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To become a true superhero, one indispensable quality is the courage to step forward.
That was precisely why—even with his Kryptonian abilities—Henry never considered himself another Superman. Because when danger struck, his first instinct was always self-preservation.
Sure, ever since crossing over to this world, he'd spent nearly twenty years like a blank slate—caged or suffering. But before that, he'd lived for 30, maybe 40 years in his original life. The fire of youthful idealism? Long gone.
But Tony Stark... he truly was someone destined to become a superhero.
Some might dismiss him as just a rich guy hiding in a metal suit. But they often forget that his first armor was forged in captivity, surrounded by enemies, built from scraps purely to survive.
And even when his Mark 42 was still charging, he had no hesitation breaking into enemy territory with nothing but improvised hardware from a hardware store.
The Iron Man suit was a symbol of his wealth and genius—but not his bravery. That came from within.
Honestly, though, Henry thought the teenage Tony Stark was just... reckless. The kind of reckless that only came from youth and inexperience. It was like he was desperately trying to prove something—throwing his life on the line far too easily.
And now, as this young man once again dashed toward the densest cluster of gunfire, Henry seriously considered shooting him in the leg just to make him stop.
But in the end, he followed. Someone had to watch the idiot's back.
With all his Kryptonian senses fully active, Henry was like a walking radar dish—tracking every potential enemy around them through walls and doors.
And that's when he noticed something… off.
There was no doubt the attackers had a target, and that the target was here at the party.
But for a force this large, their coordination was surprisingly poor. It felt less like a disciplined strike team, and more like a bunch of armed freelancers playing soldier.
The evidence? Their encirclement was full of holes. If someone picked the right direction and sprinted hard enough, escape was possible.
Even their room-to-room sweeps were sloppy, more focused on not stepping on each other's toes than on efficiency.
That reminded Henry of something.
While looting extra pistols from fallen attackers earlier, he'd also found a gold coin.
It looked eerily similar to the ones he'd seen with Tom, the shady fixer from Alaska. Tom, who had ties to the underworld.
And if memory served him right… wasn't that coin associated with The Continental Hotel?
The secret international assassin network?
Where gold coins served as a universal currency, and bounty contracts were fair game to any number of killers?
As long as you brought proof of the kill, the full reward was yours. Whether you shared it or stabbed your partners in the back was your own call. Everything outside of Continental grounds was fair game.
Inside the hotel? Killing was strictly forbidden.
If this was a Continental contract… then the only upside was that the quality of their assassins was all over the place.
Not everyone was John Wick, aka Baba Yaga.
Case in point: the goons they'd already run into. Those two at the entrance? They'd gotten so close, yet still casually took their gun off target. Any real pro would've never made such a mistake.
Same with the six guys who stormed the foyer. They'd burned through entire magazines at the same time, creating a perfect window for Tony to counterattack.
These guys might have the guts to kill, but clearly lacked the experience. If they'd been just a little more competent, Tony wouldn't have stood a chance.
Henry could only hope the rest of them were just as sloppy.
Just then, a shadow moved past an unlit window.
Henry fired a single shot toward it.
"What the fuck!?" Tony instinctively hugged the wall and hissed back.
Henry replied casually, "I thought I saw something move. Maybe I was wrong. Nothing happened."
In truth, someone had just been climbing in through the window. Henry's shot had nailed the guy's hand, sending him tumbling to the ground outside.
Alive, but definitely out of the fight.
Tony grumbled, "Watch it. Don't give away our position."
Tony had just taken two steps forward when Henry grabbed the collar of his jacket and yanked him backwards—hard.
Bullets shredded the air right where Tony had been standing. If Henry hadn't pulled him back, he'd have been Swiss cheese.
The two of them hit the floor hard, just as the wall above them was torn apart by a wave of gunfire. The decorative wood paneling didn't offer much resistance.
Tony rolled aside, making sure he wasn't crushing Henry.
"What the hell room is that?" he asked.
Tony sniffed the air. "Doesn't smell like cigarettes."
Henry deadpanned, "You know. The kind of 'smoke' that hits real hard. The addictive kind."
Tony raised his brows, understanding immediately. He didn't comment further. Instead, he twisted around, lying flat on his back, and barked, "Push me in."
Henry understood. He grabbed Tony by both ankles and shoved him forward across the floor like a human battering ram.
Tony's rifle peeked out from the doorway—ratatatatat!
Just as Tony began to rise, another shooter—hidden behind a couch—popped up.
Henry, who had already moved in behind Tony, fired two clean shots. The first one did the job. The second was just for show.
Tony shifted from lying to a crouch. Though he didn't say "thanks," at least he didn't insult Henry again.
He stood and swept the room quickly. Half the people were high out of their minds, the other half already had holes in their heads.
Gunfire echoed elsewhere in the house. Tony didn't waste a second. He bolted toward the next fight.
Henry trailed behind with a sigh.
So this is the difference between a hero and a couch potato, huh?
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