The hallway didn't just go quiet; it went cold. Mild felt the weight of every eye in the corridor pressing against him like a physical bruise. At his feet lay his worn canvas bag, its contents spilled across the polished marble floor. And there, nestled among his thrifted notebooks, was a glint of gold and sapphire that didn't belong to his world.
"Is that mine, Mild?"
The voice was smooth, terrifyingly calm, and belonged to the only person in school who was never supposed to know Mild existed. Arm Listener stepped forward, the crowd parting like a sea for its king. He didn't look angry; he looked interested. As he picked up the Rolex, his fingers brushed against Mild's shaking hand, and for a split second, the President's gaze didn't feel like a judgment—it felt like a claim.
"See me in the student council office." Mild commended and left the scene the way he came.
The door to the Student Council office clicked shut, muffled by the heavy oak frame. Mild kept his head down, staring at the scuffs on his shoes, waiting for the lecture, the expulsion, or the police.
"Look at me, Mild," Arm commanded.
Mild looked up, expecting to see the 'Perfect President' mask. Instead, Arm was leaning against his mahogany desk, the stolen watch dangling from his fingertip like a lure. There was a flicker in Arm's eyes—a dark, playful spark that didn't match his reputation.
"A thief deserves a punishment," Arm whispered, stepping into Mild's personal space. "But I think the school's rules are far too... unimaginative for someone as quiet as you."
The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to sync with the pounding of Mild's heart.
"The disciplinary committee wants you suspended, Mild," Arm said, his voice a low, melodic hum. "Theft of a luxury item is a stain on the school's prestige. And on my reputation, since I'm the one who lost it."
"I... I didn't take it," Mild whispered, his voice cracking. "I don't know how it got there."
Arm stood up slowly. He didn't look like a student; he looked like a predator who had finally found a reason to stop pretending. He walked around the desk, stopping just inches from Mild. He used a single finger to lift Mild's chin, forcing their eyes to meet.
"I believe you," Arm murmured.
Mild blinked, stunned. "You do?"
"Yes. You're too timid to be a thief. You're the type who hides in the back of the class and hopes the world forgets you exist." Arm's thumb brushed against Mild's lower lip—a gesture far too lingering for a school president. "But the school needs a 'consequence.' And I've decided that I don't want to lose you to a suspension. I'd rather keep you where I can see you."
Mild's breath hitched. "What do you mean?"
Arm stepped back, a strange, playful glint dancing in his eyes. "Since you 'stole' my time by making me deal with this mess, you're going to give it back. Every day after school, for two hours, you belong to the Student Council. To me."
"Doing... filing? Cleaning?"
Arm's smile grew, sharp and beautiful. "Nothing so boring. You're going to help me with a 'sociological project' I've been considering. I've always wondered how much a person's identity is tied to their clothes."
Arm walked over to a tall, mahogany wardrobe in the corner—the one rumors said held extra uniforms. He pulled out a folded garment that was definitely not a boy's blazer. It was a crisp, pleated skirt and a delicate white blouse with a silk ribbon.
"Put these on, Mild," Arm commanded, his voice dropping an octave. "From now on, in this room, Mild Runner doesn't exist. You're going to be my personal assistant. And my assistant is a girl."
Mild felt the blood drain from his face. "I... I can't. That's—it's not a punishment, that's—"
"It's a way to keep your record clean," Arm interrupted, leaning in so close Mild could feel the heat radiating off him. "Unless you'd rather explain the Rolex to the police? Choose, Mild. Disappear from this school forever... or stay here and let me see who you really are."
The air in the office grew stifling as Arm gestured toward the velvet-curtained changing alcove in the corner—a relic of the room's history as a private lounge. The fabric of the uniform felt impossibly light in Mild's trembling hands, a sharp contrast to the heavy dread settling in his chest.
"I'll be waiting right here," Arm said, returning to his desk with a nonchalant grace. He picked up a fountain pen, but he didn't start writing. He simply watched.
Mild scurried behind the curtain, the brass rings clattering against the rod like a death knell. Inside the small space, the scent of lavender sachets was overwhelming. He fumbled with his own buttons, his skin prickling in the cool draft. Every sound from the other side of the curtain—the scratch of Arm's pen, the rustle of paper—felt like a physical touch.
Why am I doing this? Mild thought, his eyes stinging. But the image of his mother's face if he were expelled for theft flashed in his mind. He was a scholarship student; a scandal would destroy everything.
The silk blouse was soft, almost cool against his skin. The pleated skirt sat high on his waist, the hem brushing his mid-thigh in a way that felt dangerously exposed. Finally, he fumbled with the ribbon, tying a shaky, lopsided bow at his throat.
"Mild?" Arm's voice came from just outside the curtain. "Don't make me come in there."
"I'm... I'm done," Mild whispered.
He pushed the curtain aside. The sunlight filtering through the tall office windows caught the white of the blouse, making Mild look almost ethereal. He kept his knees pressed together, his hands desperately trying to tug the skirt lower. He refused to look up, his face burning a deep, humiliated crimson.
The silence lasted too long.
Finally, the floorboards creaked. Arm approached, his footsteps slow and deliberate. He stopped so close that Mild could see the polished shine of his leather shoes.
"Look at me," Arm commanded.
Mild slowly raised his gaze. He expected to see mockery or laughter. Instead, he found Arm's expression uncharacteristically tight. The President's pupils were blown wide, his dark eyes scanning Mild from the ribbon at his neck down to his bare, trembling legs.
"You look..." Arm started, his voice uncharacteristically rough. He reached out, his fingers catching the edge of the silk ribbon and pulling it taut, drawing Mild a fraction closer. "...exactly as I imagined."
Mild gasped, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Can I... can I sit down now?"
"No," Arm whispered, his gaze dropping to Mild's lips before snapping back to his eyes. He let go of the ribbon, but the tension didn't break. "A girl with your 'reputation' shouldn't be so shy. Walk to the window and back. I want to see if you can handle the grace this role requires."
Mild realized then that this wasn't just a punishment for the watch. This was a theater, and Arm was a director who was becoming obsessed with his lead actor.
Arm returned to his desk, but he didn't sit. He leaned against the edge, crossing his ankles, the Rolex—the very cause of this nightmare—resting casually on the blotter.
"A personal assistant needs to be useful," Arm said, his eyes tracking the way the pleated fabric of the skirt swayed as Mild took a tentative, shaky step. "My schedule is a mess, and the Student Council gala is in three weeks. You're going to help me organize the seating charts."
He gestured to a stack of heavy cardstock and a fountain pen. "Sit. Use the small table by the window."
Mild moved toward the table, feeling the unfamiliar brush of air against his legs. He sat down, trying to keep his knees together, but the chair was hard, and the skirt felt dangerously short. He felt exposed, even though they were alone.
"The names are on the left," Arm instructed, his voice drifting across the room. "The donors, the faculty, and the elite alumni. They must be grouped by status. If you make a mistake, you start over."
Mild began to write. His hand was trembling so much the first name—Director H. Vane—looked like a jagged mountain range.
"Your handwriting is messy, Mild," Arm remarked. Suddenly, he was there, looming over Mild's shoulder. He didn't stay at a distance. He leaned down, his chest nearly brushing Mild's back, and reached around him to steady Mild's hand.
Arm's hand was large and warm, completely enveloping Mild's smaller, colder fingers. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through Mild's spine.
"Breathe," Arm whispered into his ear. The scent of citrus and expensive paper was intoxicating. "If you're this nervous over a pen, how will you handle the rest of my demands?"
"I'm... I'm trying," Mild choked out.
"Are you?" Arm's grip tightened slightly, guiding the pen across the paper in a perfect, elegant script. "Because you seem more focused on the fact that I'm touching you than the task at hand. Is it the clothes, Mild? Do they make you feel... sensitive?"
Mild couldn't answer. He was hyper-aware of everything: the weight of Arm's body behind him, the way the silk blouse felt against his skin, and the terrifying realization that he didn't pull away.
"There," Arm said, releasing his hand but remaining close enough that his breath stirred the loose hairs at the nape of Mild's neck. "Now, continue. But every time you smudge a name or lose your focus, I'll add another fifteen minutes to your 'service.' Understood?"
Mild nodded fervently, staring at the paper. As he worked, he could hear Arm pacing slowly behind him. Every now and then, he would hear the snap of a camera shutter—the soft click of a smartphone.
Mild froze. "Are you... taking pictures?"
"Evidence," Arm replied smoothly, though there was a hint of a smile in his voice. "In case you decide to stop being such a 'model student.' Now, don't stop. The donors won't wait, and neither will I."
As Mild forced himself to focus on the names of the wealthy and powerful, he realized with a sinking heart that the "task" wasn't the seating chart at all. The task was seeing how long Mild could endure being Arm's living doll before he broke—or before he started to enjoy the attention.
When the clock finally struck five, the release was not a relief—it was a new kind of terror.
"You're dismissed," Arm said, his voice returning to that cool, untouchable professional tone as if he hadn't just spent the last hour hovering over Mild's shoulder. "Change quickly. I don't like to be kept waiting, even by my... assistant."
Mild didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled behind the curtain, his hands shaking so violently he nearly ripped a button off the silk blouse. When he finally pulled his own oversized, scratchy wool sweater back on, it felt like armor—but thin, useless armor. The ghost of the silk lingered against his skin, a reminder that the boundary between who he was and who Arm wanted him to be had already been breached.
He emerged from the office, eyes glued to the floor. The hallway, usually a sanctuary of anonymity at this hour, felt like a gauntlet.
Every sound was a jump-scare. The squeak of a janitor's mop further down the hall sounded like a mocking laugh. The rhythmic thud of a basketball in the gym felt like Arm's heartbeat against his back. Mild kept his bag clutched to his chest, certain that if anyone looked too closely, they would see the floral scent of Arm's office clinging to his hair or the faint red marks on his wrists where the feminine cuffs had been too tight.
As he turned the corner toward the lockers, a group of popular athletes—friends of Arm—came boisterously toward him. In the past, Mild would have simply melted into the lockers. Now, he felt a surge of white-hot panic.
Do they know? he wondered, his breath hitching. Did Arm tell them? Are they laughing at the 'model student' who wears skirts in the dark?
"Hey, watch it, Runner," one of them clipped his shoulder, not even looking at him. It was a standard, thoughtless shove, but to Mild, it felt like a spotlight. He stumbled, his back hitting the cold metal of the lockers with a clang that echoed through the entire wing. He waited for the mockery, but they just kept walking, their conversation about the upcoming gala drowning out his frantic pulse.
He reached the school's heavy front doors and stepped out into the cool evening air. He should have felt safe. He was outside. The "punishment" was over for the day.
But as he walked toward the bus stop, his hand drifted to his pocket. He felt the small, rectangular weight of his phone. He thought of the click of Arm's camera. He thought of the way Arm's voice had dropped when he said exactly as I imagined.
The shame was there, heavy and suffocating. But beneath it—somewhere deep and terrifying—was a flicker of something else. For the first time in his life, someone as powerful as Arm Listener hadn't just overlooked him. Arm had seen him.
Mild gripped the strap of his bag, his knuckles white. He hated the watch. He hated the skirt. He hated the power Arm had over him. But as the bus pulled up, he realized with a sickening jolt that he was already counting the hours until tomorrow's detention.
***
The heavy oak door clicked shut, the sound echoing through the now-empty Student Council office. Arm Listener didn't move from his position by the window. He watched through the glass as a small, hurried figure emerged from the building below.
From this height, Mild Runner looked even smaller, his shoulders hunched as if trying to fold himself into the shadows of the evening.
Arm reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He swiped through the photos he'd taken—not the "evidence" he had threatened Mild with, but shots that looked more like portraits. Mild's wide, panicked eyes; the way the silk ribbon rested against the pulse point of his neck; the sharp contrast of Mild's shy, boyish face against the delicate white blouse.
"Model student," Arm whispered to the empty room, his voice devoid of its usual rehearsed warmth.
He sat at his desk and opened the bottom drawer, which stayed locked to everyone else. Inside wasn't a stash of contraband or stolen goods. It was a file on Mild Runner. Arm had been collecting it for months: grade reports, attendance sheets, even a discarded sketch Mild had left in the library once.
The Rolex hadn't been "found" in Mild's bag by accident. Arm had placed it there himself, a golden hook designed to catch the only person in the school who refused to look him in the eye.
Arm leaned back, his gaze falling on the seating chart Mild had been working on. The handwriting was shaky, but underneath Arm's guided touch, it had become something beautiful.
Everyone loved Arm Listener, but no one knew him. They loved the straight-A student, the captain, the future politician. They loved the mask. But in Mild's eyes, when he was terrified and dressed in those ridiculous clothes, Arm saw something real. He saw a reflection of his own hidden, darker desires—the need to control, the need to be seen for the monster he felt he was.
He looked at the last photo he'd taken. Mild had been looking up, a mix of humiliation and a strange, budding curiosity in his gaze.
Arm's thumb traced the screen, over Mild's lips.
"You think this is a punishment, Mild," Arm murmured, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "But you have no idea how much I'm punishing myself just by letting you leave this room."
He wasn't just drawn to Mild's vulnerability; he was drawn to the way Mild endured. Most people crumbled under Arm's pressure or threw themselves at his feet. But Mild stayed quiet, resilient, and oddly pure.
Arm picked up the Rolex and strapped it back onto his wrist. The weight of it felt different now. It was no longer just a watch; it was a tether. He had twenty-four hours until Mild had to return. Twenty-four hours to decide just how far he was willing to push the "girl" persona before he broke the boy underneath—or before he fell for him entirely.