With nothing else to do, Arlen goes to sleep once again.
A few quiet hours later, the golden light of the late afternoon filtered through the dusty window of the guest room, casting long, orange bars across the bare wooden floor. On the mattress-less bed frame, Arlen’s eyes slowly fluttered open. He lay perfectly still for a moment, his mind gradually transitioning from sleep to wakefulness.
The silence of his room was broken not by the hum of the city, but by the sharp, echoing sound of laughter from the dining area.
"I mean, seriously, Liam! You should have seen him," Mika’s voice rang out, deliberately loud, carrying easily down the hallway and slipping through the gap beneath Arlen’s door. "He actually lay down on the bare wooden slats. No mattress, no pillow, nothing! He’s trying so hard to play the tragic, abused martyr. It is the most pathetic, transparent act I have ever seen in my life."
A man’s smooth, arrogant chuckle followed. "Are you serious, babe? No mattress?" Liam’s voice was dripping with smug amusement. "Man, some people really have no self-respect. If I had to sleep on bare wood, my back would be ruined for my next shoot. But I guess when you don’t have a career or a face to protect, you can afford to live like a dog."
"Exactly!" Mika chimed in, her voice rising in pitch, clearly intending for her words to reach the far corner of the penthouse. "He’s a leech, Liam. A total charity case trying to guilt-trip me into feeling sorry for him. He actually went to that greasy, disgusting diner down the street for breakfast. The heir to a business empire, eating trash just to make me look like the villain! It’s laughable."
Inside the quiet room, Arlen sat up. His dark, oversized sweater bunched around him as he swung his legs over the edge of the wooden frame. His expression remained entirely blank, his single visible eye wide and vacant. He listened to the harsh words, but they didn’t register as insults. To Arlen, they were simply sounds—loud, vibrating frequencies echoing from the kitchen. He felt no anger, no shame, and no urge to defend himself.
Instead, his stomach let out a quiet, hollow growl. He was hungry.
Arlen slid off the bed and walked over to the single wooden chair where his convenience store bag sat. He pulled out the loaf of white bread and the jar of creamy peanut butter.
Unscrewing the lid of the peanut butter jar, Arlen retrieved the small, flimsy plastic spoon that had been taped to the side of the jar. He pulled a single slice of white bread from the bag and held it in his left hand, preparing to make his lunch.
Outside, Mika’s voice continued to drift through the door. "...and honestly, Liam, I give him two weeks max. A guy like him can’t survive without his servants and his silver spoon. He’ll crawl back to his grandfather crying."
"I’d love to see that," Liam replied with a loud, mocking laugh. "Maybe I’ll shoot a video of him leaving. We can call it ’The Fall of the Pathetic Parasite.’"
Inside the quiet room, Arlen paid no attention to the commentary. He dipped the cheap plastic spoon into the fresh, dense jar of peanut butter. Because the jar was brand new, the peanut butter was thick and firmly packed. Arlen, possessing a very literal and straightforward mind, simply applied downward pressure without considering the structural integrity of cheap plastic.
The spoon dug in, but the thick paste held it fast. As Arlen pulled back to scoop a portion out, the flimsy handle of the spoon began to bend. It curved further and further backward, forming a tense, perfect arc—a miniature catapult primed and ready.
Arlen blinked slowly, staring at the bending plastic. He didn’t stop. He simply pulled a little harder.
With a sudden, silent *snap*, the spoon slipped free from the resistance of the jar. The plastic handle whipped forward with high-velocity force.
*Fling.*
The thick, heavy dollop of creamy peanut butter was instantly launched straight upward.
*Splat.*
A soft, wet sound echoed in the quiet room.
Arlen stood perfectly still. He slowly tilted his head back, his dark bangs shifting slightly as he looked up at the ceiling. There, directly above his head, was a perfectly round, thick glob of brown peanut butter, stuck firmly to the white plaster.
He stared at it. His left eye blinked once. Twice.
He looked down at the plastic spoon in his hand, which was now bent slightly out of shape, then looked back up at the ceiling. He watched the glob closely, wondering if gravity would eventually do its job. The peanut butter, however, remained stubbornly adhered to the plaster, defying his expectations.
From the dining room, Mika’s sharp laughter rang out again. "I mean, he’s probably in there right now, plotting his next move. Probably trying to figure out how to make me look like a monster!"
Liam swirled the dark red wine in his crystal glass, a smug, mocking grin playing on his lips. He leaned back in his chair, his posture exuding the practiced ease of a man who spent his life in front of cameras.
"You know, babe," Liam said, his voice dripping with condescension, "all this talk about him is making me curious. I want to see this prick for myself. The guy who thinks he can just leech his way into your life and expect a free ride."
Mika scoffed, taking a delicate sip of her own wine, though her eyes flashed with malicious amusement. "Oh, trust me, Liam, he’s not much to look at. Just a blank, pathetic doll. But if you want to see the martyr in his natural habitat, be my guest. Feel free to put him in his place."
Liam stood up, smoothing down his designer shirt. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, adjusting his posture to ensure he looked every bit the dominant, successful man he believed himself to be. "Let’s go pay the charity case a visit."
Mika followed him, a triumphant smirk on her face. She couldn’t wait to see Arlen crumble under Liam’s intimidating, high-status presence.
They walked down the long, quiet hallway. Liam didn’t bother to knock. He gripped the handle of the guest room door and swung it open with a dramatic, forceful flourish, fully expecting to find Arlen either crying, shivering on the floor, or frantically scribbling a complaint to his grandfather.
Instead, the scene inside the room was entirely bizarre.
Liam stepped over the threshold, his chest puffed out, fully prepared to tower over the "pathetic parasite" and put him in his place. He strode directly into Arlen’s personal space, intending to use his physical presence and practiced camera-ready posture to intimidate the quiet heir.
But as Liam came to a halt right in front of him, his smug smirk faltered.
Up close, Liam realized with a sudden, jarring prick to his ego that Arlen was actually a bit taller than him. Despite Arlen’s lean, almost feminine figure and the way the oversized dark sweater draped over his shoulders, he stood with a straight, effortless posture. It forced the actor to tilt his chin up just a fraction to look him in the eye—a detail that instantly grated on Liam’s pride.
Arlen, who had been staring intently at the ceiling, slowly tilted his head down. His gaze switched from the freshly launched glob of peanut butter to the handsome, scowling face of the actor standing before him.
In Arlen’s left hand was the cheap loaf of white bread, and in his right was the sad, warped plastic spoon, still glistening with a trace of brown paste. He blinked slowly, his expression entirely vacant, showing no sign of fear, embarrassment, or recognition.
"Hello," Arlen said softly, his androgynous voice light and completely unbothered. He looked at Liam, then slightly behind him at Mika, who was watching from the doorway with her arms crossed, waiting for her boyfriend to humiliate him.
Liam stared at Arlen, the rehearsed, biting insults dying in his throat.
As a professional actor and model, Liam’s entire identity—his very livelihood—was built on his appearance. He knew his angles, he knew how to hold himself to command a room, and he spent hours under professional styling to look flawless. But looking at Arlen up close, a sudden, cold wave of insecurity washed over him.
Arlen’s beauty was entirely effortless. It was quiet, mellow, and ethereal, completely devoid of the try-hard, performative bravado that Liam constantly projected. Even in a dusty, barren room, wearing a ridiculous, oversized knit sweater and holding a cheap loaf of bread, Arlen looked like a classical painting. His skin was flawless, his features impossibly delicate, and his calm demeanor made Liam feel incredibly loud, artificial, and cheap.
The silence stretched, becoming heavy and awkward. Liam’s jaw clenched as his ego took a bruising hit. He had come in here to establish dominance over a "leech," but instead, he felt like a painted clown standing next to a marble statue.