CHAPTER 441: SUCCESS?

There was silence.

Both of them registered what he’d just said.

"I-I mean—how would my friend sleep?! That’s what I meant! I meant, how does he—"

But his mother was already smiling like a cat with a fish bowl.

"Ahh, well..." she said, drawing out the words, "a good cuddle usually helps."

"Huh?"

"Isn’t that how you normally fall asleep? You’ve always liked being hugged. Maybe you should tell your friend to try that."

Ollie stared at her.

Then at the screen.

Then back at the pillow beside him.

A pillow that did not, in fact, have arms.

"This is evil..." he whispered.

The Marquise laughed. "Goodnight, sweetheart. I hope your friend figures it out soon enough."

And just like that, the call ended.

He was left alone.

Devastated.

Mentally spiraling.

Because—because what now?! How was he supposed to get an embrace to sleep?! Kyle was gone! The shirt wasn’t alive! His arms were too short!

And the forums.

What would be on the forums?! What did she mean?! What had he missed?!

"AHHHHHH!" Ollie screamed into the void and collapsed backward on the bed.

He was doomed.

And yet, he dared to glance sideways.

At it.

The shirt.

Kyle’s shirt.

It sat there like a cursed object. Not glowing, not moving, but somehow radiating danger.

Ollie stared at it like it might suddenly whisper secrets.

He yanked his blanket up and covered his head.

The poor blonde had been teetering on the edge of insanity. Because the moment he peeked out, it was still there.

Taunting him.

So harmless. So...folded.

His brain hissed, Just take it.

"Absolutely not!" he whispered aloud to himself.

His terminal chimed softly with the time.

02:14 AM.

He was losing the fight. Defenseless against late-night thoughts and fabric.

With trembling hands and a wobbly lip, he reached out—just to fold it better. That was all. Nothing suspicious. Just being neat.

He picked it up. The fabric was warm, as if it had been freshly pressed. Soft. Worn in. The kind that someone actually wore at one point, not the new ones you only use for formal settings.

And because Ollie had the self-control of a bread roll in a bakery, he sniffed it.

Paused.

Sniffed again.

He turned red. Again. Because from what he remembered, the toiletries issued by the military were all the same, right? So what was this? WHY DID IT SMELL SO GOOD?!

He flung it across the bed like it had burned him. Then stared at it in betrayal. And yet, moments later, he was crawling back toward it on all fours, whispering frantic apologies like a lunatic begging forgiveness from a jilted lover.

"...I’m sorry," he whispered to the shirt.

This was it.

This was rock bottom.

Emotionally compromised.

And since he was already on the floor of dignity, he did what any defeated mess would do.

He dressed the pillow with the shirt.

Because at this point? If he wasn’t getting an embrace?

He’d just make his own cuddle buddy.

Although it might’ve been a little too effective.

Because the problematic cadet, who was supposed to heroically search the forums for life-altering truths, ended up passing out.

Face down.

Terminal still open.

One hand mid-scroll. The other, clinging to his makeshift emotional support pillow now dressed in a borrowed shirt.

And in the soft stillness of the room, with his nose buried in a scent that spelled disaster, he finally drifted off.

Mumbling something incoherent about dessert.

And cuddles.

A contented sigh escaped his lips as the glow of the terminal screen dimmed.

Mission: Incomplete.

Heart: Overloaded.

Dreams: Ridiculously sweet.

But while a certain someone had been off to dreamland, one adjutant had been up hunting down an unexpected bug.

Kyle hadn’t even reached the last step outside the dorm building when he spotted something odd in the shadow of the west-side pillar, just beyond the perimeter lights.

Most cadets had already retreated indoors to avoid the curfew.

But two figures remained just out of sight.

One of them was Ollie’s rarely-seen assigned roommate.

The other was hooded, hunched slightly forward in quiet conversation.

That alone would’ve drawn Kyle’s attention—but it was the urgency in the roommate’s voice, the furtive glances, and the way the stranger’s posture radiated control that sharpened his focus.

Kyle slowed his pace.

Listened as he bypassed that blocker device that they thought was enough to protect them.

Normally, Kyle would ignore these kinds of things, but not when his concern levels were still riding high after tucking Ollie into bed like a precious treasure that nearly got stolen.

"I’m not asking you for something complicated," the hooded person muttered. "Besides, you need the private lab, right? You’ve been waiting months to get clearance for it, last I heard."

There was a pause.

Kyle could see the conflict written in the roommate’s shoulders. The guilt. The desperation.

"...He barely sleeps here anymore..." came the shaky answer. "But—I don’t know when he’s leaving permanently."

"That’s fine," the stranger said, voice too calm, too rehearsed. "Just keep me updated. You’ll get to use it tonight as your down payment—assuming you’re willing to break curfew. But how you’d manage that is your problem."

Kyle’s eyes narrowed.

That was enough.

He didn’t like flies.

So when the pair finally parted ways—one slipping back into the school building and the other moving towards another dorm building—Kyle took a turn of his own.

Back into his dorm to pull surveillance feeds.

And so, the protective detective got to work. Tracing that hooded figure’s destination and interactions.

He scrubbed through the surveillance archives from earlier that day.

Classrooms. Courtyards. Mailroom.

Only this time, that person wasn’t hooded anymore as she handed over the same box he’d seen earlier to a different guy.

Kyle paused the frame.

Enhanced it.

And there it was: a face that could be matched in the database.

Lyka Vela.

Why was she looking for his mop? And what’s with the conflicting box and asking when he’s going to permanently vacate the room?

Meanwhile, in the dimly lit corner of the female mechanics’ dormitory, one girl lounged with a glint of victorious madness in her eyes.

Lyka couldn’t stop snickering.

Everything had gone according to plan.

Her stars had aligned, her schemes had bloomed, and she was so sure—so delightfully certain—that she had successfully shocked Oliver Mylor into a state of paralyzing emotional trauma.

As intended.

She could practically feel his panicked heartbeat from across campus.

"Just as planned," she whispered with a smug curl of her lip, tossing one of those materials she intended to gift onto a pile of engineering manuals that were definitely not hers.

But then—ping!

A new message.

From one of her less annoying friends.

[Photo Attachment]

[Lyks. Isn’t this Lord Nox? What’s he doing heading for the male mechanics’ dorm?]

Her heart dropped.

She tapped the photo.

Zoomed in.

And there he was. Kyle Nox. Walking with calm purpose straight toward another division’s dormitory.

Her smile twitched.

Her eye did, too.

"...Why?" she hissed under her breath. "Why is he going there?!"

She stood up abruptly, pacing in her room like a villain whose plan had just hit a very inconvenient protagonist-shaped wall.

"No—no—it’s fine," she murmured to herself, pressing a hand to her forehead like she had a migraine made of rage. "It’s fine! This might be the last time! Maybe it’ll be better if he sees him a mess!"

She clenched her teeth and stalked back to her bed, flopping down with dramatic flair and glaring at the wall.

Besides, she had already prepared the next batch of boxes.

Yes.

The next level.

Her real masterpieces.

He couldn’t possibly resist those.

Then the obstacle would have no choice but to fall.