(POV: Ethan)
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There are universal truths in life. Gravity keeps you down, taxes keep you broke, and coffee keeps you barely functional enough to pretend like you're not spiraling.
And then there's Leo Arclight.
Who operates entirely outside of the laws of physics, finance, and fundamental logic.
I'm convinced the guy doesn't live in reality—he just visits it occasionally to collect reactions.
Sophia, Ava, and I had made it our unofficial mission to catalog all of Leo's casual nonsense. So when he showed up to lunch looking like he'd just witnessed the fall of an empire—calm, slightly smug, but definitely up to something—we knew.
Something happened.
"So, Leo," Ava began, leaning across the table like a detective interviewing a suspect. "You've been suspiciously quiet. Either you finally had a boring week, or reality bent itself around you again."
Sophia didn't even look up from her sandwich. "Statistically speaking, it's the second one."
I raised a finger. "And based on how you just perfectly buttered that croissant like it's a fine art, I'm going with 'you infiltrated the upper class again.'"
Leo gave a slow blink, then sipped his coffee like it contained all his patience for us.
"…Well ...I accidentally got invited to an art gala."
A beat of silence. Ava's brow twitched. "You what?"
Leo didn't flinch. "An art gala."
Sophia audibly exhaled like someone losing at chess in three moves. "I swear to God, one of these days you're going to 'accidentally' become president."
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Flashback: One Unscheduled Detour Later…
It had started because Leo's bus got delayed.
Normal people would do something rational—go to a coffee shop, read a book, maybe nap on a bench like a semi-functional raccoon.
Leo? He decided to kill time by walking into a nearby art exhibit titled "Whispers of Color: A Modern Journey."
Because apparently, that's just a thing he does.
The man has this unintentional air of belonging, like he knows the secret password to every elite gathering but can't be bothered to use it. So naturally, he waltzed into the gallery, nodded at the security guard (who nodded back because Leo radiates the energy of someone who pays for expensive cheese), and started browsing.
He found himself face-to-face with an abstract monstrosity—bold colors smeared violently across the canvas like someone had fought a clown and lost. That's when the man beside him sighed.
Not a regular sigh. A soul-weary, art-snob sigh.
You know the type.
"What do you think?" the man asked suddenly.
Leo blinked. "What?"
"The painting. The technique. The emotion. What's your take?"
Now, any sane person would've panicked. Faked a cough. Pretended to be French.
But Leo just... looked. Tilted his head. Judged it.
Finally, he said, "It's technically impressive, but it feels like someone trying too hard to look like they're not trying at all. Kind of like wearing sunglasses indoors and calling it personality."
I don't even know why he could even give his opinion. Since when did Leo analyse paintings.
The man wheezed.
Turns out, he wasn't just some bored guy with money and opinions. He was Arthur Calloway—yes, that Calloway. Billionaire art collector, museum trustee, and the guy who once bought a sculpture shaped like a question mark for six million dollars.
Naturally, the man was enchanted.
"Student of the arts?" he asked.
"No," Leo replied. "I just… read a lot."
Arthur Calloway found that deeply hilarious. And possibly profound.
Before Leo could escape, he was handed an invite to a private art gala.
Because apparently, that's how reality works for Leo.
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Back to Present…
"So let me get this straight," I said, fingers poised in disbelief. "You walked into an art gallery, roasted a painting, made a billionaire laugh, and got invited to a secret art party?"
Leo sipped his coffee. "You're exaggerating. I didn't roast the painting."
Sophia blinked. "You called it the visual equivalent of indoor sunglasses."
Leo gave an unconcerned shrug. "It was accurate."
Ava groaned, rubbing her temples like Leo was giving her a migraine through sheer vibes. "Okay, fine. Whatever. What happened at the gala?"
Leo tilted his head slightly. "Not much."
We all stared at him.
"You lie like a villain in a rom-com," I said.
He sighed, realizing resistance was futile.
"I showed up. Ate some tiny food. Talked to people. One lady asked if I thought an artist's early work would appreciate in value. I said it would, if they stopped copying color palettes from Pinterest. Next thing I know, I'm accidentally mediating a bidding war between two rich guys over a sculpture of a melting balloon."
Silence.
Ava squinted. "You gave investment advice to billionaires?"
"I gave opinions," Leo corrected, looking somehow both bored and annoyed. "They were the ones throwing money around like it was Monopoly."
Sophia leaned across the table, wide-eyed. "And did you—please, please tell me you didn't—take business cards again?"
Leo said nothing.
"…Leo."
With the reluctance of someone revealing state secrets, he pulled out his coat pocket.
Three business cards.
Ava snatched them.
"Arthur Calloway… Helena Varin—wait, she's the director of the Modern Vision Museum! And this one's from—Leo, this guy literally owns a gallery in Paris!"
Leo blinked. "He liked my shoes."
I threw up my hands. "Leo. You're a walking LinkedIn glitch."
Ava looked ready to combust. "Do you even realize what kind of doors you just walked past like they were bathroom stalls?!"
Leo, ever the emotional rollercoaster of one mild shrug, finished his coffee. "They were just people."
Sophia looked at him like he was an unsolvable equation. "Yeah. People who own islands."
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Afterword: Later That Night...
I lay on my bed, phone buzzing in my hand from the group chat notifications. Ava was listing the net worths of the people Leo casually interacted with. Sophia was building a conspiracy theory that Leo was actually some kind of deep cover sociologist performing a long-term social experiment.
Me? I was just wondering how this all made sense. Because the truth is—it didn't.
But maybe that's the thing about Leo. He doesn't break the rules. He just… walks around them like they're puddles he'd rather not step in.
And somehow, reality just lets him.
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End of Chapter 35.