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As soon as the gunfire from the attackers stopped—and the sound of magazines being swapped echoed in the hall—Tony Stark suddenly lunged out from behind the marble counter like a war god possessed. He held his pistol in one hand and began firing rapidly at the intruders storming into the villa.
Henry wanted to stay in cover and keep playing dead, but when a main-character-tier superhero dashed into the line of fire, how could he keep cowering behind a counter?
After all, it wasn't every day you got the chance to earn a favor from someone like him—someone whose future last name would probably be followed by "Industries."
Besides, if Tony Stark died here today, who knew what Old Man Stark would do? Maybe he'd go nuclear and start purging everyone even remotely related to this villa incident.
Sure, the rich might buy their way out of it, but Henry? He didn't have money or power. He'd be stuck using his superpowers to go on the run for life.
That calculation took all of half a second. As Tony charged out, Henry rose from behind the counter at the exact same moment.
Each time Stark pulled the trigger, Henry would check if the shot would hit. If so, he'd aim at a different target. If not, he'd finish the job for him.
Sounds impossible? Not for someone with Kryptonian-level reflexes and processing speed. For Henry, it was as simple as breathing.
It was like flipping a mental switch. The more he focused, the faster he moved, the faster he thought. His body didn't just act—he flowed.
To an outside observer, it looked like Henry had entered some kind of "bullet time."
To Henry, the world around him had simply slowed to a crawl.
He'd already used this same ability during his stunt gigs, letting him pull off jaw-dropping feats others deemed suicidal. This wasn't some last-minute miracle—it was practiced.
Now that he was finally using that ability to shoot people, hitting his targets was child's play. And avoiding being hit? Impossible not to, no matter how good the other guy was.
Sure, Henry could just go full Kryptonian, tank bullets with his chest, punch heads clean off—but that'd blow his cover faster than a nuke in Times Square.
No, subtlety was key. His cheat-code reflexes would stay hidden under a layer of Oscar-worthy acting.
After all, Clark Kent wasn't Superman just because of his glasses. The bumbling, clumsy persona was part of the mask. And nobody suspected the guy who tripped over his own feet of being the Man of Steel.
If Superman had gone into acting instead of journalism, he'd have Oscars lining his Fortress of Solitude. Henry understood this now, deeply.
So while Tony Stark emptied his clip with dramatic flair, Henry lazily fired once or twice behind him, pretending to be a total amateur. He even deliberately ran out of ammo just in time, letting Tony think he was doing all the work.
And just like that, between the two of them, six armed assailants lay sprawled on the floor.
Not all were dead—but they were all out of the fight.
Tony glanced smugly at Henry, clearly convinced he had done all the real work. One shot, one kill, baby.
And to be fair, his accuracy was impressive: four out of six hits, two critical. That was better than your average gun nut at a range.
Henry, holding his now-empty pistol, gave Tony a sheepish look as he opened the slide and confirmed he was out of rounds. Then he stepped forward to check on the bodies.
He didn't go full executioner, but at least disarmed them—just in case someone tried the ol' "surprise I'm still alive" trick.
Henry fumbled with one of the handguns he'd picked up, trying to figure out how to eject the magazine.
Tony approached and, with a deadpan face, asked,
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Trying to figure out how to check the ammo count." Henry admitted.
Tony pointed to the mag release.
"Press here. The mag'll pop out."
Henry followed the instructions, but wasn't ready to catch the magazine—sending it flying through the air like a loose tooth.
He scrambled to catch it. Fortunately, it didn't hit the ground.
Reloading? Also took him two tries.
Racking the slide? Equally awkward.
Once done, he finally assumed a decent shooting stance… only for Tony to roll his eyes and mutter,
"You left the safety on."
"Oh." Henry blinked, looked around, finally spotted the safety. It was at least helpfully labeled.
"Have you ever used a gun before?"
Henry hesitated, then admitted,
"Today's... my first time."
That was the truth. Pre-reincarnation, he'd only seen guns on TV. Even in Alaska, he'd never played with John's shotgun.
Tony's face darkened. He turned away, clearly re-evaluating his life choices.
If it weren't for the fact that Henry could at least draw enemy fire, Tony would've ditched him already.
Instead, Tony grabbed another pistol for himself and tucked it into his waistband, then slung one of the recovered rifles over his shoulder. He checked the mag by feel, satisfied with its weight.
But he didn't hand Henry a rifle—these were newer models, more complex, and honestly too much for a guy who just now figured out which end goes boom.
And long guns? Not ideal indoors anyway.
As for the still-breathing enemies, Tony casually knocked them all unconscious with the butt of his rifle. Not exactly gentle, but effective.
When Henry noticed Tony glancing around nervously, clearly listening for other gunfire, he realized this guy wasn't planning to sit tight and wait for help.
"Look, they're not here for you. They're after some guy named Josh Hilton. You said your backup would be here in twenty minutes—why risk your life for this?"
Tony looked him dead in the eyes.
**"How do you know they won't kill everyone to eliminate witnesses? If we don't counterattack now, once they control the villa, we're just lambs waiting for slaughter.
"Look at their gear. You think anyone else can hold out for twenty minutes?"**
He paused, then added:
"If you're scared, feel free to sit this one out."
Henry, the Kryptonian, had no words.
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