The transition from "temporary punishment" to "permanent probation" marked the official end of Mild's life as an independent student. At St. Jude's, he was now a ghost with a tether, a figure seen only in the periphery of the President's shadow.
The first week of "Supervised Probation" felt like living inside a beautifully constructed clock—everything was precise, mechanical, and entirely under Arm's control. Mild no longer went to the cafeteria. He no longer spent his study hall in the library. His schedule had been rewritten by Arm's fountain pen.
Every afternoon, the routine was the same. Mild would enter the office, the door would lock, and the "Assistant" would emerge.
Arm had replaced the school-girl uniforms with more "formal" servant attire. High-collared Victorian blouses, velvet waistcoats, and heavy skirts that made every movement an audible rustle.
Mild was forbidden from speaking unless addressed. He became a silent fixture in the room, pouring tea for Arm's "private" meetings with faculty and elite donors.
Every hour spent in the office was logged in a leather-bound ledger. Arm calculated the "interest" on the stolen Rolex so aggressively that Mild realized he would never be finished.
In the hallways, the atmosphere was poisonous. Kavin, once the most feared observer at St. Jude's, had become a recluse. He haunted the darkroom, obsessively re-scanning the footage of the bell tower.
"I missed it," he whispered to the red-lit air. "He put the Patek on his left hand, but he's right-handed. He moved the Rolex with his right. He wanted the zoom-in to fail."
Kavin realized that Arm hadn't just beaten him; Arm had used Kavin's own talent for detail against him. The "Golden Hook" wasn't the watch—it was Kavin's own ego. He stopped taking photos. The lens that had once sought the truth was now covered by a cap, tucked away in a locker.
One afternoon, Arm sent Mild to the school's botanical fountain to collect a specific type of white lily for the office desk. It was a test of Mild's "composure." He was dressed in a sleek, black feminine suit—subtle enough to pass as high fashion to a stranger, but a brand of ownership to anyone who knew the truth.
Mild was carefully clipping a stem when a shadow fell over the water. He didn't look up, his heart already sinking.
"Mild."
It was Zen. The archer looked haggard. He wasn't wearing his team blazer; he had been suspended from the team for the fight at the gala.
"I'm not supposed to talk to you," Mild whispered, his hands shaking as he held the shears. "Arm said—"
"I don't care what he said," Zen hissed, stepping closer. He reached out, his hand hovering near Mild's shoulder but not touching, as if afraid the boy would shatter. "Come with me. Now. My dad has a cabin up north. We can just... go. No police, no Rolex, no Arm."
Mild finally looked up. For a moment, the offer felt like oxygen. But then he saw Arm standing on the balcony of the Student Council office, looking down at them. Arm didn't wave. He didn't shout. He simply tapped the face of his Rolex.
The Debt. "I can't, Zen," Mild said, a tear escaping and hitting the surface of the fountain. "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."
When Mild returned to the office, the lilies in hand, Arm was waiting by the door. He took the flowers, his fingers lingering against Mild's as he did.
"Zen is a sentimental fool," Arm remarked, walking to the desk and placing the lilies in a crystal vase. "He offers you a cabin in the woods—a different kind of hiding. But I offer you the world, Mild. I've just received the guest list for the National Youth Summit. You'll be coming with me as my 'Secretariat.'"
Arm walked back to Mild, his presence overwhelming the small space. He reached out and unbuttoned the top button of Mild's high-collared shirt, adjusting the fabric with terrifying tenderness.
"Everyone thinks I destroyed you," Arm whispered. "But the truth is, I'm the only one who ever really built you. Without me, you're just a scholarship boy with a thrifted notebook. With me... you're a masterpiece."
Mild looked into Arm's dark, obsessive eyes and realized the most horrific part of his probation: he was starting to believe him.
***
Arm Listener was a man who lived in high-definition, but the neighborhood where Mild lived was a blur of gray concrete and rusted chain-link. He sat in the back of his black sedan, the scent of expensive leather clashing with the smell of exhaust and cheap cooking oil outside.
He had followed Mild for miles, driven by a possessive itch he couldn't scratch. He watched as Mild turned into a sagging apartment complex. But Mild wasn't alone.
A girl was waiting by the gate. She was vibrant in a way that nothing in Arm's world was—wearing a faded denim jacket and a bright, genuine smile. Georgia.
Arm watched from the shadows of the alley as Mild's entire posture changed. The slouch of the "Assistant" vanished. Mild ran to her, picking her up and spinning her around. They were "lovey-dovey" in the most painful sense of the word—soft whispers, shared laughter, and a kiss that looked like a prayer.
Arm's grip on his steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white. He had spent weeks dressing Mild in silk and velvet, trying to make him a masterpiece, yet here was a girl in a thrifted jacket who owned the man underneath the clothes.
He couldn't help himself. He stepped out of the car, his designer suit looking like a costume in the ghetto.
"Mild," Arm called out, his voice sharp and cold.
The pair jumped apart. Mild's face went from radiant to ghostly pale in a heartbeat. "President? What... what are you doing here?"
Georgia stepped in front of Mild, her eyes narrowing. She didn't see a powerful Student Council President; she saw a stranger intruding on her peace. "Who are you? And why are you following my boyfriend to his front door?"
Arm opened his mouth to cite a "probationary check-in" or a "schedule change," but for the first time in his life, the words died in his throat. He looked at Georgia's hand intertwined with Mild's, and he found no reason. No excuse. He was just a man standing in the dirt, watching a love he could never buy.
"I..." Arm faltered, his mask cracking. "We have a problem to solve. Regarding the Summit."
"It's 8:00 PM," Georgia challenged. "Whatever it is, it can wait for school."
Arm retreated into his car without another word, the image of their intertwined fingers burned into his retinas. He realized then that he wasn't just competing with Zen or Kavin; he was competing with a life Mild actually wanted to live.
The roar of the sedan's engine faded, leaving a heavy, metallic silence in the alley. Georgia didn't let go of Mild's hand; if anything, she squeezed harder, feeling the tremors radiating from his palm.
"Mild?" she asked softly. "Who was that, really? He looked like he walked off a movie set and got lost in the wrong neighborhood."
Mild swallowed hard, his eyes still fixed on the spot where the black car had disappeared. The warmth of the evening had evaporated. "That's Arm. The Student Council President. I'm... I'm his lead assistant for the Summit."
Georgia stepped into his line of sight, forcing him to look at her. "He was following you, Mild. That wasn't a 'probationary check-in.' He looked at you like..." she paused, searching for the word, "...like you were a piece of art he'd lost the receipt for."
"He's just intense, G," Mild lied, the words tasting like ash. "He's obsessed with the school's image. He probably thought I was slacking off."
Georgia reached up, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. Her expression was a mix of pity and fierce protection. "He's dangerous, Mild. Not because he's mean, but because he looks like a man who doesn't know how to hear the word 'no.' Stay away from his car. And stay away from those silk suits he's making you wear. They make you look like him, and I like you looking like you."
Mild pulled her into a hug, hiding his face in her shoulder. He wanted to believe her, but he could still feel the phantom weight of the velvet blazer Arm had draped over him that afternoon.
The Student Council office was freezing. Arm had arrived at 6:00 AM and turned the AC down to its lowest setting, creating a sterile, Arctic environment that matched his mood. When Mild walked in at 7:30 AM, the atmosphere was thick enough to choke on.
Arm didn't look up from his tablet. He was dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, every line sharp enough to draw blood.
"You're four minutes late," Arm said, his voice a flat, melodic drone.
"I'm sorry, President. The bus—"
"I don't care about the logistics of public transit," Arm interrupted, finally looking up. His eyes were rimmed with a faint redness, the only sign he hadn't slept. "I care about the fact that your focus is... divided."
Mild stood at the edge of the mahogany desk, feeling the vast distance between them. "About last night, sir. Georgia is my—"
"Don't," Arm snapped. He stood up, walking slowly around the desk. He stopped just inches from Mild, reclaiming the space he felt he owned. He reached out, his fingers grazing the collar of the cheap, cotton shirt Mild had worn—a silent protest against the luxury Arm usually forced on him.
"She is a distraction, Mild. A 'genuine smile' won't coordinate a three-day international conference. A 'vibrant' personality won't manage the budget." Arm's voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and threatening. "You are being molded for greatness. Don't let a girl in a thrifted jacket drag you back down into the gray."
"She isn't dragging me down," Mild said, his voice trembling but firm. "She's the only thing keeping me real."
Arm's hand dropped. His face went perfectly blank—the mask was back on, sturdier than ever. "Real is overrated. Real is dirty and smells of exhaust. Here, you are perfect. Go finish the seating charts for the delegates. And Mild?"
Mild paused at the door.
"Don't ever let me see that look on your face again," Arm said, turning his back. "The one you had at the gate. It doesn't suit the man I'm building."
***
The iron gates of St. Jude's Academy usually only opened for luxury sedans and sleek sports cars. When Georgia walked through them, she was wearing a faded denim jacket and boots that had seen better days, her wild curls blowing in the wind. She didn't have a pass, but she had the kind of fierce beauty that made the security guards hesitate to stop her.
Mild was crossing the central courtyard, carrying a stack of files for Arm, when he heard a voice that felt like a warm breeze from another life.
"Mild!"
He froze. His heart didn't soar; it sank into his stomach. This was the place where he was a "thief," a "freak," and Arm's "assistant." Seeing Georgia here—in the light of day, surrounded by his tormentors—was his worst nightmare.
Suri and Bella both stopped in their tracks. The "Pearl Petals" and the "Arm-y" stood paralyzed as Georgia marched up to Mild and took the heavy files from his hands.
"You haven't been answering your texts," Georgia said, her voice loud and clear, carrying across the silent quad. "And you look like you haven't slept in a week. Is this what this 'prestigious' school does to people?"
"Georgia, please," Mild whispered, his eyes darting around. "You shouldn't be here. It's... it's complicated."
Bella, never one to miss an opportunity to strike, stepped forward. "And who are you? The cleaning lady's daughter? Mild, is this the 'thief' you were planning to split the Rolex money with?"
Georgia didn't flinch. She stepped toward Bella, her height and raw confidence making the smaller girl recoil. "I'm the person who knows Mild is worth ten of any of you. And if you say one more word about him, you'll find out exactly what 'neighborhood' I'm from."
The courtyard erupted in gasps. No one talked to the "Arm-y" like that.
The heavy doors of the Student Council building swung open. Arm stood on the steps, looking down at the scene. He had changed into a dark navy suit that cost more than Georgia's home. He watched her—the way she held Mild's arm, the way Mild leaned into her—and his hand gripped the stone railing until his knuckles turned white.
He descended the stairs with a slow, terrifying elegance.
"I believe visitors are required to sign in at the front gate," Arm said, his voice a low, dangerous hum.
Georgia turned to face him. She didn't look impressed by his suit or his title. "You're the one who came to our house. The one who's been 'supervising' him." She spat the word like it was poison. "I'm here to take him to lunch. A real lunch. Away from this place."
Arm looked at Mild, ignoring Georgia entirely. "Mild, you have a briefing in ten minutes. You know the rules of your probation. If you leave campus without my express permission, I'll have to call the Headmaster."
Mild looked at Georgia's hopeful, loving face, then at Arm's cold, possessive gaze.
"He's coming with me," Georgia insisted, pulling on Mild's hand.
"He belongs to the Council until five o'clock," Arm countered, stepping into Mild's personal space, effectively sandwiching Mild between his secret love and his public master. "Choose, Mild. Your 'date'... or your freedom."
The silence in the courtyard was agonizing. Mild felt as though he were standing on a glass floor that was rapidly spider-webbing beneath his feet. Every pair of eyes—the mocking gaze of the "Arm-y," the pitying stares of the "Pearl Petals," and the predatory focus of Arm—felt like a physical weight pressing into his skin.
Mild's greatest defense had always been his invisibility. Now, his shabby home, his beautiful girlfriend, and his desperate poverty were being dragged into the harsh, fluorescent light of St. Jude's. He felt exposed, stripped bare, and profoundly humiliated.
Mild looked at Georgia. Her hand was warm on his arm, the only real thing in a world of plastic and lies. But then he looked at Arm. The President was holding his phone, his thumb hovering over a speed-dial—likely the Headmaster or the precinct.
"Mild, let's go," Georgia pleaded, her voice cracking as she sensed his hesitation. "Don't let this suit-and-tie prick tell you what to do."
Mild's chest tightened. He saw Bella filming the encounter on her phone. He saw the whispers starting—the elite students laughing at the "ghetto girl" who thought she could walk into their kingdom. The more Georgia stood up for him, the more she became a target.
"I... I can't, Georgia," Mild whispered, his voice trembling. He pulled his arm out of her grasp.
Georgia's face fell. "What? Mild, no."
"I have work to do," Mild said, repeating the words like a programmed robot. He wouldn't look her in the eye because he knew if he did, he would break. "Go home, Georgia. Please. You don't belong here."
Arm's expression didn't change, but his eyes flared with a triumphant, dark glow. He had won. He had forced Mild to reject the only person who truly loved him.
"You heard the assistant," Arm said smoothly, stepping toward the stairs. "He knows his obligations. Bella, see that this young lady is escorted to the gate. She doesn't have a visitor's pass."
"Mild!" Georgia shouted as Bella and two other girls stepped forward with mocking grins. "Look at me! Is this what he's doing to you? Is this why you've been acting so strange?"
Mild didn't look back. He grabbed the heavy files from the ground and followed Arm up the stairs. Each step felt like he was walking further into a prison cell. He could hear Georgia being shouted at by the security guards, her voice fading as the heavy oak doors of the Student Council building slammed shut behind him.
The moment they were inside the soundproofed hallway, Mild stopped. He leaned against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Don't ever let her come here again," Mild hissed, his shyness replaced by a raw, jagged desperation. "You wanted me? You have me. But leave her out of this. Don't let them see her. Don't let them talk about her."
Arm turned, his face inches from Mild's. He reached out and wiped a stray tear from Mild's cheek with a thumb. "I told you, Mild. Your private life is a distraction. You should be grateful I sent her away before she saw who you really are in this office."
While Mild was trapped inside with Arm, the school was already feasting on his life.
Bella's video of "The Ghetto Queen" went viral on the school's internal forum. They mocked Georgia's clothes and her accent, using her to further humiliate Mild.
Suri was furious. She followed Georgia to the gate but couldn't catch her. She realized now that Mild wasn't choosing Arm because he wanted to—he was being blackmailed. "He's protecting her," she muttered to herself.
Kavin watched the footage on the forum with a grimace. He knew Georgia was the "Gold" in Mild's life, and Arm had just turned it into lead. He looked at the ribbon in his pocket—the one he'd kept since 9th grade. He knew he had to act soon, or there would be nothing left of Mild to save.