Chapter 4: Mud, Milk Tea, and the Mafia’s Curiosity
945 Words
Lee Arden sat against the wall, panting like a very scared—and very muddy—rabbit.
Milk tea had splashed onto his clothes somewhere during the escape, leaving a suspicious brown streak across his white shirt.
He panted, but each inhale felt as if someone had crammed a trombone into his lungs.
“I… I SURVIVED,” he repeated, as if to say it loud enough would make it true.
“Mother… I told you I was brave…”
Then the words of the mafia leader crept into his mind: "Not yet."
Arden froze.
His eyes darted from shadow to shadow, and with a slow build, he screamed into the empty alley, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'NOT YET'—?!", quite forgetting that he was supposed to be hiding and not drawing attention to himself in the process.
The street remained silent.
Arden blew out a sigh of relief—until he realized he hadn’t actually gone home yet.
He was still in that part of the city that smelled faintly of wet cardboard and regret.
“Alright, alright, plan time,” he muttered to himself, trying to think like someone who had been chased by five men in black suits and one terrifyingly handsome leader.
Step one: get home.
Step two: never leave home again.
Step three: somehow make sure the milk tea survived the ordeal.
Arden lifted the cup.
The lid had held, miraculously.
He took a cautious sip and grimaced.
"Okay, brown sludge… I still forgive you. But don't spill on me again, capiche?"
He stepped forward, cautiously at first, testing the ground.
Mud splash under his shoes, but he had survived worse: like that time he tried to skateboard down the hill and ended up in Mrs. Villanueva’s flower bush.
Twice.
Suddenly, a shadow flickered across the alley.
Arden froze.
He squinted through the darkness.
"Oh, no. Please tell me it's not them. Please tell me it's not him."
The tall man materialized out of nowhere, leaning casually against a dumpster.
Arden blinked. “Wait… what? You didn’t follow me! That’s… confusing!”
The tall man pushed off the dumpster, stepping forward into the dim streetlight.
His coat swished around him like a cape.
He smiled just a little, the kind of smile that made Arden feel he was on a game show where losing meant permanent doom.
“Kid,” he said, his voice low and melodic as dangerous jazz.
“You're… resourceful.”
Arden gulped.
"Resourceful is… I guess… a polite way of saying I tripped, slipped, fell, and somehow survived?"
The man's lips twitched. "Interesting."
Arden grimaced.
That word again.
He was beginning to think it was some kind of mafia code for your life is now slightly more complicated.
“And you brought… milk tea?” he asked, nodding at the precarious beverage Arden was holding.
“Yes! Survival strategy! Liquid courage!” Arden said.
“And maybe a distraction! You never know… someone might be thirsty!”
The mafia leader lifted an eyebrow.
“You’re talking. A lot."
“Yeah, well, talking is easier than… you know… dying horribly. Which I would very much like to avoid. Thank you.”
Arden wiped more mud off his face.
“By the way… you’re wearing gloves. Blood gloves. That’s… spooky. I mean, fashion-wise? Good. But also scary."
The tall man spoke, ignoring the commentary.
"Why were you in the alley?"
Arden waved his hands dramatically.
"Oh, educational purposes! Totally! Very academic! I was… um… studying… dark alley… ecosystems!"
Henchmen snorted.
Arden winced.
“Ecosystems. Yes. Very scientific. You wouldn’t understand. They are. complicated.”
The mafia leader stared.
Arden stared back.
For one tense moment, Arden thought he might faint, trip, or be eaten—whichever came first. But then… the man smirked.
That infuriating, ‘I'm handsome and I know it' smirk.
"Follow me," he said.
“W-wait, what?!” Arden blurted, instinctively stepping backward.
“I don’t go anywhere with strangers! Especially dangerous, handsome strangers who might accidentally kill me!”
The man didn’t answer.
He just turn back.
Arden’s brain screamed.
Survival instincts screamed.
Logic screamed, but Arden wasn’t listening.
He did the only thing a panic-driven student with mud-covered shoes could do-he bolted.
“AAAAHHHH—I'M RUNNING AGAIN! I AM MUD POWER! I AM MILK TEA SURVIVAL!”
The mafia leader let out a sigh, stepping over a discarded banana peel.
"Interesting," he muttered again, this time nearly fondly.
Arden zigzagged down streets, narrowly avoiding trash bins, dog walkers, and one very perplexed ice cream vendor.
Milk tea wobbling, shoes squelching, heart hammering-he felt like a caffeinated squirrel on a trampoline.
By some miracle, he managed to slip under a low fence and tumble into a quieter alleyway.
Lying on the ground, panting.
"I. I-I'm. free. for now," he whispered.
The mud dripped from his hair.
His shirt had lost all semblance of whiteness.
The milk tea had survived-but barely.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself, sitting up, “plan: get home. Avoid all alleys. Avoid all tall, handsome, slightly terrifying men. Avoid… everything.”
And from somewhere in the distance, a low voice was saying: "Interesting… very interesting."
Arden groaned. “Why even am I supposed to exist in the same world as. you people?”
He rose unsteadily, milk tea held like some sort of victory trophy, mud dripping from his knapsack.
The tiny, slightly insane part inside him whispered: You survived. Against the mafia. You're a legend.
Arden smiled weakly at that thought.
Then tripped over a rock.
Milk tea splashed a little.
Mud flew.
Thus continued the legend of Lee Arden Santos, sticky, chaotic, and absolutely ridiculous.
- Writer
