The next day, the atmosphere at St. Jude's felt different. To Mild, every whisper in the cafeteria sounded like a secret being shared. He didn't realize that while he was trying to be invisible, he had already caught the attention of more than just the Student Council President.
Before the final bell rang, Mild ducked into the library to avoid the crowded courtyard. He didn't notice Zen, the brooding captain of the Archery team, sitting in the darkest corner. Zen was known for his icy silence, but his eyes followed Mild with a sharp, protective intensity. Zen had seen Arm lingering near Mild's locker the day before, and the sight had made his grip tighten on his book. He liked Mild's quietness—it matched his own—and he hated seeing the "Golden Boy" Arm circling him like a hawk.
Then there was Kavin, the school's star journalist. Kavin was always looking for a story, but his interest in Mild was personal. He'd been taking "candid" photos for the yearbook, but his private folder was filled with shots of Mild staring out of windows or tucked away in corners. Kavin noticed the way Mild's hands were shaking today, and his curiosity was quickly turning into concern.
When Mild entered the Student Council office at 3:30 PM, the clothes were already laid out. This time, it wasn't just a blouse and skirt—there was a pair of thigh-high stockings and a delicate wig that matched Mild's own hair color but was styled in soft, feminine waves.
"Put them on," Arm said without looking up from his laptop. "And hurry. We have a guest coming."
Mild's heart nearly stopped. "A guest? But you said... you said no one would know!"
"They won't know it's you," Arm said, finally looking up. His eyes were darker today, more demanding. "You'll be behind the tea service screen. You are to remain silent. If you utter a single word, the deal is off, and I call the police."
Ten minutes later, Mild was tucked behind a decorative folding screen in the corner of the office. He felt ridiculous. The stockings were itchy, and the skirt felt even shorter than the day before. Through the gaps in the screen, he saw the office door open.
It was Kavin, the journalist.
"President," Kavin said, stepping in with a smirk. "I'm here for the interview about the gala. But I heard a rumor you hired a new personal assistant."
Mild held his breath, his back pressed against the cold wall. He could see Kavin's eyes scanning the room, landing momentarily on the screen where Mild was hiding.
"She's shy," Arm said smoothly, his eyes locking onto the screen, knowing exactly where Mild was trembling. "She's here to handle my tea. In fact... Assistant, I think our guest looks thirsty. Bring the tray."
Mild froze. This was the escalation Arm had promised. He had to walk out there, dressed as a girl, in front of someone who actually knew his face.
"Now," Arm commanded, his voice a sharp blade.
Mild took the silver tray. His legs felt like jelly. He stepped out from behind the screen, the wig hair tickling his cheeks. He kept his head bowed low, the long bangs of the wig obscuring his eyes. He moved with a stiff, graceful desperation, the stockings clicking against the floorboards.
Kavin went silent. Mild could feel the journalist's gaze burning into him. He reached the desk and set the tea down, his hands trembling so much the china rattled.
"She really is shy," Kavin remarked, leaning forward. His voice had lost its playful edge; he was squinting, trying to see under the wig. "And quite small. Have we met before, miss?"
Arm leaned back, a smug, dangerous look on his face. He reached out and intentionally brushed his hand against Mild's waist as he took a teacup. "I doubt it. She's... a special find. Quite unique in her resilience, don't you think?"
Mild felt like he was going to faint. He was standing three feet away from a classmate who saw him every day, dressed in silk and lace, while the most powerful boy in school touched him like he was a prize.
"I think," Kavin said slowly, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of a small mole on the "girl's" neck—a mole he had photographed on Mild a dozen times. "I think she's exactly what this school has been missing."
The tension in the room shifted the moment Kavin's eyes narrowed. The air felt charged, a silent battle of wills playing out over a tray of rattling china.
The door had barely latched behind Kavin when Mild collapsed against the edge of the mahogany desk, his legs finally giving out. The wig was itchy, the stockings felt like a brand of shame, and his heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"He knew," Mild gasped, looking up at Arm with wide, tear-brimmed eyes. "Arm, he recognized me. I saw it in his eyes."
Arm didn't look worried. On the contrary, he looked electrified. He stood up and walked toward Mild, trailing a finger along the silver tea tray. "Kavin is a hunter, Mild. He recognizes a prize when he sees one. But he also knows that if he speaks, he loses his access to the most exclusive story in school."
Arm reached out, not to comfort Mild, but to adjust the wig, tucking a stray strand of synthetic hair behind Mild's ear. His touch was possessive. "Besides, do you really think anyone would believe him? The 'model student' in a skirt? They'd think he was obsessed. Which," Arm leaned down, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "he clearly is."
"Why are you doing this to me?" Mild whispered, his voice trembling.
Arm gripped Mild's chin, forcing him to look at the reflection in the dark office window. "Because for seventeen years, you've been a ghost. And I've decided that if anyone is going to haunt you, it's going to be me. Now, take off the wig. But leave the stockings. I want you to finish the seating charts exactly as you are."
Arm's "satisfaction" wasn't just about the clothes; it was about the total control over Mild's dignity. He wanted to see how much of Mild he could strip away until there was nothing left but a boy who belonged entirely to him.
The next morning, Mild arrived at school feeling like a walking wound. He had scrubbed his skin until it was red, trying to wash away the feeling of the silk and Arm's gaze, but the phantom sensation of the thigh-highs remained.
He was at his locker, trying to blend into the locker bank, when a shadow fell over him.
"You dropped this yesterday," a voice said.
Mild jumped, nearly dropping his books. It was Kavin. The journalist wasn't holding a camera today; he was holding a small, delicate silk ribbon—the one from the blouse Mild had worn the day before. It must have fallen out of his bag during his frantic change.
Mild's face went white. "I... I don't know what that is."
"It's high-quality silk," Kavin said, leaning one arm against the locker next to Mild's head, effectively boxing him in. "Expensive. The kind only the Student Council budget—or the President's personal wallet—could afford."
Kavin leaned in closer, his voice low so the passing students couldn't hear. "I've seen you in the shadows for years, Mild. I always thought you were the most interesting person in this school because you were the only one not trying to be seen. But seeing you in that office... seeing the way Arm looks at you..."
Kavin reached out, his fingers brushing against Mild's collarbone, right where the mole was. "It's a dangerous game, Mild. Arm doesn't play to lose. But if you ever want a way out... or a different kind of audience... you know where the darkroom is."
Kavin tucked the ribbon into Mild's shirt pocket with a wink and walked away, leaving Mild shaking.
Mild didn't get five steps down the hall before he was stopped again. This time, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
It was Zen. The Archery captain didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, his large frame shielding Mild from the view of the hallway. He looked from Kavin's retreating back to Mild's pale face.
"Are you okay?" Zen asked. His voice was like gravel—rough, but surprisingly grounded.
"I'm fine, Zen. Really," Mild lied, looking at the floor.
Zen's eyes dropped to the silk ribbon peeking out of Mild's pocket. His jaw tightened. He knew the smell of the Student Council office—he'd been there for sports budget meetings. He smelled that same citrus and lavender on Mild now.
"If he's hurting you," Zen said, his voice dropping to a protective growl, "tell me. I don't care who his father is or what title he holds. You don't have to be his toy."
Mild looked up, shocked to find genuine heat in Zen's usually icy eyes. For the first time, Mild realized he wasn't just a victim in a private war; he was the center of a brewing storm between the most powerful boys in school.
***
The school's botanical garden was transformed into a fairy-tale nightmare of fairy lights and white roses. Everyone was dressed in formal attire, but Mild was tucked away in the "Service Pavilion."
Per Arm's latest "punishment," Mild wasn't wearing his school suit. He was wearing a high-fashion, androgynous maid-inspired uniform: a black velvet waistcoat, a white lace-collared shirt, and a mid-length silk skirt over slim trousers. With a delicate lace mask covering the upper half of his face and his hair styled softly, he looked like a beautiful, nameless doll.
A group of popular girls led by Suri, who had a massive crush on Mild's "quiet, mysterious" vibe. They spent the night scanning the crowd for him. "Where is he?" Suri whispered, frustrated. "He's the only boy who doesn't look at us like we're trophies. I need to find him."
Arm's devoted fangirls, led by the sharp-tongued Bella. They hovered near Arm like satellites. "President Arm looks so regal tonight," Bella sighed, clutching her champagne flute. "But he keeps looking toward the service staff. Do you think he's looking for a flaw to fix?"
Arm was standing near the fountain, effortlessly charming the faculty, when he caught Zen watching the Service Pavilion. Zen wasn't in a tuxedo; he wore his archery team blazer, looking like a soldier among socialites.
Arm excused himself and intercepted Zen near the rose bushes.
"You're staring, Zen," Arm said, his voice a smooth blade. "It's impolite to ogle the help."
Zen turned, his eyes cold. "That's not 'help,' Arm. That's Mild. I know what you're doing. I saw the way he looked when he left your office today. He looked like he was disappearing."
Arm's smile didn't reach his eyes. "He's learning discipline. Something your archery team could use. He's my responsibility, Zen. Stay in your lane."
"He's a person, not a project," Zen stepped closer, his height intimidating even to the President. "If I see one more bruise on his spirit, I'm not going to the Disciplinary Committee. I'm going to your father."
Arm's jaw tightened. Mentioning his father—a high-ranking politician—was the only way to rattle him. "You don't have proof of anything, Archer. In fact, if you look over there..."
Arm pointed to where Mild was serving drinks. Suri and her friends had approached the "mysterious assistant," not realizing it was Mild.
"Oh, she's so pretty!" Suri exclaimed, reaching out to touch the lace on Mild's sleeve. "Who are you? I've never seen you at the academy before. Wait...you do look familiar though, are you...?"
Mild froze, the tray trembling in his hands. He could feel Arm's smug gaze and Zen's burning protection from across the garden.
Suddenly, Kavin stepped in, snapping a photo that captured the tension. "Careful, Suri," Kavin teased, though his eyes were fixed on Mild's hidden gaze. "She might be a princess in disguise. Or maybe... a ghost we've all been ignoring."
Kavin turned to Arm and Zen, who were now both standing near the pavilion. "The tension tonight is delicious. The President, the Captain, and a mysterious girl who seems to have everyone's heart racing. I wonder... who will she dance with first?"
Arm walked over, his hand finding the small of Mild's back in a way that looked professional to the crowd but felt like an iron brand to Mild.
"The assistant has work to do," Arm said to the group, but his eyes stayed on Zen. "But perhaps, for a moment, I can grant her a break."
He leaned down to Mild's ear, loud enough only for him to hear. "Dance with me, Mild. Show them how well you've learned your place. If you don't, I'll tell Suri exactly who is standing under this mask. Imagine the look on her face when she realizes her 'shy crush' is the girl she's been admiring all night."
Mild felt the world shrinking. He was caught between the girl who liked his true self , the boy who wanted to protect him, the boy who wanted to expose him, and the boy who owned him.
The tension in the garden had reached a fever pitch. The music transitioned from a light waltz to a deeper, more rhythmic cello piece that seemed to vibrate in Mild's very bones.
Arm led Mild to the center of the marble dance floor. Under the glow of a thousand fairy lights, the "mysterious assistant" looked breathtaking. Arm's hand was firm on Mild's waist, his other hand clasping Mild's trembling fingers.
"Keep your head up," Arm whispered, his breath hot against the lace of Mild's mask. "You're the star of the show tonight."
As they began to move, the crowd fell into a hushed circle. Bella watched with narrowed, venomous eyes, her knuckles white around her glass. Suri stood nearby, her heart aching with a strange, inexplicable familiarity as she watched the "girl" dance.
Mild felt like he was floating in a nightmare. Every turn Arm led him through felt like a display of ownership. But then, as they spun past the rose bushes, a shadow broke the perimeter of the dance floor.
Zen didn't care about the etiquette of the gala. He stepped directly into their path, forcing the pair to a halt.
"The dance is over, Arm," Zen said, his voice a low thrum of violence.
"I don't recall inviting the Archery team to the floor," Arm countered, his grip on Mild tightening.
"I'm not asking for an invitation. I'm taking him home." Zen reached out, his hand wrapping around Mild's forearm to pull him away from Arm.
The tug-of-war was brief but catastrophic. As Zen pulled and Arm refused to let go, Mild stumbled. His heel caught on the hem of his silk skirt, and he lurched forward. In the scramble to regain his balance, his lace mask hooked onto the button of Arm's blazer.
With a sickening snap, the mask was ripped away.
But it didn't stop there. The movement was so jarring that the pins holding the wig in place gave way. The soft, feminine waves slid off, tumbling to the marble floor like a discarded shroud.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Mild stood in the center of the elite of St. Jude's, dressed in velvet and lace, his short, dark hair messy and his face flushed with a terror so raw it was heartbreaking.
"Mild?" Suri gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
"Is that... the scholarship boy?" Bella shrieked, her shock turning into a sharp, cruel laugh. "The 'Model Student' is a freak?"
The "Arm-y" erupted into whispers and jeers. Kavin was the only one moving, his camera shutter clicking rapidly, capturing the look of predatory triumph on Arm's face and the devastated protector look on Zen's.
"So this is your 'project'?" Zen roared, lunging at Arm. He grabbed the President by the lapels, slamming him back against a stone pillar. "You turned him into a joke for your own sick amusement!"
"He chose this!" Arm shouted back, finally losing his cool as blood trickled from his lip. "He chose the clothes over the police! He belongs to me by contract!"
Suri stepped forward, tears in her eyes, pushing through the mocking crowd. "Mild... why? Did he do this to you?"
Mild couldn't speak. The humiliation was a physical weight, crushing the air out of his lungs. He looked at Arm—the boy who had seen him. He looked at Zen—the boy who wanted to save him. He looked at the crowd—the world that now knew his most shameful secret.
With a broken sob, Mild didn't turn to Zen or Arm. He turned and ran. He tore through the white roses, the silk of his skirt ripping on the thorns, disappearing into the dark woods beyond the garden.
The gala was in ruins.
Zen turned to the crowd, his voice booming. "Anyone who leaks a photo of this tonight will have to answer to me. And you," he pointed at Arm, "are finished."
Arm stood alone by the pillar, straightening his blazer. He looked victorious, but as he stared at the discarded wig on the floor, his hand trembled. He had achieved his goal—Mild was no longer invisible—but he had also destroyed the only thing Mild had left.
Kavin looked at his camera screen. He had the "Story of the Century," but for the first time in his life, he didn't want to publish it. He looked toward the dark woods where Mild had disappeared, a deep, gnawing guilt starting to settle in his chest.