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Hotels in Africa weren't exactly five-star getaways. No central air conditioning, no modern luxuries—if you were lucky, your room might come with a rickety electric fan that sounded like it might give out at any minute.
Otherwise, you'd be left at the mercy of mosquitoes, windows wide open in the desperate hope of catching a breeze. And when the breeze did come? It was usually just more hot air.
Henry's accommodations were no different from Audrey Hepburn's. Each had their own modest single room. The only exception was that, as her assistant, Henry's room was directly next to hers—for convenience and quick access.
But he wasn't staying up into the night because of the heat or jet lag. No, Henry was up late writing reports.
See, just because it was a UN-sponsored charity trip didn't mean Audrey could show up, snap a few photos, and call it a day.
Every visit had to be carefully documented—notes, observations, photos as evidence. And once the whole trip was complete, there needed to be a formal report summarizing everything: the condition of children's aid organizations, education efforts, living standards—everything. That report would be key in persuading donors to open their wallets.
In the past, Audrey wrote those reports herself, with the UNICEF photographer providing the visual material. But now that Henry was officially her assistant, he'd taken on the drafting work, handing her polished first drafts for revision. That alone saved her hours of labor—something her former assistant Anton, lovely as he was, had never been able to do.
The old typewriter Audrey had brought along? It was now collecting dust in Henry's room.
Yes—Henry had basically retired it. Or, more accurately, he used it sparingly.
He'd opted for handwritten drafts instead, mostly to accommodate Audrey's worsening eyesight. A typewriter couldn't enlarge font size like a computer could. So Henry simply wrote everything in clean, clear block letters—big enough for her to read without needing reading glasses.
And to be honest, writing by hand was faster. With his Kryptonian speed, Henry could fill pages in moments—far quicker than the mechanical pace of a typewriter hammering out each letter. Trying to use superspeed on the typewriter only resulted in the poor machine jamming, smoking, and its arms getting tangled like spaghetti.
So yeah—pen and paper it was. As long as he didn't accidentally punch a hole through the page, it worked just fine.
As for the content? That was easy. After reading a few of Audrey's past reports, Henry had a template down pat. All he had to do was plug in the new info, adjust for the new site, and voilà—instant report.
This wasn't creative writing. There was no need for foreshadowing, suspense, flashbacks, or any literary gymnastics. These were government-style documents. The structure was rigid, the tone dry, and every paragraph needed to say exactly what it meant—nothing more, nothing less.
For someone who grew up under the grind of exam prep, Henry could write this stuff in his sleep. No need for super-intelligence or deep thought—just crank it out like a machine. Years of soul-crushing 996 work culture had made him a natural.
And Audrey noticed. Quickly.
With Henry doing the heavy lifting, she could actually sleep at night—assuming she could tolerate the oppressive heat, that is.
Even photography had become his job. Audrey provided the camera, film, and developing materials—and Henry handled the rest.
So during the day, you'd often see her assistant zipping around with a camera hanging from his neck, snapping photos from every possible angle. At night, he'd set up a darkroom in his hotel room using blackout curtains and develop the pictures himself—no red lights needed, thank you very much. Kryptonian vision made working in the dark a non-issue.
By the next morning, he'd already have contact sheets ready, sitting down with Audrey to review the photos and finalize the report content.
The end result? Audrey had significantly more energy to focus on what mattered. Her workload was lighter, her stress reduced. Henry might not have had prior assistant experience, but between his eidetic memory, near-limitless stamina, and powered-up productivity, he had basically turned himself into a one-man 007.
And the wild part? He didn't even mind.
Sure, his boss wasn't some hot young starlet. Audrey was decades past her silver screen prime—but those soulful, intelligent eyes of hers… they had only grown more profound with time. Her voice still carried that same gentle warmth he remembered from her films. And her kindness—genuine, thoughtful, radiant—was utterly disarming.
Before all this, Henry had always rolled his eyes at people labeled "saints." He thought the term was just another virtue-signaling mask for hypocrisy.
In his experience, most so-called "saints" were full of contradictions—preaching kindness while lacing their actions with ego and self-righteousness. The moment you challenged their logic, they'd either lash out or fall apart.
But Audrey… she was different.
She wasn't just playing a role. She'd earned everything—the goodwill, the admiration, the legacy—through years of quiet, tireless service.
Of course, it helped that she was financially comfortable. It's easier to be selfless when your own needs are met. As the old saying went: "When in poverty, focus on your own virtue; when in prosperity, aid the world." Audrey Hepburn had clearly entered the second phase.
She wasn't just some idealist crying over sad stories. She felt every tragedy she witnessed—genuinely grieved for the children, cried when she saw suffering, laughed with joy when they smiled. It was honest. Pure.
The rest of the team? Not so much.
Let's just say the UN delegation was a mixed bag.
There's a reason they say diplomats are half-spies. Behind every charitable mission, there's almost always another agenda.
Henry kept his opinions to himself, but he saw the signs. These so-called "humanitarian observers" were all juggling side tasks that had nothing to do with education or aid.
And as for the security team that the insurance company had recommended?
Yeah, not as squeaky-clean as they looked either.
Audrey had reluctantly agreed to allow them to carry weapons, thinking it was standard protocol—maybe some handguns for emergencies. But what Henry saw with his X-ray vision?
Light machine guns. Grenades. Landmines. Stuff that had no place in a personal security detail.
Not that he could call them out—how would he even explain knowing? Telling Audrey would only put her in a tougher spot. In a way, her fame was the only thing keeping the wolves at bay.
So Henry stayed quiet.
He played the role. Assistant. Photographer. Ghostwriter. Bodyguard.
Because in a world full of shadows and lies, Audrey Hepburn's light was worth protecting.
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