The damp basement was silent as Enock pulled a pen and a crumpled receipt from his pocket, handing them to Lina. He knew the complex history of the "Two Mothers" was missing its most crucial link: Why was Mild, a complete stranger, the center of this storm?
Enock wrote: Why Mild? Why did you use his name to trap Shelmith?
Lina took the pen, her hand trembling slightly as she wrote in jagged, hurried script. She didn't look at Arm; she looked at Mild with a mixture of pity and guilt.
"Shelmith's birth mother made me her eyes. I had to report every person Shelmith looked at. Every person she smiled at. She wanted to know who her daughter was becoming."
Lina continued writing, explaining that while she lived as a maid in the Armitage house, she was secretly serving the woman who had raised her. She had watched Shelmith for months and noticed a recurring pattern. Shelmith would often linger near the scholarship wing of the school or the high-end dispatch center, watching Mild from a distance. She never approached him; she simply admired his quiet resilience from the shadows.
When Lina reported this "crush" to the birth mother, the woman didn't discourage it. Instead, she became obsessed. She revealed the truth to Lina in a secret meeting: Mild was not a stranger. He was Shelmith's biological cousin.
Mild's biological father was the birth mother's brother—a man who had long ago been cut off from the family's modest resources. The birth mother saw this as a divine sign. She wanted Shelmith to get close to her own flesh and blood.
Lina wrote:
"She told me to create the Tinder account using Mild's name and photos. She wanted Shelmith to fall in love with her own family. She thought if they became close, Shelmith would eventually meet the rest of us—the real family. Mild was supposed to be the bridge to her true home."
"I was a bridge?" Mild whispered, the weight of the revelation making his head spin. "She didn't want to use me as a shield... she wanted me to be her family?"
"In her own twisted way, she was trying to 'rescue' Shelmith by reconnecting her to her roots," Enock analyzed, pacing the small room. "But she didn't realize that by putting Mild in the middle, she gave Arm's mother the perfect target. When the Armitage matriarch saw the interaction, she didn't see a 'reunion.' She saw a liability she could frame."
Arm looked at the filth-covered girl who had spent years acting as a double agent for two different mothers. "And the night of the accident? The courier was supposed to meet Mild—the 'Mild' Shelmith thought she knew—to hand over the files and flee?"
Lina nodded. She wrote one last sentence:
"The birth mother sent a Guardian to intercept the meeting. She didn't trust the Armitages to let them escape. She was right."
The decision was made: they needed the files to execute their plan. Lina, with her intricate knowledge of the Foundation's forgotten corners, led Arm, Enock, and Mild out of the dungeon through a series of maintenance tunnels, emerging miles away near the old, abandoned Foundation Annex. This was the "Broken Wing"—the building slated for demolition that had become Shelmith's secret storage.
The annex was a cavern of dust, shadows, and dead ends. Lina pointed them toward a section of the basement archives Shelmith had used for years. It was sealed by a specialized, keypad-locked door. Enock, leveraging his knowledge of Foundation security codes, managed to bypass the lock.
Inside, the room was eerily empty save for a few discarded book carts. The files—the ledger, the flash drive, the ultimate proof—were gone.
Arm cursed, his fist hitting a steel shelving unit. "She was here. Shelmith's biological mother was here. She moved them."
Lina frantically searched the room, her hands moving over every surface. She found a single, faint smudge on the wall—a hastily drawn sign language symbol. It meant "Wait" or "Rest."
"The Guardian knew we were coming," Enock concluded grimly. "Or, more accurately, she knew Arm's mother would send people here. She secured the files and left us a sign to stop searching. She's calling the shots now."
Their high-stakes mission had failed. They had the moral clarity, the proof of betrayal, and the identity of the culprit, but they were empty-handed. They were forced to halt the investigation and retreat.
Defeated and exhausted, the group returned to Mild's apartment. The safest place for them to regroup was the "Cleaner Cage," paradoxically because the Armitage matriarch's initial focus was now diverted to her own capture, and the Foundation's guards were too busy covering Silas's tracks.
Mild immediately offered the small sofa to Lina. Arm and Enock sat at the kitchen table, the silence heavy with frustration.
"We lost," Arm stated, running a hand through his hair. "The Vetting Committee is meeting in two weeks. She's going to get away with it."
"No," Enock said, leaning back. "We didn't lose the game; we just lost a piece on the board."
The pressure was mounting, not just from the files, but from the sudden, profound betrayal rocking the Armitage household.
While the four co-conspirators huddled in the city, Style used the chaos surrounding the matriarch's confinement to her advantage. She slipped into a soundproof utility closet and dialed her father's private line.
"Father," Style whispered, her voice tight with fabricated urgency. "You need to listen to me. Forget the blackmail plan. It's much worse. Arm's mother switched the babies. Shelmith wasn't an Armitage. Silas's biological daughter is the mute maid, Lina, and she's with Arm right now."
She relayed the entire, horrifying story, including the existence of the incriminating files and their current location—somewhere secured by Shelmith's biological mother.
" Arm is frantic. I know him—he won't allow his father's reputation to be publicly ruined by those files. He'll find them and stash them away to protect the Armitage name, even if he hates the man. If anyone is going to use those files, it has to be us."
Style's father listened in stunned silence. The news didn't cause moral outrage; it sparked a frenzy of opportunity.
"You've done well, my daughter," her father's voice purred. "Arm's family is a house of cards. If the files exist, they are the Ministry seat in my hand. We must act now. You stay close to the estate."
Meanwhile, Silas Armitage, having returned to the estate and locked away his wife, was a shattered but still calculating man. He knew the betrayal hadn't stopped with the women in his life. He watched Style on the surveillance feed, seeing the cold calculation behind her concern.
He summoned his chief of security.
"Style knows everything," Silas rasped, rubbing his temples. "She heard Enock's confrontation; she was watching. She will have told her father everything by now. He wants those files to destroy us."
He clenched his fist. "The vetting is in two weeks. That gives them enough time to find the files and leak them during the final hearings. We must prevent Style's father from getting his hands on them."
"Get that girl, Style, out of my house immediately," Silas commanded.' I don't care about the scandal right now. She watches everything; she is a foreign spy. Get her back to her father's estate by dawn."
"Focus every remaining loyal resource on finding Lina's biological mother," Silas ordered. "She has the files. I don't want the files for the Ministry anymore. I want them to burn. I won't let that industrialist use my own family's tragedy to steal my political seat. I will destroy the evidence before he can use it."
The Armitage dynasty was now fractured, with two separate, ruthless hunts underway: Arm and Enock were hunting for the files to force a quiet, internal justice, while Silas and Style's father were hunting for the files to achieve mutual political destruction.
***
The night at Mild's apartment was thick with unspoken tension. While the city slept, the players in this deadly game were being forcibly moved across the board like chess pieces.
Enock's phone vibrated violently against the wooden table. It was his father, the Governor's brother. He answered with a sigh, but his expression quickly shifted to one of frustration.
"Enock, you are at the airport in four hours," his father's voice boomed, audible even to Arm. "We've arranged a diplomatic trip to Zurich. It's non-negotiable. The family needs you out of the country while this Armitage scandal settles."
"I can't go, Father," Enock argued, his eyes darting to Arm. "I have unfinished business here. The investigation—"
"The investigation is over for you," his father snapped. "We know Silas is in trouble, and we won't have you dragged down with him. A car is already on its way to your apartment. If you aren't in it, your trust fund and your political standing are gone by sunrise."
Enock hung up, looking defeated. "They're boxing me in. They don't want the Governor's name anywhere near the 'Broken Wing' when it finally collapses."
In the corner of the room, Lina sat on a stool, her eyes fixed on Mild. She had cleaned the soot from her face, revealing a soft, observant expression. She began to move her hands in a series of fluid, elegant signs.
Arm, who was beginning to recognize her "Secret Air," translated quietly for Mild.
"She says... she finally understands why Shelmith was so bewitched by you," Arm whispered. "She says you have a 'kind face in a cruel world.' That your looks aren't just handsome, they're... peaceful."
Lina nudged Arm's shoulder, then pointed at Mild again. She signed a question, her eyebrows raised playfully: Don't you agree?
Arm froze. He felt the weight of the question settle in the small room. He looked at Mild—not as a scholarship student or a pawn in his mother's game, but as the person who had been his only anchor through the storm. He studied the line of Mild's jaw and the quiet strength in his eyes.
After a long silence, Arm didn't speak. He simply gave a slow, deliberate nod. Mild looked away, a faint flush creeping up his neck, the tension between them reaching a silent crescendo.
Back at the Armitage estate, the atmosphere was icy. Silas stood in the grand foyer as Style descended the stairs.
"Style, dear," Silas said, his voice a mask of strained politeness. "I'm afraid we have a bit of a domestic crisis. We've discovered a structural issue in the east wing. The entire estate is to be renovated starting tomorrow morning. It's quite extensive—toxic mold, I'm told."
Style blinked, her eyes narrowing. "Surely you can just move to the guest house? Or your penthouse in the city? Or the coastal villa?"
"All being inspected," Silas lied smoothly, his eyes cold as stone. "For your safety, we think it's best you return to your father's estate for the time being. We'll send for you when the air is... clear."
Style smiled thinly, knowing exactly what this was. "How thoughtful of you, Silas."
The moment she was in her car, Style dialed her father.
"He's kicking me out," she hissed into the phone. "The renovation excuse is pathetic. He knows I know, and he's cutting off my access. If I'm at our estate, I'm three hours away from the Foundation's servers and the Broken Wing."
"Don't panic," her father replied. "He thinks he's isolated you, but he's actually made himself more vulnerable. If he's clearing the house, it means he's preparing to move something—or someone. He's going for the files himself."
Style gripped the steering wheel, her eyes flashing with greed. "But how do I get the evidence from three hours away? If Arm finds those files and stashes them, or if Silas burns them, we lose everything. I need a pair of eyes inside that estate, Father. And I need them now."
***
The power dynamics shifted once more as the players were scattered by duty, greed, and the heat of an unspoken attraction.
Enock didn't fight. He was a man who understood that power was a long game, and defying the Governor now would mean losing the resources he needed to help Arm later.
"I'll go," Enock said, standing at Mild's door. He looked at Arm with a grim finality. "But I'm not staying in Switzerland forever. Keep your head down, cousin. Don't let your heart finish what your mother started."
With a final nod to Mild and Lina, Enock stepped into the black sedan waiting outside, disappearing into the night to fulfill his role as the "perfect" diplomatic heir.
Back at the Armitage estate, Style was packing her bags under the watchful eye of a security guard. However, she knew the staff's loyalties were never to the family, but to the highest bidder.
In the hallway, she "accidentally" dropped a heavy jewelry box, spilling gold and diamonds across the carpet. A young, disgruntled maid named Min, who had often been the target of Silas's wife's sharp tongue, hurried to help.
Style leaned in, pressing a diamond-encrusted bracelet into the girl's palm. "Silas is clearing the house because he's hiding something about Shelmith," Style whispered. "Keep your phone on. Record every visitor, every car that leaves, and every word spoken in the study. My father will ensure you never have to scrub a floor again."
Min's eyes widened, her fingers closing tightly over the jewels. Style had her ghost in the machine.
At Mild's apartment, the sleeping arrangements were a puzzle. Lina, seeing the hesitation in the two boys, gestured toward the small, cramped couch.
"I am tiny," she signed with a smirk. "I fit. You two take the bed."
Mild's heart hammered against his ribs. He remembered the suffocating intensity of being near Arm in the "shabby place"—the way Arm looked at him when he thought no one was watching. "I can sleep on the floor," Mild insisted. "It's safer."
Arm leaned against the doorframe, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Safer for who, Mild? Are you acting like this because you have hidden feelings for me? Afraid you won't be able to control yourself?"
Mild's face burned. "Don't be ridiculous. I don't feel anything for you."
"Then prove it," Arm challenged, walking toward the bed. "It's just a mattress. Unless you're scared."
To prove his point, Mild climbed into the bed, sticking as close to the edge as humanly possible.
The room was silent for an hour before Arm's old habits kicked in. He felt restricted in his clothes and, out of instinct, stripped down to his black briefs before sliding back under the covers. Mild, sensing the sudden shift in the air and the warmth of bare skin nearby, squeezed his eyes shut, feigning a deep sleep he was nowhere near achieving.
In the middle of the night, the atmosphere turned heavy. Mild was jolted awake by a soft, rhythmic patting on his lips. He opened his eyes to find Arm hovering directly over him, his face inches away in the moonlight.
"Arm—!" Mild gasped, and in a blind panic, he shoved Arm's chest with all his might.
The force sent Arm stumbling backward. A sharp thud echoed through the room followed by a pained groan. Arm had hit his left breast directly against a small, sharp metal wall hook intended for coats.
"Ugh..." Arm slumped against the wall, clutching his chest.
Mild sat up, the anger vanishing as he saw blood beginning to seep between Arm's fingers, staining his pale skin. "Oh god, Arm! I'm sorry—I didn't mean—"
Mild scrambled out of bed, grabbing the first aid kit from the bathroom.
Mild's panic had been instantly replaced by the primal need to tend to the injury. He knelt before Arm, the antiseptic stinging the jagged cut on Arm's left breast. The intimacy was shocking. Arm was stripped down to his briefs, vulnerable, yet radiating a powerful, raw energy.
Mild's trembling fingers worked the cream into the skin surrounding the wound. As his hands circled the injured area, he could feel the frantic, rapid thump of Arm's heartbeat directly beneath his palm. It wasn't the steady rhythm of a resting heart; it was a frantic, urgent drumbeat against his skin, a clear sign of high arousal mixed with the pain.
Arm's breath hitched, and he stared down at Mild. His usual cold gaze was replaced by a look of undisguised yearning—a consuming hunger that Mild felt deeply, as if Arm were pouring all his confused, desperate emotions into that single look. Arm's eyelids fluttered, and he indiscernibly licked his lips, his eyes never leaving Mild's face.
Mild's own heart began to race in a synchronized rhythm with Arm's. The heat radiating from Arm's body was suffocating, and the brief, shared glances were electric. Mild felt a dangerous, answering pulse in his own veins, almost stopping his ministrations entirely, terrified that his hands would betray his own quickening breath. The simple act of healing the wound had become an intensely charged moment of mutual, undeniable chemistry, escalating with every touch.
It was in this hyper-charged atmosphere that Arm seized the moment. As Mild finished applying the bandage, Arm's hand shot out. He didn't grab Mild's shoulder; he grabbed Mild's wrist and firmly directed his hand downward, pressing it against his crotch. Mild froze, his breath hitching as he felt the undeniable arousal beneath the thin fabric of the briefs.
"Arm!" Mild yanked his hand away, scrambling back across the floor, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "What are you doing? I was helping you!"
Arm leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes dark and dilated, a mix of pain and raw hunger. "You caused this, Mild," he rasped, his voice low and dangerous. "The injury... the adrenaline... and you. Don't just tend to the cut and leave me like this. Take care of what you've caused."
Mild stared at him, his face a furious mix of shock, embarrassment, and a flicker of something he couldn't name—perhaps an unsettling attraction.
Mild immediately retreated mentally and physically. "You are hurt! That is what I caused! Don't you dare confuse gratitude with... with whatever this is! I was being kind, not inviting you!"
The encounter solidified Mild's initial fear of being near Arm. He realized that the dynamic between them wasn't just protection; it was volatile, unpredictable, and dangerous to his emotional safety. He felt cheapened and exposed.
Despite his furious denial, the memory of his own racing heart and the intensity of the touch moments earlier undermined his anger. He recognized the undeniable spark—the "cause" Arm was referring to—and it terrified him more than any Foundation guard.
Mild jumped off the floor, desperate to create space. "Go to sleep, Arm. We have a sister to find and a mother to expose. I am not a distraction, and I am not responsible for your... your hormones. You brought me here for protection, not for this."
He turned his back to Arm and climbed onto the bed, lying rigidly on the very edge, determined to ignore the raw, wounded, and aroused man across the small room. Lina, still curled silently on the sofa, had her face turned away, offering them the only privacy she could.