The morning began with Leo waking up on the workshop floor.

  He lay on the cold parquet floor, using a crumpled canvas pillow as a pillow, his body aching as if he'd been run over by a truck the day before. The silver Honda, however, was pretty close.

  “Shit,” he muttered, struggling to rise.

  Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows of the studio on the third floor of the mansion. Dust particles danced in the rays, transforming the room into a surreal painting. Canvases, easels, shelves filled with paints and brushes, an antique dark wood desk—all of this had been part of his world for the past five years.

  Leo stretched, cracking his vertebrae, and caught his reflection in the large mirror on the wall.

  He was tall—one meter eighty-eight, to be precise. His figure was athletic, but not overly muscular—the result of morning jogs and occasional but intense workouts in the home gym. His father once said, "The body is an instrument; keep it in good shape." Leo wasn't a sports fan, but he took the advice to heart.

  His shoulder-length, light, almost silver hair—a legacy from his Swedish mother—was disheveled from a night on the floor. He usually wore it in a loose ponytail or bun when he worked. His face—sharp features, high cheekbones, a straight nose that had been broken once in a street fight in college but had healed back together. He had a few days' worth of stubble, because shaving every day was too much effort.

  But the main thing was the eyes. Gray-blue, cold, with the constant squint of someone accustomed to analyzing everything. A look that could stop a chatty client mid-sentence or make a street thug reconsider seeking trouble.

  "You look like shit, Argent," he said to his reflection and headed for the shower.

  The Argent mansion was located in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Manhattan, where old money preferred to steer clear of the bustle of downtown. It was a three-story Victorian Gothic mansion of gray stone, with turrets, arched windows, and carved wooden balconies. The building had been constructed in the late 19th century, and Leo's parents bought it for next to nothing in the 1990s, when it was in disrepair.

  Years of restoration have transformed it into a work of art.

  The first floor contained a living room with a black marble fireplace, a library with a double-height ceiling and stained-glass windows, a dining room with a massive oak table for twelve that Leo hadn't used in years, and a kitchen where modern appliances were strangely combined with antique finishes.

  The second floor contains bedrooms: his parents' room, which Leo hadn't opened since his mother's death, his own, and three guest rooms, all vacant for a year.

  The third floor was entirely dedicated to his studio. A vast open space with north-facing windows provided the artist with the best light. There was also a sofa here, where he sometimes slept when he worked late and didn't want to go downstairs.

  There was also a greenhouse.

  An extension to the mansion, a glass dome and walls filled with exotic plants from all over the world. A passion of his mother's, one Leo maintained more from memory than from a love of botany. But he had to admit—it was peaceful there. Greenery, humidity, silence. Sometimes he'd take his laptop there and work on projects, sitting on a wicker chair among the orchids and ferns.

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  After his shower, Leo pulled on black jeans, a gray T-shirt, and the same worn leather jacket he'd been wearing for the past five years. His style was simple—functional, comfortable, nothing extra. The expensive watch on his wrist—a gift from his father for his eighteenth birthday—was his only concession to his status.

  He went down to the first floor and into the kitchen. The coffee machine hissed, filling the room with the aroma of freshly brewed espresso. Leo took the leftovers of yesterday's pizza out of the fridge and heated them up in the microwave. Breakfast of champions.

  I sat at the bar, staring out the window at the garden behind the house. Old oak trees, neat flowerbeds that the gardener tidied up once a week. Quiet. Peaceful. Boring.

  His phone vibrated. A message from Jessica Harris, his agent and one of the few people he tolerated.

  "Leo, the client from Brooklyn is still waiting for the sketches. It's been a week. Don't make me come over and kick your ass."

  Leo chuckled and sent a middle finger emoji back. Jessica responded with an eye-rolling smiley.

  Sketches. Right. He had a commission to design a living room for some Brooklyn investor who wanted "something modern, but with soul." Leo hated vague terms, but the money was good, so he had to endure it.

  He finished his coffee and went back up to the studio. He sat down at the table and opened his sketchbook. He looked at them for a minute. Then two. Then he put the sketchbook down and stared at the stack of canvases against the wall—the very same ones he'd been sorting through last night.

  Pictures of the future.

  "What the hell am I supposed to do with this anyway?" he asked the empty room.

  There was no answer, of course. Leo leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on the table. His gaze swept across the studio—easels, paints, brushes, canvases. Everything he needed for his work. Everything that made up his life.

  And now also... this.

  He tried to remember when it had started. As best he could remember, it was when he was seven or eight. The first time, his mother found him in the nursery, sitting on the floor with a pencil in his hand and a sheet of paper covered in strange scribbles. He didn't remember drawing. He simply woke up and saw the result.

  The parents didn't pay any attention to it. "An artistic nature," said the mother. "A passion for the process," added the father.

  Leo didn't care either. It happens. Everyone has their quirks.

  But now that he knew the truth...

  He stood up and walked to the window. Manhattan stretched out into the distance—skyscrapers, streets, millions of people. Somewhere out there, life went on. People worked, loved, argued, dreamed.

  And he stood here, in his mansion, holding in his hands the ability to see the future.

  "What should I do with you?" he muttered, looking at his palms.

  Maybe I should ignore it? Continue living as before? Paint my own pictures, ignoring the trans people, and forget about it all?

  But yesterday's incident with the woman and child...

  He saved them. Because he saw. Because he knew.

  If I hadn't painted that picture, they would have died.

  Leo clenched his fists. No, he wouldn't be able to score. Not after this.

  He returned to the table, pulled out a clean canvas, and set it on the easel. He picked up a brush and dipped it into the paint.

  And froze.

  What if we try? What if we deliberately enter a trance? See what happens?

  His hand was shaking. Leo took a deep breath, exhaled. Closed his eyes.

  Concentrated.

  Emptiness. Silence. Only the beating of a heart and the whisper of thoughts, fading away one after another.

  And failure.

  When Leo woke up, the sun was already setting.

  He sat in front of the easel, the brush falling from his hand. On the canvas was a new painting.

  A dark room. Bookshelves reach to the ceiling. In the center is a large mirror in an exquisite frame adorned with golden snakes and a blue stone at the top.

  Mirror from "Snow White".

  Leo stared at the painting, unable to look away. He hadn't planned to paint this. He hadn't even thought about it. But his hand...

  - What the...

  He moved closer. The details were impeccable. Every line of the frame, every reflection on the glass, even the crack in the upper left corner.

  As if this mirror really existed somewhere.

  Or...

  A crazy thought pierced my consciousness.

  What if he can not only see the future, but also... create it?

  “Nonsense,” Leo muttered, but his voice sounded uncertain.

  He looked at the painting again. The mirror seemed to beckon, drawing his gaze.

  What if?..

  Leo shook his head, walking away from the easel. No. This is too much. Too crazy, even for today.

  He went downstairs to the library and plopped down in the old leather chair by the fireplace, where his father once loved to sit with a glass of whiskey and a book.

  He pulled out his phone but decided not to call anyone. Who could he tell? Jessica? "Hi, I can see the future and maybe materialize magical artifacts." She'd call a psychiatrist.

  Leo put the phone on the armrest and closed his eyes.

  It was a strange day. Very strange.

  And something told me that this was just the beginning.