"
Mild swallowed hard, his careful defenses wavering. This was the opening. "Because you're a narcissist, Arm. You want to own the prettiest thing in the room."
"No," Arm countered, shaking his head. "If I only wanted to own you, I would have used the Foundation's laws, not my own life. I used Georgia because I knew you would hate me for it, but I needed you safe. Enock doesn't care about the truth; he cares about leveraging your relationship with Shelmith to hurt my father. He'll feed you lies until you're compromised, and then he'll toss you aside. I was protecting you from that."
Mild's face crumpled. He felt the sickening pull of conflicting emotions. "Protecting me? You humiliated me, blackmailed me, and put me in a prison! What kind of... relationship is this, Arm? Why do you care so much about saving me, when you're the one who started the fire?"
Let the next part be where Arm is thrown out by the guards for disobeying orders and visiting Mild. Let Arm tell Mild that they'll meet during the long holiday since it was not prohibited for them to interact during holidays.
Mild looked at Arm, his eyes searching the bruises and the exhaustion for any trace of the cold President he had come to loathe. The words hung in the air: What kind of relationship is this?
Before Arm could answer, the heavy silence of the high-security dorm was shattered by the rhythmic thud of heavy boots and the crackle of radios in the corridor. The "Zero-Contact" order was being enforced with clinical precision.
The door hissed open, and four campus guards stood there, their faces impassive. Behind them stood Arm's father's personal assistant, checking a stopwatch.
"Mr. Armitage," the assistant said, his voice like dry parchment. "You have exceeded the warning threshold. Your presence here is a violation of the Foundation's safety mandates. We have orders to remove you by force if necessary."
Arm didn't struggle as two guards stepped forward, gripping his shoulders to haul him to his feet. He looked small in their grasp, the fire from the fight with Enock having settled into a weary, stubborn glow. As they began to drag him toward the door, Arm twisted his head back, his gaze locking onto Mild's with a desperate intensity.
"Mild!" Arm shouted over the noise of the radio static. "The term ends in three days! The 'Zero-Contact' order is an academic mandate—it only applies to campus grounds and Foundation property!"
The guards jerked him forward, but Arm dug his heels into the carpet, fighting for one last second.
"The long holiday," Arm rasped, his voice urgent. "The rules don't cover the break. They can't keep me from you once we're off this soil. I'll find you. We'll meet then, and I'll give you the truth about Shelmith. No guards, no Council, no lies."
"Move him out," the assistant commanded.
Mild stood by his bed, frozen, as he watched the guards pull Arm into the hallway. The last thing he saw was Arm's hand reaching out, fingers curled as if trying to grab a piece of the air Mild breathed, before the heavy steel door slammed shut and the lock engaged with a final, echoing thunk.
Mild was alone again. He walked to the small, reinforced window and looked out at the campus. In three days, the gates would open. For the first time, the "long holiday" didn't feel like a vacation; it felt like a countdown to a collision.
***
Enock knew that asking for the pendant would fail; Mild's trust was fragile. He needed a cleaner, less confrontational method. Using his connections as the Governor's son, Enock arranged a "mandatory security check" for the high-security dorms.
That afternoon, while Mild was forced to attend a dreary, end-of-term seminar in the main hall, Enock's trusted private courier, disguised as a campus technician, slipped into Mild's isolated room.
The courier focused on Mild's phone—the true window to a young man's soul. Using military-grade decryption software, the courier accessed the data while leaving no trace. He relayed the findings to Enock ten minutes later.
Enock stared at the report, frowning deeply.
"No social media presence whatsoever?" Enock asked the courier over the phone, his voice laced with surprise. "No Facebook? No Twitter? Not even a TikTok account?"
"Nothing, sir," the courier confirmed. "His phone is practically a fossil. No dating apps, no gaming history, the photo album contains only school documents and blurred shots of the skyline. The messages are solely utility alerts and mandatory campus communications. The browser history is just library hours and ethics course readings."
Enock disconnected the call, leaning back against his pillows. This was unprecedented. Most students, even the highly disciplined ones, had a digital paper trail miles long. Mild's digital footprint was nonexistent.
"How am I supposed to investigate a ghost?" Enock muttered, tapping his casted hand on the mattress. "Arm calls him the 'Masterpiece,' but he's a blank canvas. Is he truly this pure, or is he smarter than all of us? Did he delete everything on purpose because he knew someone would come looking?"
The lack of personal data made Shelmith's two-year-old gesture—sending him the pendant—even more significant. Mild was an information vacuum, and that made him the perfect hiding place for the Armitage's secrets.
Enock set his jaw. He had failed to eliminate Arm and had failed to gain any leverage from Mild's dull digital life. His next move had to be diplomatic.
He knew that for all their power, the Armitages were terrified of scandal. They were the ones who insisted on keeping the Shelmith case in-house.
"They hired Arm, an obsessed boy, rather than a professional," Enock realized. "Why? Because a professional investigator reports to the police, and the police mean publicity."
Enock decided to use the long holiday to apply pressure where it hurt most. He instructed his pilot to prepare the family jet. He would visit the Armitage estate personally. He would use his diplomatic leverage to question their bizarre methods.
Three days later, the rigorous academic term concluded. Mild walked out of the campus gates, carrying his single duffel bag. The Zero-Contact order had lifted, but the air felt heavy with expectation.
He wasn't going to his old slum apartment.
Per the terms of his coerced compliance, the Armitage Foundation had provided him with new housing—an apartment discreetly managed by a subsidiary shell company, a few miles from his old neighborhood. It was the Foundation's new, cleaner cage.
He arrived at the address. It was a mid-rise building, recently renovated. The apartment itself was small, modern, and sparsely furnished with neat, functional pieces. It smelled faintly of new paint and lemon cleaner. It was undeniably neater and safer than his old, damp room, but it felt utterly soulless.
Mild dropped his bag and walked to the window, staring out at the new, anonymous skyline.
He jumped as he heard a sharp rap on the door. He opened it cautiously.
Arm stood on the threshold, a slight limp favoring his bruised leg, dressed not in his blazer, but in a simple, high-quality gray sweater and dark trousers. He looked like an ordinary, well-off university student—if you ignored the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his shoulders.
"Welcome home, Secretariat," Arm murmured, his eyes sweeping over the apartment, assessing his family's new environment. "This place is... less damp. Better for your health."
Mild stepped back, allowing Arm entrance. The familiar wave of apprehension washed over him. "You didn't waste any time. The order only lifted an hour ago."
"I told you," Arm said, closing the door and walking into the living room. "The long holiday doesn't count. We have three weeks, Mild. And I have a lot of investigating to do."