Let me tell you about the worst day of my life. Which, coincidentally, was also the last day of my life.
I'm lying on a mattress that probably has its own ecosystem at this point—and not the fun kind with cute penguins, more like the kind with bacteria that could survive nuclear winter. The studio lights are flickering like they're trying to morse code "GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN" to anyone with half a brain.
My name is Marcus Cole. Well, my *real* name is Marcus Cole. Professionally, I'm "Mark Stone," which is the kind of name someone comes up with when they've got about thirty seconds and all the creativity of a wet sandwich.
I'm a pornstar.
Not the glamorous kind you might be imagining (if there even is such a thing). Not the kind who drives Ferraris and lives in a mansion in the Hollywood Hills. No, I'm the kind who works in studios that smell like regret and broken dreams, with directors who yell things like "More passion!" while eating a meatball sub.
This wasn't the plan.
The plan was supposed to be red carpets and Oscar speeches. Broadway opening nights where the audience gives you a standing ovation that lasts so long you get embarrassed. Grammy Awards where you thank your mom and make a clever joke that goes viral. Dating actresses whose faces launch perfume campaigns.
The plan definitely didn't include "die at thirty-four on a mattress that's probably a biohazard."
But here's the thing about plans: they're adorable ideas that reality laughs at before punching you in the face.
I could feel my heart doing that thing where it forgets how to heart properly. The room was getting darker around the edges, like someone was slowly closing curtains. The director was yelling something, but it sounded like he was underwater.
My last thoughts weren't exactly profound. I didn't see my life flash before my eyes—probably because my brain was trying to spare me the embarrassment.
Instead, I thought about Scarlett Johansson's laugh in that one interview. About Margot Robbie's smile at a premiere I'd watched on YouTube at three in the morning. About the stages I'd never stand on, the songs I'd never sing, the movies I'd never make.
*I could have been somebody,* I thought. *I could have been—*
And then darkness ate everything.
---
Death, as it turns out, is not what I expected.
For starters, there's no tunnel of light. No dead relatives waiting with open arms. No St. Peter checking his clipboard and going, "Hmm, yes, lots of questionable life choices here, but we'll let you in."
Instead, I woke up in what I can only describe as if space and a kaleidoscope had a baby, and that baby was designed by someone on really good drugs.
Colors that shouldn't exist were doing things colors shouldn't do. Geometric shapes were folding in on themselves in ways that made my brain hurt. It was like being inside a screensaver from the future.
"Oh good, you're awake."
The voice was British. Not posh British, but the kind of British that sounds like it's perpetually one second away from making a joke at your expense.
I spun around—or at least, I think I did. Hard to tell when you don't have a body. "Who's there?"
"Well, that's a bit complicated, isn't it?" The voice seemed amused. "I'm what you might call an ROB. Random Omnipotent Being. Basically, I'm a cosmic entity with too much power and a pension for meddling in mortal affairs. Think of me as... God's annoying younger brother who didn't get enough attention as a child."
Suddenly, there was a presence in front of me. Not exactly a person, but the impression of one—like reality had decided to cosplay as someone for a bit. The impression solidified into the form of a man in his fifties, slight dad bod, wearing jeans and a casual button-up shirt.
He looked exactly like Ricky Gervais.
"You've got to be kidding me," I said.
"I *never* kid," the ROB said, then immediately broke into a grin. "No, that's a lie. I kid constantly. It's literally the only thing that makes this job bearable. Do you know how boring omnipotence is? I know everything that's going to happen. Every joke's punchline. Every plot twist. Every—anyway, you get the idea."
"Am I... am I dead?"
"Oh yeah, super dead." He said it cheerfully, like he was commenting on the weather. "Cardiac arrest brought on by years of substance abuse, malnutrition, and general poor life choices. Not your finest moment, Marcus. Though to be fair, you haven't had many fine moments."
I would have glared at him if I had eyes. "Wow. Really feeling the cosmic compassion here."
"Compassion is for customer service representatives," the ROB said, walking around me—or floating, or whatever he was doing. "I'm here to offer you something better: *honesty*. And honestly, Marcus, your life was a bit shit."
"I know that," I snapped. "I was there for all of it."
"Right, but here's the thing—" He stopped in front of me, and suddenly his casual demeanor shifted. There was something ancient and powerful beneath that Ricky Gervais exterior, something that made my not-quite-existent soul shiver.
"Your life was shit because of *circumstances*, not because of *you*. You had talent. You had dreams. You had drive. What you didn't have was opportunity, resources, or luck. The world chewed you up because that's what it does to dreamers who start from nothing."
I felt something like hope flicker in my chest—which was impressive given the whole no-body situation.
"And that pisses me off," the ROB continued. "I've been around for literally forever, and you know what I've learned? Talent means nothing without opportunity. Brilliance means nothing without resources. Dreams mean nothing when you're too busy surviving to chase them. It's fundamentally *unfair*, and I don't like unfair."
"So... what are you saying?"
The ROB grinned. "I'm saying I'm going to meddle. It's what I do. I'm going to give you another shot—but this time, with every advantage I can possibly provide. Think of it as a cosmic apology for your first go-round being such a disaster."
"Another shot? Like... reincarnation?"
"Exactly! But not the boring kind where you come back as a beetle or whatever. No, you're coming back as a *human*, in a time and place where you can actually achieve those dreams you died thinking about. Movies, theater, music, fame, fortune, and yes—" he waggled his eyebrows in a way that was both ridiculous and somehow all-knowing, "—Scarlett Johansson and Margot Robbie. Though I should warn you, free will is still a thing, so no guarantees on the harem front. I'm powerful, not a miracle worker."
"This is insane."
"This is *entertainment*," the ROB corrected. "And speaking of which, let me tell you about the templates I'm giving you. Think of them as character customization options, except instead of a video game, it's your actual life."
He snapped his fingers—purely for dramatic effect, I suspected—and suddenly I could *see* information, like it was being downloaded directly into my consciousness.
---
"**TEMPLATE ONE: LOOKS**," the ROB announced like a game show host. "And not just any looks. We're talking 'make Henry Cavill look like a bridge troll by comparison' looks. I'm blending the best features of Hollywood's finest, adding some supernatural sparkle, and cranking the attractiveness dial to eleven."
Images flashed through my mind: a jawline that could cut glass, eyes that shifted from blue to green depending on the light with silver flecks that made them mesmerizing, the kind of body that made personal trainers weep with joy.
"You'll have the face of a Greek god, the body of a superhero, and hair that somehow looks perfect even after you've been running through the rain. It's almost unfair, really. But since life was unfair to you in the opposite direction, I figure it balances out."
"**TEMPLATE TWO: TALENT**," he continued. "This is where it gets fun. You wanted to be a triple threat? Cute. You're going to be a *quintuple* threat. Acting, singing, dancing, musical composition, and physical performance. You'll be able to cry on command, hit notes that make audiences question if you're human, and move like you've been professionally trained since birth. Because, well, you will have been."
"Wait, since birth?"
"We'll get to that. **TEMPLATE THREE: CHARISMA**." The ROB spread his arms wide. "This is the special sauce. This is what separates the talented from the *legendary*. You'll have the kind of charisma that makes cameras love you, that makes interviewers get flustered, that makes directors want to build entire films around you. People will trust you, like you, and want to be near you—and the best part is, it won't even feel like manipulation. It'll just be *you*."
I was starting to feel overwhelmed. "This seems like a lot."
"Oh, I'm not done. **TEMPLATE FOUR: SEX APPEAL**." He said it with the kind of dramatic flair usually reserved for announcing murder victims in detective shows. "Now, I know what you're thinking—'isn't that covered by looks?' No. This is different. This is an *aura*. This is pheromones and presence and that indefinable something that makes people go weak in the knees. You'll be able to dial it up or down depending on the situation, but even at baseline, you'll have grown adults forgetting how words work."
"That's... that's actually terrifying."
"That's *power*," the ROB corrected. "And you'll have it. But here's the really fun part—" He leaned in conspiratorially. "I'm also giving you knowledge. Complete and total knowledge of entertainment, finance, and world events from 1987 to 2025."
My not-quite-existent brain tried to process that. "What do you mean, knowledge?"
"I mean you'll know every hit movie before it's made. Every chart-topping song before it's written. Every stock market boom and crash. Every major world event. You'll know that Apple stock is a good investment, that Google will dominate search engines, that a housing bubble will nearly destroy the economy in 2008. You'll know which directors to work with, which projects to avoid, which exact moments to make your moves."
"That's... that's cheating."
"That's *justice*," the ROB said firmly. "You had talent but no opportunity. Now you'll have both. What you do with it is up to you. I'm not going to hold your hand or make all your dreams come true with a snap of my fingers. You'll still have to work, still have to be smart, still have to earn your success. But this time, you'll actually have a fighting chance."
I was quiet for a moment, letting it all sink in. "What's the catch?"
"Ah, there it is. Everyone always asks that." The ROB shrugged. "Honestly? No catch. I'm doing this because I'm bored and you amuse me. Well, that and I genuinely think you got a raw deal the first time around. Call it cosmic sympathy. Or don't—I don't really care what you call it."
"So I just... come back to life? As myself?"
"Not exactly. You'll be reborn. New life, new family, new identity. But you'll still be *you* inside. Your memories, your personality, your dreams—all intact. Though they'll be dormant at first, to avoid turning you into a traumatized baby. They'll gradually integrate as you grow, fully activating around age five or six when your brain can handle them."
"Where will I be born?"
The ROB smiled. "October 15th, 1987. London, England. You'll be Henry Cavendish, son of James Cavendish, a successful theater producer, and Elizabeth Cavendish, a former professional ballet dancer. You'll grow up wealthy, surrounded by the arts, with every resource you could possibly need. And with your templates and knowledge, you'll become exactly what you were meant to be."
"The biggest star in the world," I whispered.
"Bigger," the ROB corrected. "You'll make Elvis look like a one-hit wonder. You'll make the Beatles look like a garage band. You'll be so famous that future generations will use you as the benchmark for success. *That's* what you're going to achieve. If you want it."
Did I want it?
I thought about dying on that disgusting mattress. I thought about all the dreams I'd never achieved, all the stages I'd never stood on, all the potential that had been wasted.
"Yes," I said. "God, yes. I want this."
"Excellent!" The ROB clapped his hands together. "Right, off you go then. Try not to waste this opportunity, yeah? I'm putting a lot of cosmic energy into this, and if you cock it up, I'll be very disappointed."
"Wait, I have questions—"
"Of course you do. Everyone always does. But here's the thing, Marcus—or should I say, Henry—sometimes you just have to dive in and figure it out as you go. That's what makes life interesting."
The space around me started to dissolve, reality bending and folding in on itself.
"Oh, and Henry?" The ROB's voice echoed as everything faded. "Those dreams you had about Scarlett and Margot? This time you'll actually meet them. You'll be peers, equals, maybe even friends. What happens beyond that is entirely up to you and them. Free will and all that. But you'll have a chance. A real one."
"Thank you," I managed to say.
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you're giving your Oscar acceptance speech. Make it funny, would you? I'll be watching."
And then everything went white.
---
**October 15th, 1987 — London, England**
Henry James Cavendish entered the world screaming.
Not the confused wailing of most newborns, but a full-throated, operatic scream that made the midwife actually step back in surprise.
"Good Lord," she muttered. "That's quite a set of lungs on him."
Elizabeth Cavendish, exhausted but glowing, reached for her son with trembling hands. The moment she held him, tears started streaming down her face. "James, look at him. Just look."
James Cavendish, still in his suit from the theater (he'd rushed from a production meeting when Elizabeth went into labor), leaned over his wife's shoulder to get his first look at his son.
What he saw made his breath catch.
Even as a newborn—red-faced, slightly squished, covered in all the usual newborn aftermath—there was something *remarkable* about the baby. His features, even at this early stage, had a symmetry that was almost mathematical. His eyes, when they briefly opened, were a startling blue-green that seemed to catch and hold the light.
"He's perfect," Elizabeth whispered, running a gentle finger over her son's impossibly soft cheek. "Absolutely perfect."
The baby—Henry—stopped crying almost immediately when his mother held him. His tiny hand wrapped around her finger with surprising strength, and for just a moment, James could have sworn he saw something almost *aware* in those infant eyes.
But that was impossible, of course.
Babies couldn't be aware of anything except hunger, discomfort, and the vague sense that being outside the womb was a significant downgrade.
"Henry James Cavendish," James said softly, testing the name. "What do you think, little man? Do you like your name?"
The baby gurgled—a sound that somehow managed to be both adorable and vaguely musical.
"I think that's a yes," Elizabeth said, laughing through her tears. "Oh, James. He's going to be something special. I can feel it."
"I know, darling," James replied, kissing his wife's forehead before gently touching his son's hand. "I know."
If they could have seen inside the baby's nascent consciousness, they would have found something extraordinary: a soul that had lived before, compressed and dormant, waiting for the right time to awaken.
But for now, Henry Cavendish was just a baby. An exceptionally beautiful baby with a remarkable set of lungs, but a baby nonetheless.
The legend would come later.
---
**Growing Up Gorgeous (1987-1992)**
Here's the thing about being reborn with cosmic templates and future knowledge: the early years are *boring*.
I mean, yes, I had vague awareness that I was Marcus-who-was-now-Henry. But babies' brains aren't exactly equipped for complex thought. It was like watching a movie through frosted glass while someone explains the plot in a language you only half-understand.
Mostly, I just did baby things. Ate. Slept. Cried when uncomfortable. Gradually learned that fingers are fascinating and shoving them in my mouth was apparently my whole personality.
But even as a baby, the templates were working.
I was a *beautiful* baby—the kind that made strangers stop Elizabeth on the street to coo over me. My eyes, even as an infant, had that distinctive blue-green quality with silver flecks that made people do double-takes. My features, as I grew from newborn to infant to toddler, developed with that supernatural symmetry the ROB had promised.
"He should be in commercials," random women would tell my mother at the park. "He could be a child model!"
Elizabeth would smile politely and say something about wanting me to have a normal childhood, but I could see the pride in her eyes. Her son was gorgeous, and she knew it.
The talent template started showing itself early too.
At eighteen months, I started humming along to music—not just random baby sounds, but actual pitch-matching. By two, I was singing recognizable melodies. My parents thought it was cute.
They had no idea what was coming.
My motor skills developed faster than normal too. I walked at ten months. By two, I was running with the kind of grace that made Elizabeth, with her ballet background, actually pause and watch.
"James," she said one evening, watching two-year-old me toddle around the living room with surprisingly elegant steps, "is it normal for toddlers to move like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like they're... I don't know. Dancing?"
James looked up from his newspaper, watched me for a moment, then shrugged. "He's your son, darling. He's got your genes. Of course he moves well."
But it was more than that, and Elizabeth knew it.
By age three, she enrolled me in a toddler ballet class at her old studio. The instructor, a severe Russian woman named Madame Kozlov who had probably been intimidating children since the Cold War, took one look at me and her eyes widened.
"This one," she said in her thick accent, pointing at three-year-old me like I was a particularly interesting specimen. "This one has *it*."
"Has what?" Elizabeth asked.
"*It*. The gift. The thing you cannot teach." Madame Kozlov knelt down to my level, her weathered face serious. "You like to dance, little one?"
I nodded enthusiastically, because even with my limited baby-brain awareness, I knew that dancing was important. Dancing was part of the plan.
(What plan? I wasn't quite sure yet. But somewhere deep in my developing consciousness, Marcus Cole's memories were organizing themselves, getting ready for the day when Henry Cavendish would be old enough to use them.)
"Good," Madame Kozlov said. "We will make you great."
And she meant it.
---
**The Awakening (Summer 1993 — Age 5, Almost 6)**
It happened on a Tuesday night.
I was lying in bed in my room in our Kensington townhouse, staring at the ceiling and thinking five-year-old thoughts (which mostly revolved around whether I'd get ice cream tomorrow and why my friend Timmy was being annoying at school).
And then, like someone flipping a switch, everything changed.
Memories flooded in—not traumatic or overwhelming, but *there*. Suddenly, comprehensively, undeniably there.
*I was Marcus Cole. I died. I made a deal with a cosmic entity who looked like Ricky Gervais. I was reborn as Henry Cavendish. And I know everything that's going to happen for the next thirty-two years.*
I sat bolt upright in bed, tiny heart racing.
The knowledge unfurled in my mind like the world's most insane Wikipedia article. Movies, music, world events, financial markets—it was all there, organized and accessible.
*I know that Jurassic Park is in theaters right now and will be the highest-grossing film of 1993.*
*I know that in less than a month, on August 24th, the Windows NT operating system will be released.*
*I know that Kurt Cobain will die next April, and it will devastate a generation.*
*I know that Princess Diana will die in a car crash in Paris in 1997, and the world will mourn.*
*I know that on September 11th, 2001, terrorists will attack the World Trade Center, and everything will change.*
*I know that Marvel will build a cinematic universe starting in 2008 that will redefine blockbuster filmmaking.*
*I know that streaming services will revolutionize entertainment.*
*I know which actors will become superstars, which directors will make masterpieces, which songs will top the charts.*
*I know everything.*
My five-year-old hands were shaking.
This was real. This was all *real*.
I slipped out of bed and walked to the mirror hanging on my wall. In the moonlight streaming through my window, I could see myself clearly.
Even at five, the templates were obvious. I was a beautiful child—the kind of beautiful that would have made casting directors weep with joy. My bone structure was already showing hints of the jaw and cheekbones that would develop. My eyes, even in the dim light, seemed to glow with those silver flecks.
I smiled at my reflection—and even that looked cinematic, like I'd been born knowing my best angles.
*Hello, world,* I thought. *Let me show you what happens when talent meets opportunity.*
*This time, I'm not wasting a single second.*
—
I woke up the next morning with the kind of clarity that's usually reserved for people who've had too much coffee, except I was five years old and the closest thing to caffeine in my system was the chocolate milk I'd had with dinner.
My room looked exactly the same as it had the night before. Same Power Rangers poster on the wall (hey, it was 1993, and even with adult memories, Power Rangers were objectively cool). Same toy box overflowing with action figures. Same racing car bed that I'd begged my parents for last Christmas.
But *I* was completely different.
I sat up, ran my hands through my hair (which was already thick and wavy—thanks, template), and started thinking through my situation with the kind of strategic focus that would've been concerning in a kindergartener if anyone knew what was going on in my head.
*Okay, Marcus—no, Henry. I'm Henry now. Get used to it.*
*I'm five years old, almost six. I have the memories and knowledge of a thirty-four-year-old failed pornstar and a complete database of the future through 2025. I have four templates that will make me exceptional at literally everything related to entertainment. And I have wealthy, connected parents in the London theater scene.*
*So what's the plan?*
I grabbed a notebook from my desk—one of those little kiddie notebooks with a dinosaur on the cover—and a crayon, because apparently, five-year-olds don't get trusted with pens. I started writing, my adult penmanship hilariously out of place coming from a child's hand.
**THE MASTER PLAN (DRAFT 1)**
**Phase One (1993-1997): Foundation**
- Continue ballet, add other dance styles
- Start piano and voice lessons (formal training)
- Join children's theater groups
- Build skills, build reputation, DON'T look like a show-off
- Be a "talented child" not a "weird child prodigy"
**Phase Two (1998-2001): First Moves**
- Get an agent (the right one)
- Start auditioning for professional productions
- Build a resume of increasingly impressive roles
- Strategic networking (even as a kid)
- Early investments through parents (Apple, Google, etc.)
**Phase Three (2002-2007): The Teenager Years**
- Transition to young adult roles
- Build music career simultaneously
- First major film role by 2005
- First album by 2006
- Establish "triple threat" reputation
**Phase Four (2008-2015): Domination**
- Become A-list
- Strategic role selection
- Music career expansion
- Brand building
- Meet Scarlett, meet Margot (naturally, not creepily)
**Phase Five (2016-2025): Legend Status**
- Multiple Oscars
- Multiple Grammys
- Tony Award
- Own production company
- Mentor new talent
- Be remembered as the greatest entertainer of the generation
I looked at my crayon-written master plan and nodded to myself.
Then I heard my mother's voice from downstairs.
"Henry! Breakfast!"
Right. I was still five. I still had to go eat cereal and pretend to be excited about kindergarten.
This was going to be an interesting balance.
—
I walked down the stairs of our townhouse, trailing my hand along the banister and trying to remember how a normal five-year-old moved. Not too graceful—that would be weird. But the templates made it hard to move *ungracefully*. Even my casual walk down the stairs had an unconscious elegance to it.
*Note to self: learn to be slightly clumsier. Real kids trip over their own feet.*
The kitchen smelled like toast and eggs. My father was already at the table, reading the Times and drinking coffee. He was dressed for work—suit and tie, the uniform of a successful West End producer. My mother was at the stove, wearing a dance cardigan over leggings, her blonde hair pulled back in a bun.
Even at five (well, mentally thirty-nine, but physically five), I could objectively see that I'd won the genetic lottery. James Cavendish was handsome in that distinguished British way—strong jaw, intelligent eyes, the kind of face that inspired confidence. Elizabeth was beautiful—former ballerina beautiful, all elegant lines and natural grace.
Combine their genetics with cosmic templates, and you got... me.
"Good morning, darling," Elizabeth said, turning from the stove with a bright smile. "Did you sleep well?"
"Like a log," I said, climbing into my chair. Then I paused. Did five-year-olds say "like a log"? That seemed like an adult phrase. "I mean... I slept good. Really good."
James looked up from his paper, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "That's 'slept well,' Henry. Your mother and I speak proper English, so you should too."
"Slept well," I corrected dutifully.
Elizabeth set a plate in front of me—scrambled eggs, toast with jam, and some fruit slices arranged to look like a smiley face. It was aggressively wholesome, the kind of breakfast that happened in families with money and time.
My first life, Marcus's life, had featured a lot of cold cereal eaten straight from the box while his mom worked her third job. This was... different. Better. The kind of childhood Marcus had dreamed about.
*Don't waste it,* I told myself. *This is your foundation. These are your advantages. Use them.*
"Henry," my mother said, sitting down with her own plate, "Madame Kozlov called me yesterday."
I looked up from my eggs, trying to project innocent curiosity instead of strategic interest. "Yeah?"
"She says you're doing remarkably well in ballet class. She wants to move you up to the advanced group, even though you're younger than the other children."
James lowered his newspaper slightly, one eyebrow raised. "The advanced group? Isn't that for seven- and eight-year-olds?"
"Usually, yes. But apparently Henry's technique is..." Elizabeth paused, searching for the right word. "Exceptional. Her word, not mine."
*Of course it is,* I thought. *I have a template that makes me move like a professional dancer. I could probably do pirouettes that would make Baryshnikov jealous.*
Out loud, I said, "I really like dancing, Mum. It's fun."
"I know you do, sweetheart." Elizabeth reached over to ruffle my hair affectionately. "And if you want to move to the advanced class, we can do that. But I want to make sure you're not feeling pressured. You're only five."
"Almost six," I corrected automatically.
"Almost six," she agreed with a smile. "But still young. I don't want you to miss out on being a child because you're too busy training."
This was a tricky moment. I needed to show enthusiasm without seeming obsessive. I needed to demonstrate talent without seeming unnatural. The key to a successful childhood strategy was making everything look *organic*.
"I want to do it," I said, meeting her eyes with what I hoped was age-appropriate earnestness. "Dancing makes me happy. And the other kids in my class are nice, but they're kind of... slow."
James snorted into his coffee. "Slow?"
"They keep messing up the steps," I explained. "And I have to wait for them to catch up. It's boring."
Elizabeth and James exchanged a look—one of those parental communication moments that happen in silence.
"Well," James said slowly, "we certainly can't have you being bored. Education should challenge you, not bore you."
"Exactly!" I said, perhaps a bit too emphatically. I toned it down. "I just want to dance with kids who dance good—*well*. Dance well."
Elizabeth laughed. "Alright, darling. I'll tell Madame Kozlov you can move up. But promise me something?"
"What?"
"If it ever stops being fun, you tell us. Deal?"
I nodded solemnly. "Deal."
*Fun,* I thought. *Sure, we'll call it fun. What it actually is, is the first brick in the foundation of the greatest entertainment career in history. But "fun" works too.*
James folded his newspaper and looked at me with that particular expression parents get when they're about to say something they think is important. "Henry, your mother and I want you to know that we support whatever you want to do. If you love dance, wonderful. If you decide you want to do something else, that's wonderful too. We just want you to be happy."
*Happy,* I thought. *I'm going to be more than happy. I'm going to be legendary.*
But what I said was, "Thanks, Dad. I know."
And I did know. These were good parents. Supportive, loving, wealthy enough to provide opportunities but not so wealthy that I'd be spoiled and useless. In my first life, Marcus's mother had worked herself into an early grave trying to provide. These parents could afford the best teachers, the best schools, the best opportunities.
I had been given an incredible gift. Not just the templates and the knowledge, but this *family*.
I wasn't going to waste it.
—
After breakfast, I had a decision to make about school.
I was enrolled at a private primary school in Kensington—the kind of place where all the kids had hyphenated last names and their parents drove Range Rovers. It was a good school, by all accounts. Small class sizes, excellent teachers, all the advantages money could buy.
But here's the problem: I had the knowledge of a thirty-four-year-old and the intellectual curiosity of someone who knew exactly how the next three decades would unfold. Sitting through lessons about shapes and colors was going to be *torture*.
On the other hand, being obviously too smart would raise questions. Child prodigies got attention, got studied, got put under microscopes. That wasn't the kind of attention I needed.
I needed to be talented, not *weird*.
So I made a strategic decision: I would be a good student, even an excellent student, but not a *suspicious* student. I would ask questions that pushed the boundaries of the curriculum without breaking them. I would read advanced books but not, like, quantum physics at age six.
The key was to always be just ahead of expectations, never so far ahead that people got concerned.
At school that day, during circle time (which was exactly as tedious as it sounds), our teacher Mrs. Patterson asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up.
The answers were predictably adorable:
"A princess!" (Emma)
"A dinosaur!" (That was Josh. Good luck with that, buddy.)
"A footballer!" (Oliver, who would probably actually become a footballer given that his dad played for Chelsea)
When it was my turn, I saw my moment.
"I want to be an actor," I said clearly. "Like in the theater. And maybe sing too. And dance."
Mrs. Patterson smiled warmly. "That's wonderful, Henry! You want to be a performer?"
"A triple threat," I said, using terminology I absolutely shouldn't have known at five. "That's what my dad calls it. Someone who can act and sing and dance."
Several kids looked confused. Mrs. Patterson looked delighted.
"That's very ambitious," she said. "Are you taking any classes?"
"Ballet with Madame Kozlov," I said. "And Mum says maybe piano soon?"
I looked at my mother, who was volunteering in class that day (because of course she was—these wealthy private schools ran on parent volunteers like cars ran on petrol).
Elizabeth nodded. "We've been thinking about it. Henry has a very good ear for music."
"I'm sure he does," Mrs. Patterson said, and I could see the wheels turning in her head. *Talented child from an artistic family. This one might actually make it.*
Perfect. That was exactly the narrative I wanted to establish.
---
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