JON
Jon watched the sky as the sun rose. The roof of the mansion was his haven, a place that brought him solace. He loved the way the wind ruffled his dark brown hair.
"Jon!" a voice called from downstairs.
He sprang from the roof, landing effortlessly on the grass below, unscathed despite the twenty-foot drop. The sprawling mansion loomed behind him. Jon walked through the back door into the kitchen, where his uncle was busy packing.
"Jon… Jon, where have you been?" Tony asked, flashing his signature grin. He held a golden-tipped staff, an accessory he liked to show off along with his round, golden-framed sunglasses. His long hair fell to his collarbone, and his freshly shaved face left only his mustache. Tony had taken Jon in after the fire that had claimed the lives of Jon's parents.
"I don't know," Jon replied. He was smart—too smart to reveal his supernatural abilities. If his uncle knew, he might treat Jon differently, perhaps with fear or something even stranger. Jon didn't want to take that risk. He always thought carefully before speaking, which often made him appear quiet.
"Anyway," Tony said, clapping Jon on the back, "I'm off to Brazil for a business trip. Something important I need to handle."
"That's odd. What's the reason?" Jon asked, his calm demeanor unwavering.
Tony's tone sharpened. "When I'm back, we'll talk. Man to man."
Jon nodded steadily, though his thoughts raced. Does he know about me? What should I do? He tried to read his uncle's mind, but as usual, it was like trying to grasp water with bare hands—slippery and elusive. His telepathic abilities were unique; he could sense emotions with clarity, discern lies, and occasionally hear fragments of thoughts. But Tony's mind was clouded, brimming with pride.
"What do you mean, Tony? Is everything okay?" Jon asked, his voice measured.
Tony placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "You're special—better than your father ever was, Jon. When I was your age, I learned a truth that changed everything. You'll learn yours soon enough."
Jon's breath hitched. "What truth?" he asked cautiously.
Tony hesitated before continuing. "I was told at 17. You're what—19 now? It's a family secret, one shared with others like us. It changed my life, Jon, and after my trip to Brazil, I'll tell you." He paused, and Jon, sensing he wasn't finished, remained silent. "You're better than I ever was, Jon. Better than your father. You're the best of us."
Jon stared at his uncle, who smiled with unmistakable pride. "Thanks," he muttered, unsure how to respond to the weight of those words.
Before Tony left, he turned back. "Oh, one more thing. Are you going to that luncheon today?"
Jon frowned, confused. "What?"
"You know that fancy afternoon thing at The Palace. All the Upper East Side kids and their parents will be there dressed to the nines, pretending they're having the time of their lives. It's where the elites rub elbows, exchange favors, and call it tradition."
Jon shrugged. "I don't usually go to those things. It's not really my scene, and nobody cares if I'm there or not."
Tony's expression hardened slightly. "You should go."
Jon blinked. "Why? It's just a bunch of rich people showing off their new things and bragging about their kids' boarding schools."
Tony smirked knowingly. "Exactly. It's more than just a meal, Jon. It's where you see who's who—and more importantly, where they see you. People talk at these things, don't you have friends there, you used to hang out with them before anyways They notice. And trust me, it's better for them to notice you now than later."
Jon hesitated. "I wouldn't even know what to do."
Tony chuckled. "Just show up. Be polite, shake a few hands, and don't let anyone see that you're judging them as hard as I know you will be." He clapped Jon on the shoulder. "It's a stage, Jon, and you've got to learn to own it."
Jon sighed "I'll think about it." he knew he wasn't going
"Good," Tony said, his tone firm but encouraging. He opened the door, pausing before stepping out. "If anything happens, call me."
Jon nodded, watching his uncle leave. The idea of going to the luncheon still didn't sit well with him, but something in Tony's voice made him wonder if skipping it would be a mistake.
The faint aroma of polish and aged wood greeted Jon as he turned away. The mansion was a labyrinth of grandeur, with tall ceilings adorned with intricate moldings. The walls were painted in muted tones that whispered sophistication. Plush rugs muffled his footsteps as he moved through the halls. Chandeliers hung like frozen rain, and beams of golden sunlight streamed through large windows, bathing the space in warmth.
Ascending the grand staircase, Jon ran his hand along the smooth mahogany Bannister. The walls were lined with portraits of long-gone ancestors, some over 600 years old. As he climbed higher, the faint echoes of his movements emphasized the house's emptiness.
Jon's room was at the far end of the second floor, nestled in a quiet wing of the mansion. He pushed open the heavy oak door, stepping into a space that welcomed him like an old friend. It was his sanctuary. Shelves lined the walls, packed with books of various genres, their spines forming a patchwork of muted colors. Posters of vintage music and movie stars adorned the walls, their faded charm giving the room a nostalgic warmth.
In one corner stood an easel and a small table cluttered with paints, brushes, and unfinished sketches. Across the room, completed works hung on the wall—a sunlit tree, the tranquil ripples of a river, and a bustling street scene from New Haven.
Jon's bed was neatly made, a dark green comforter stretched taut across it. But instead of lying down, he settled into the chair by his window and placed an earpiece in his ear. Classic jazz flowed into his mind, the smooth saxophone and gentle rhythms mirroring his thoughts—calm on the surface, but restless underneath.
He picked up his brush and turned to the half-finished portrait before him. A girl with sleek black hair and piercing light blue eyes stared back at him from the canvas. Her name was Harper.
Jon's hand moved instinctively, adding details to her slim figure. He paused, studying the image. Do I love her? he wondered. Or is it fascination? Frustration? Something about her unsettled him—her mind was a void, an absence he couldn't explain. He couldn't feel her thoughts like he could with others, and it annoyed him to no end.
She had moved to New Haven back to New Haven 6 months ago after she went to Italy, for about a year. Jon had met her at a neighborhood gathering, vaguely recognizing her from primary school. Back then, he'd dismissed her as the "pick-me" type, always vying for attention. But now, she was different. Or maybe she wasn't. Either way, she lingered in his thoughts, an enigma he couldn't ignore.
Jon set the brush down and leaned back in his chair. The jazz became a distant hum as his thoughts swirled. Soon, his eyelids grew heavy, and he drifted into a dreamless sleep.