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If Henry was serious about stepping into the entertainment industry, the first question was simple: on-screen or behind the scenes?
Behind the scenes meant skills—real ones. Audio, camera work, color correction, depth of field, lighting, production design, editing… sure, some of it came down to talent, but you still needed the foundation. Without a solid understanding of film theory, you weren't getting anywhere near a Hollywood set unless you were holding someone's coffee.
And then there were those "system-breaking" stories he'd read back in his old life—Chinese fanfics where the MC wrote a killer script, got discovered, and suddenly became the next Spielberg. Cute idea. In reality? That route was a crapshoot.
See, most Hollywood scripts didn't come from unsolicited submissions. They'd been sitting in studio vaults for years—sometimes decades—waiting for just the right moment. And even when those scripts got greenlit, they were rewritten so many times, the original authors would barely recognize them.
Take Forrest Gump, for example. A box office hit in '94. Heartwarming. Inspirational. Quintessential American Dream story.
Except the source material? A brutal political satire. A man with below-average IQ stumbling through major events in U.S. history and somehow becoming rich? Yeah, not exactly subtle.
If you squinted, it was practically the author flipping off the American public while saying, "It's not personal—I just think y'all are idiots."
But after Hollywood got its hands on it? Poof—satire gone. Welcome to inspiration porn, America. The script didn't just get rewritten; it got a full-on identity transplant. The only thing left intact was the basic human anatomy: two eyes, one nose, one mouth.
So yeah, Henry wasn't betting on breaking in as a screenwriter.
At least with acting, the first barrier to entry was pretty straightforward: you just needed a face.
Unfortunately, everybody had one.
Which meant competition was brutal. Thousands of hopefuls flooding Hollywood every year, all thinking they'd be the next Brad Pitt. That's how you ended up with casting couches and "networking" that looked more like softcore blackmail.
Still… Henry wasn't aiming to be an A-lister. He had savings from his crabbing gigs. If he kept his expectations low—blend into the background, work as an extra, chase niche roles—he could make this work. Hell, maybe even fund a weird side project, like nostalgic video game collecting or retro TV bingeing.
"No expectations, no disappointments." That was the motto.
He didn't need to win an Oscar. Didn't need to buy a mansion in Beverly Hills or a Bugatti for every day of the week. He wasn't trying to outpace some silver-spoon Wall Street baby or become a tabloid god. All he wanted was a quiet life, lived on his terms.
Of course, this was still America—the land of "freedom" where school shootings were more frequent than snowfall.
Good thing he was bulletproof.
As long as he stayed out of New York, he'd avoid the really weird stuff. No Avengers Tower. No SHIELD drama. No purple aliens looking to erase half the universe.
And if Thanos really did show up one day with his rock collection, snapped his fingers, and sent half of existence into the void?
Henry's odds were fifty-fifty. Big deal.
If he survived, cool. If not… well, it wasn't like he had a family. No one was waiting for him. Death wouldn't be some great tragedy—it would just be quiet.
Honestly, people overhyped the Snap. A quick death was better than being slowly eaten alive by disease, debt, or despair.
Henry had already lived through a different kind of hell. Two decades locked up in a Soviet black site, poked and prodded until he didn't know where his body ended and the test tubes began. Every inch of him had been someone's experiment.
They'd sliced, injected, scanned, and broken him in every way except mercy.
If they'd had a little more time, they probably would have started amputating—an arm here, a leg there. Hell, maybe even taken his brain apart just to see what made it tick.
So no, he wasn't afraid of dying in some intergalactic balancing act. He'd faced worse.
Let the Avengers save the day. Let the gods and mutants and tech billionaires punch each other across skylines. He'd be over here, in his lane, living slow and quiet.
He wasn't here to carry the world's problems on his back. He wasn't out to rescue kittens or stop meteorites. He didn't give a damn if someone's house got robbed or their toilet exploded.
Not his circus. Not his planet.
Hell, the fact that he hadn't gone full supervillain was already a win for humanity. He wasn't plotting revenge on the world. He wasn't blackmailing governments or starting cults. He wasn't even trying to rewrite history.
You know what he was doing?
Letting Russia collapse without lifting a damn finger.
The Red Empire was about to crumble, and Henry wasn't getting involved. What would be the point?
What would he even gain?
He was a Kryptonian, for crying out loud. If he wanted money, he could rob any bank, any time, anywhere. Walk into the Federal Reserve, melt the vault doors with heat vision, and walk out with gold bars hot enough to fry bacon. No one would even know where they came from.
Stock trading? Arbitrage?
That was for desperate hustlers, not god-tier aliens.
Could he buy up Russian state assets for pennies on the dollar? Maybe. If he had capital, connections, and a ruthless streak. But all he had was three hundred grand and a car with bad shocks.
Revenge on the scientists who tortured him?
It'd be poetic, sure, but where would he even find them? It's not like they handed out business cards in the gulag. And let's be honest—most of them were probably about to suffer more than he ever could dish out.
The Soviet collapse would chew them up and spit them out.
But if—if—they somehow crawled out of the rubble and made something of themselves, then it'd be worth showing up, just in time to ruin everything. Just for the fun of it.
After all, death isn't always punishment. Sometimes living is the real curse.
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