The Mesmerizing Man

Jack Thompson's father was gone. The picture in the center of the funeral hall, chosen by who knows who, showed a man etched with sorrow, as if questioning any remaining attachment to the world. On either side of the table sat a few baskets of flowers, their freshness fading, clearly bought on the cheap. Jack stood beside them, barely taller than the arrangements. He kept his head down, his face an emotionless mask, seemingly less affected than his aunt across the table, who sobbed uncontrollably. Jack was mildly autistic, not severely, just uncomfortable with social interaction. Otherwise, he was no different from anyone else. Mourners came in droves, dozens upon dozens paying their respects. Each bowed to the photo, lit incense, and offered condolences to the family. The first few tried comforting Jack, but his silence and indifference made them uneasy, as if the urn on the table belonged to a stranger. His aunt, wiping her tears, approached him. Her grief-stricken eyes suddenly turned sharp, fixing him with a glare before stepping in front of him, subtly pushing him towards the wall. After that, no one paid attention to the young man with messy, curly hair, head bowed against the wall. Jack didn't mind. He leaned against the wall, staring at his black leather shoes – the first time he'd worn them since becoming an adult. The shoes were polished to a shine, reflecting tiny points of light when he shifted slightly. He discovered this by chance and found himself rubbing his feet on the ground, playing with the reflections. As the light danced on his shoes, a pair of bright, gentle eyes appeared in his mind, gazing at him with warmth. His mother's eyes. A flicker of sadness finally ignited within Jack, but not for the man who had passed away today. He clenched his jaw, his hands clasped behind his back, pressing firmly against the wall. Finally, the guests moved to the outer hall for the funeral meal. Jonathan Thompson, his cousin, entered, clutching a black bag, a hint of a smile on his face despite the somber occasion. "Mom," Jonathan called out before he even reached her, his hand itching to open the bag. If Jack wasn't there, he would have swung it around in a celebratory dance. His aunt shot Jack a glance and signaled to Jonathan. They moved towards a corner of the room, whispering to each other. Jack couldn't make out the words, but he caught his aunt's delighted expression as she peeked into the bag and saw Jonathan holding up five fingers. He guessed they were discussing the funeral money. In their tradition, funerals involved monetary gifts. As expected, Jack knew the money wouldn't reach his hands after the ceremony. As if on cue, his aunt returned from outside, glancing around before approaching Jack, who was still standing by the wall. She poked him with her finger, her tone sharp. "You know your place. You're not a real Thompson. I don't need to spell it out for you." Jack remained motionless, his head still bowed. He knew. He wouldn't see a penny of the money, nor would he inherit the house, even though his father had left a will. His aunt wouldn't allow it. Fortunately, his father had anticipated this and secretly left him another apartment, albeit in the old, crowded part of town. It was his father's way of making amends, a secret from his aunt. Seeing Jack's lack of response, his aunt rolled her eyes, her face a mask of disdain. "Mute as a wall. Can't get a word out of you." She didn't bother saying anything more, simply informing Jack that his belongings were packed and waiting by the door. He was to leave immediately. Jack finally moved, still keeping his head down. He walked over to his father's portrait, bowed, lit a stick of incense, and left without a word. "Honestly, he's sick, just like his mother..." His aunt's taunts continued, but he paid no mind. He reached the door, picked up a backpack on the floor, and left. His aunt was determined to get rid of him. The bag must have been packed and brought from home that morning, denying him even a chance to say goodbye to the house he'd lived in for over a decade. He had five hundred dollars left, slipped to him by his father on his deathbed. At least his aunt hadn't searched him. Stepping out of the funeral home, Jack finally lifted his head. The sky had darkened, stars beginning to emerge. He recited the address in his mind. Apartment 603, Building 14, Ruyi Residential, Yingxin Road, Fucheng District. He hailed a taxi. Staring at the passing figures and the streetlights flickering to life, his thoughts drifted. He wasn't his father's biological son. When he was five, his biological father died in a car accident. His mother, a beautiful but intellectually challenged woman, married into the Thompson family. His name changed from Jack Walker to Jack Thompson. A year later, his mother passed away as well. The cause was unclear, but his father apologized profusely, promising to care for him for as long as he lived. He kept that promise from the time Jack was six until now, at twenty-five. Now, he was truly alone. His father's overindulgence meant Jack never finished elementary school. His father homeschooled him, teaching him basic literacy and arithmetic. He had no diploma, no job, no survival skills. He wondered what he should do next. The taxi stopped outside the apartment complex. Jack glanced at the meter – thirty dollars! He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and handed it to the driver. "No Venmo?" the driver asked. Jack shook his head, murmuring, "I don't have any money on Venmo." The driver wrinkled his nose, reluctantly pulling out his wallet and searching for change. "Kids these days, not using Venmo..." he grumbled under his breath. Jack took the change and quickly got out of the car. The driver's words made his head throb. He hated interacting with people, and Venmo was something he could live without. Besides his deceased father, the rest of his relatives on his contact list might as well have been dead. He reached the security booth at the entrance of the complex and peered cautiously through the window. "What do you want?" a gruff voice startled him from behind. Even the usually composed Jack jumped. An old man in a security uniform walked past him and into the booth, muttering to himself. "Name? Reason for visit? Need to register." "Jack Thompson," he mumbled, keeping his head down. "My father asked me to pick up the key for apartment 603." "ID." Jack fished out his ID and handed it over. The old man glanced at it and, without a word, pulled out a key from a drawer and gave it to him. "Thank you," Jack said, grabbing the key and scurrying away. It was only when he was inside the complex that he realized he had no idea where Building 14 was... He looked back at the brightly lit security booth, his lips pressed into a thin line. He decided to figure it out himself. He really didn't want to talk to strangers. The old complex was poorly lit, the streetlights dim. A few residents were out for a walk, some with dogs or children, but Jack kept to himself, checking the building numbers one by one. He found Building 13. So... As he turned his head, a tall figure brushed past him, in a hurry, as if something terrifying was on his tail. Jack glanced at the figure out of curiosity, but he couldn't see much. The man was wearing a hoodie that obscured his face. Jack shifted his backpack and continued towards Building 14. He finally found it. It was a walk-up. Climbing to the sixth floor was almost enough to kill Jack, who rarely exercised. Thankfully, when he opened the door, the apartment was fully furnished, bathed in warm light. His father had put his heart into this place. But Jack wasn't in the mood for exploration. He dropped his bag, walked into the nearest bedroom, and collapsed onto the bare mattress, falling asleep instantly. Tears slid down his cheeks. He was truly alone now. His sleep was fitful, filled with hazy awakenings. The last time he woke up, it was from hunger. He hadn't eaten anything since the funeral the day before. Rubbing his tired eyes, he stumbled to the window and pulled back the curtains. The sky was still dark, the world outside painted in shades of gray. The chilly air of early spring seeped through the gaps in the window, making him shiver. He needed breakfast. The thought made him hesitate. His father used to bring him breakfast in bed. How was he supposed to do it himself? Go out? Order takeout? He checked the money in his pocket, wondering how long it would last. He placed the four hundred dollars in the drawer of the shoe cabinet by the door, remembering his father's advice to never carry too much cash. After a quick wash, he stepped out of the apartment alone for the first time that morning. One good thing about the old neighborhood was its vibrancy. The streets were lined with shops and a bustling market. After much internal debate, Jack entered a fast-food restaurant and chose the most secluded corner table. "What can I get you, handsome?" a server approached him. Jack glanced at the menu beneath the glass tabletop and pointed to the words "hamburger." "Just one hamburger? Is that enough? Anything else?" He pointed to the word "cola." "Cola?" she asked. He nodded. The server gave him a curious look before turning away. She had never encountered such a timid customer. More customers entered the restaurant, their voices loud and boisterous as they placed their orders. Jack kept his head down, shrinking further into his corner. "You free Friday night? Did James Anderson tell you?" "Yeah, he told me. 10:30 p.m., Unit 3, Building 2, Junwei Tower..." "Are you stupid? Keep your voice down! You want the whole world to hear?" "Sorry, sorry..." "Make sure you have everything ready. We don't need any screw-ups." "Got it, Harris." Their conversation, a jumble of plans and instructions, drifted into Jack's ears, but he didn't dare look up. Even when the server brought his food, he kept his head down, murmuring a quiet "thank you." It was only when they got up to leave that he dared to steal a glance. One of them, a tall figure in a hoodie, seemed familiar. He felt like he had seen him somewhere before. The man in the hoodie suddenly turned back, and Jack quickly lowered his head, avoiding eye contact. The man looked at Jack curiously. His messy curls resembled a poodle's fur. He was thin and hunched over in the corner, his neck drawn in. The man had noticed him earlier. The way he carried himself – afraid of crowds, feeling like countless eyes were watching him – was a classic sign of someone on the run. But before he could investigate further, Harris called from the door, "Come on, did you get it?" Right, he was here to pick up the lighter Harris had left behind, a gift from his girlfriend, apparently. The man turned and left. Jack cautiously lifted his head and continued eating his breakfast. When he finished, he didn't call for the bill. He calculated the cost from the menu, placed ten dollars under his bowl, and slipped out. "Hey!" the server called out, about to chase after him. Thankfully, an old man at a nearby table tapped his fingers on the table and pointed to the money under the bowl. "Here, here." The server sighed in relief, rolling her eyes. "Didn't even say anything. Thought he was trying to dine and dash..." The old man just chuckled. Walking down the street, Jack decided he'd rather not deal with people anymore. He'd buy some instant noodles and stock up. They would last him a few days. He entered a convenience store, keeping his head down and his pace brisk. The store owner, who had been drowsy from an early start, snapped awake. She straightened up and followed Jack with her eyes. He was scanning the shelves for instant noodles when he suddenly locked eyes with the owner. Startled, he quickly looked down again. "Looking for something?" she asked, her hand reaching for a backscratcher on a nearby shelf. She wasn't sure if this fidgety young man was a shoplifter. "Instant noodles," Jack mumbled. The owner relaxed slightly. "Second aisle on your right. All kinds there. Take a look." Despite her words, she followed him with the backscratcher, positioning herself between him and the exit, ready to stop him if he made a run for it. Thankfully, Jack didn't live up to her suspicions. He obediently gathered a stack of instant noodle packages and made his way to the counter, the owner's eyes never leaving him. "31.50," the owner said, scanning the packages and giving Jack another once-over. "Anything else?" Jack shook his head as he paid. The owner frowned. "No sausages? Drinks?" Jack shook his head again. Intrigued, she leaned forward slightly, trying to get a better look at his face, which was still hidden beneath his curls. Finally, she took the money and said to herself, "You shouldn't eat too much instant noodles, young man. Bad for your health. Here's your change, 8.50. Need a bag?" Jack took the money, shook his head again, and gathered the instant noodles in his arms, heading for the door. As he reached the entrance, he bumped into a solid chest, sending the packages of instant noodles tumbling to the floor.