The aftermath of the gala was not a clean break; it was a slow-motion explosion. The prestige of St. Jude's Academy was built on order, and Arm Listener was the architect of that order.
Mild didn't stop running until his lungs burned and the silk of the skirt was stained with mud and grass. He didn't go home—he couldn't face his mother looking like this. Instead, he climbed the rusted spiral staircase of the old, decommissioned bell tower at the edge of campus.
He sat on the cold stone floor, shivering as the night air bit at his exposed skin. He pulled the velvet waistcoat tight around him, sobbing silently. The secret was out. The "Model Student" was gone, replaced by a punchline. But as he sat in the dark, he realized the most terrifying thing: he wasn't just crying because he was caught. He was crying non-stop.
The next morning, the school was a pressure cooker. Every phone screen displayed a blurred image of Mild in lace.
Zen caught Arm in the athletic locker room before first period. The air was thick with the smell of chlorine and sweat. Zen didn't waste words; he pinned Arm against a row of lockers, his forearm pressed against Arm's throat.
"You're going to fix this," Zen growled, his eyes bloodshot from a night of searching for Mild. "You're going to tell everyone it was a play, a rehearsal, a prank. You're going to clear his name."
Arm didn't struggle. He looked at Zen with a cold, terrifying detachment. A small bruise blossomed on his cheek from the night before, but his eyes were as sharp as ever.
"Get your hands off me, Zen," Arm said, his voice flat and clinical.
"Or what? You'll call your father?"
"No," Arm smiled, a slow, cruel curve of the lips. "I'll use my authority as Student Council President. Under Section 4, Article 12 of the Academy Charter, I am the head of the Disciplinary Committee. Physical assault of a student officer on school grounds is grounds for immediate expulsion. Your archery scholarship? Gone. Your future? Dust."
Zen's grip faltered. He was a warrior, but Arm was a politician.
"I have already filed the report for the gala," Arm continued, straightening his tie as Zen's arm dropped. "I've framed it as a 'theatrical experiment' that went wrong. I am the hero who was trying to help a 'troubled' scholarship student. If you interfere, you aren't saving Mild—you're just making yourself another casualty. Besides, he stole my watch, punishing him is on me."
"You're a monster," Zen whispered.
"I'm the President," Arm corrected. "Now, go to practice. You have a target to hit. I have a boy to find."
As Arm walked through the halls, the school divided.
Suri stood at Mild's empty locker, placing a small note inside. Her friends were hesitant, but Suri was firm. "He's still Mild," she told them. "And if the President is the one who did this to him, then the President is the one who needs to be taken down."
Bella was enjoying the chaos. She had started a group chat called "The Maid's Secret," spreading rumors that Mild had begged Arm to let him dress up.
Kavin sat in the library, looking at the high-definition photo of the moment the wig fell. He saw what the others didn't: the way Mild's hand had reached for Arm's sleeve, even in his terror. Kavin realized this wasn't just a story of bullying—it was a story of a twisted, mutual obsession.
The tension at St. Jude's shifted from a "slow-motion explosion" to a cold, calculated war. The school was no longer an institution of learning; it was a battlefield where the weapons were rumors, social status, and secrets.
While Arm was busy leveraging the Academy Charter, Kavin was hiding in the red-lit sanctuary of the photography darkroom. The smell of developer chemicals was sharp, matching the acidity in his stomach.
He didn't notice the door open until a shadow blocked the dim red light. It was Zen. The archer's large frame seemed to shrink the small room.
"You have the photos," Zen said, his voice flat. "The ones that prove Arm was the one controlling him. Not the 'theatrical experiment' lie he's feeding the faculty."
Kavin hung a damp photo on the drying wire. It was a close-up of the dance floor. "I have something better, Zen. I have a shot of Arm's face before the mask fell. He wasn't looking at a 'troubled student.' He was looking at a masterpiece he'd created."
"Give them to me," Zen demanded, stepping forward.
"And do what? Post them?" Kavin turned, his eyes reflecting the red light. "Arm owns the server. He'll have them deleted in seconds. No, if we want to save Mild, we have to play Arm's game. We need to find Mild before Arm does. Because once Arm finds him, he'll use that 'theatrical experiment' story to force Mild into a permanent role."
At the top of the bell tower, the wind howled through the stone arches. Mild was drifting in a state of exhaustion-induced numbness. He looked down at the silk ribbon Kavin had returned to him—the only thing he hadn't lost in the woods.
The heavy door at the bottom of the spiral stairs creaked open.
Mild's heart skipped. He expected Zen's frantic worry or Kavin's prying lens. But the footsteps were rhythmic, slow, and terrifyingly confident.
Arm Listener emerged into the light of the bell tower. He wasn't wearing his blazer; his white shirt was crisp, and the Rolex glinted mockingly in the morning sun. He looked like he was visiting a kingdom he had already conquered.
"I knew you'd be here," Arm said softly. "The highest point on campus. The place where you can see everything but no one can see you."
"Go away," Mild whispered, his voice raw.
"I can't do that, Mild." Arm walked to the edge, standing beside him. He didn't look at Mild; he looked out at the school. "The faculty is calling for a hearing. Zen is ready to break my neck. The girls are divided between pity and disgust. You've become a legend overnight."
"You ruined me," Mild choked out, finally looking up.
Arm turned, his expression unreadable. He knelt down in the dirt and mud, ruining his expensive trousers without a second thought. He reached out and took Mild's hand—the one still clutching the silk ribbon.
"I didn't ruin you. I ended the lie," Arm murmured. "You were a ghost, Mild. Now, you're the most important person in this school. I've already told the Board that you were helping me with a study on social performance. You're not a 'freak'—you're my protégé."
"I don't want to be your protégé! I want to be invisible again!"
"It's too late for that," Arm's grip tightened, his thumb brushing over the pulse in Mild's wrist. "But I'm offering you a choice. You can go down there, face the whispers alone, and eventually be driven out by the shame... or you can come back to the office with me. Stand by my side. Let them wonder if you're my victim or my partner. In exchange, I'll make sure your scholarship is untouched. Forever."
Mild looked at the boy who had broken his life, and for a terrifying second, the safety Arm offered felt more enticing than the freedom of the fall.
Mild had to do everything Arm told him or he would end up in the hands of the police for stealing his watch. Even though Mild did not know how the watch ended up in his bag, it was evident enough. He could be sentenced to prison for it.
Just as Arm is leaning in to seal his "partnership" with a broken Mild, the heavy door at the base of the tower slams open. Zen, having tracked Arm's departure from the locker room, charges up the stairs.
Zen finds Arm kneeling before Mild. To Zen's eyes, it looks like a predator cornering prey. He doesn't wait for an explanation; he physically tears Arm away from Mild.
Mild is forced to choose between them in the heat of the moment. If he chooses Zen, he loses his scholarship and faces the police for the Rolex. If he chooses Arm, he saves his future but loses his soul. Mild stood between them, realizing that neither boy is actually asking him what he wants.
"It seems you did not understand me. You don't have to risk your future for him. What did he do for you that you can't let him solve his problems on his own?" Arm asked.
Zen simply replied, "It's none of your business."
The Board of Directors calls an emergency session in the Great Hall. It is a "trial" in all but name. Arm has spent the night coaching Mild on a script: "It was a performance art project about gender and power."
The hall is packed. Suri and her friends are in the front row, wearing white ribbons in solidarity with Mild. Arm sits at the head of the table, looking like a benevolent judge. Mild is called to the stand.
As Mild begins to speak Arm's lies, he catches sight of Kavin in the back of the room. Kavin isn't holding a camera; he's holding up the original, crumpled "sociological project" notes Arm had forced Mild to write.
Mild looks at the faculty and realizes that the "Perfect President" is actually the one on trial, whether the Board knows it yet or not.
During the high-stakes disciplinary hearing, Kavin finally revealed the findings of his investigation, dismantling Arm's narrative piece by piece. He explained his realization: if Arm had "found" the watch in Mild's bag, a paper trail for the luxury item had to exist. After breaking into Arm's locked desk drawer, Kavin discovered a recent receipt from a high-end jeweler and a security log proving Arm had entered the locker wing at the exact moment he claimed to be in a meeting.
This evidence confirmed that the Rolex wasn't just planted—it was a premeditated trap orchestrated weeks in advance. Kavin had actually confronted Arm with this footage earlier as they descended from the bell tower. At the time, Kavin had offered Mild a third way out: Arm could publicly clear Mild's name and resign quietly, or the evidence would be sent to the national press.
Arrogant and unbothered, Arm had dismissed the threat, telling Kavin to do whatever he wished with the video. However, that bravado backfired. By presenting the evidence to the entire assembly now, Kavin left no room for doubt: the "Perfect President" was undeniably guilty.
The Great Hall held its breath as Kavin's "smoking gun" footage flickered onto the massive projector screens. The security log showed Arm entering the locker room, just as Kavin had promised. The room erupted into a low, frantic hum of gossip. Mild felt a surge of hope—a dizzying belief that the nightmare was finally ending.
But Arm Listener didn't flinch. He didn't even look at the screen. He simply leaned back, a small, cold smile playing on his lips as he watched Kavin's triumphant expression.
"Zoom in, Kavin," Arm said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. "Since you're so fond of 'evidence,' let's look at the details."
Kavin, sensing a shift in the air, hesitated but complied. The digital zoom blurred the pixels, but as the image sharpened, a collective gasp rippled through the hall.
On the screen, Arm's hand was indeed reaching into a locker. But as the camera angle shifted, the light caught the watch on his wrist—and the one in his hand. The watch in the footage was a Silver Patek Philippe with a black leather strap.
The watch found in Mild's bag—the one sitting in a plastic evidence bag on the Board's table—was a Gold Rolex with a sapphire face.
"That's... that's not the same watch," a Board member whispered, leaning forward.
"Exactly," Arm said, standing up slowly. He adjusted his cuff, revealing a bare wrist. "The footage Kavin so 'heroically' stole shows me moving my own personal collection for safe-keeping during the gala prep. The Rolex that Mild stole is a family heirloom, one that has been missing for a month—long before that footage was even recorded."
Arm turned his gaze to the back of the room, his eyes locking onto Kavin with predatory delight. "What Kavin has just proven is that he broke into a Student Council office, stole private security logs, and attempted to frame the President to protect a thief. It seems my 'Performance Art' defense was too kind. This isn't a project. It's a conspiracy."
Mild felt the floor fall away. He looked at Kavin, who stood frozen, his phone trembling in his hand. Kavin had been so focused on finding a watch that he hadn't realized Arm had worn a different one that day specifically to create a false trail.
"Mild," the Headmaster said, his voice booming and disappointed. "Do you have anything else to say? Or shall we proceed with the expulsion and the police report?"
Mild looked at Arm. Through the calculated mask of the "Perfect President," he saw the truth. Arm had planted a fake lead for Kavin to find, knowing the journalist would jump at it. He had sacrificed a Silver Patek just to ensure that when the "truth" came out, it would only make Mild look more guilty.
Arm leaned over the table, whispering so only Mild could hear. "I told you, Mild. You can disappear forever... or you can stay here and belong to me. Choose quickly. The handcuffs are in the hallway."
The silence in the Great Hall was no longer heavy; it was terminal. The "Golden Hook" hadn't just caught Mild; it had snagged Kavin's reputation and Zen's hope, pulling them all into the deep, dark water of Arm's design.
Kavin stood at the back of the room, his thumb hovering over the "play" button as if he could rewrite the pixels by sheer force of will. He stared at the screen, his mind racing through the thousands of photos he had taken over the years. He was a master of details—the lighting, the aperture, the tiny moles on a neck—yet he had missed the most basic element of the frame.
How? he thought, a cold sweat breaking out across his neck. The luster was different. The leather strap... it was right there. He realized then that he hadn't been investigating; he had been choreographed. Arm had known Kavin was watching. He had likely left the desk drawer unlocked just enough to be tempting, placing the Patek Philippe receipt on top like bait for a hungry fish. Kavin hadn't found the truth; he had found the script Arm wanted him to read.
On the witness stand, Mild felt the last of his strength evaporate. He looked at the Board of Directors, whose faces had hardened from curiosity to disgust. He looked at Suri, who had lowered her head, the white ribbon on her wrist now looking like a bandage on a lost cause.
Then, he looked at Arm.
The President was perfectly still. He wasn't gloating; he looked almost sympathetic, the ultimate performer of "concerned leadership." He held out a hand, a silent offer of a lifeline that doubled as a leash.
Mild, on realizing that Kavin had no way out and would only drag himself into trouble, sighed.
"I am a thief, I stole the watch" Mild said, his eyes locking onto Arm's. "And I am deeply sorry for the trouble I've caused the Student Council. I will accept whatever punishment you grant."
Arm stood up, his face a mask of tragic disappointment. "Headmaster, if I may? While Mild's actions are inexcusable, his confession shows a spark of the integrity we value at St. Jude's. Rather than immediate expulsion and police intervention, I propose a period of Strict Supervised Probation."
He paused, letting the weight of the words sink in.
"Under my personal supervision. He will fulfill his 'service' to the Council until the value of the watch and the damage to the school's prestige are repaid in full. It is the only way to ensure he learns the weight of his debt."
The Board whispered among themselves for a moment before the Headmaster struck the gavel. "Granted. Mild Runner, you are remanded to the custody of the Student Council President. Any further deviation from the rules will result in immediate arrest."
As the hall cleared, the power dynamic was permanently solidified:
Kavin sat on a bench, staring at his camera, his confidence as a journalist shattered. He had been outplayed by a subject, and he knew he could never trust his own eyes again.
Mild walked three paces behind Arm, his head bowed. He wasn't a student anymore. He was a shadow.
When they reached the privacy of the Student Council office, Arm shut the door and turned the lock. The click sounded like a cell door. He walked over to the mahogany wardrobe and pulled out a new garment—this one made of heavy, dark velvet with a lace collar that looked like a choker.
"You did well today, Mild," Arm murmured, reaching out to tilt Mild's chin up. "You finally learned the most important lesson."
"What's that?" Mild whispered.
Arm smiled, and for the first time, the "Perfect President" mask was completely gone, leaving only the predator behind. "That the truth doesn't matter. Only the story I choose to tell."