Jasper O'Keefe

The Masquerade Guild’s hall was quiet in the late hours, its velvet drapes swallowing sound, its gilded sconces burning low. Jasper stood before the grand mirror at the far wall, framed in tarnished gold. The glass threw his image back at him, platinum hair catching the flicker of candlelight, icy blue eyes cold as cut gems, pale skin like porcelain polished to perfection. He adjusted his cufflinks, smoothed a hand over his coat, tilted his head just enough to catch the light across his jaw. Then he smiled. A charming, rakish smile, the kind that promised mischief and whispered secrets. He held it, studied it, let it fade. Another smile followed, softer, tender, filled with the illusion of devotion. He tried on another, sharper, crueler, a grin with teeth behind it. Each one flickered across his face and dissolved, as though his skin itself could not decide what it wanted to be.

Which one of these is me? The thought curled through his mind like smoke, unwelcome but impossible to ignore. Does it matter? They’ll believe whatever I give them. They always do.

He let the last smile falter, and for a breath, the mask slipped. The boy in the mirror looked tired, hollow eyes staring back, as if trying to recognize a face long lost beneath the performance. His chest ached in the silence, a dull, familiar weight. A voice cut through the stillness: “Jasper? Are you in here?”

He inhaled sharply, straightening, the bare truth gone in an instant. His mouth curved into something dazzling, his shoulders rolled back into easy poise. He turned toward the door, mask firmly in place.

“Of course,” he called smoothly, voice dripping warmth he did not feel. Then, with a flash of teeth, “Where else would I be but waiting for you?”

And just like that, the ghost in the mirror was gone, swallowed whole by Gravemont’s perfect fraud.