Henry didn't exactly look sloppy, but he definitely didn't resemble someone from the upper class either. He had shaved his beard with a heat ray, yet his unkempt hair detracted from his overall appearance in the eyes of others. Slung over his shoulder was an old, worn backpack.
Granted, the backpack looked packed with items. If it had been flat and empty, he might've looked like he was planning to rob the place.
Naturally, no bank employee made a move to greet Henry given his current look. But he didn't care. Walking directly to the information desk, he asked, "Hello, I'd like to open an account. What's the procedure?"
He was promptly directed to a small cubicle, where a sharply dressed, shrewd-looking Black man in a suit waited.
"Sir, what can I help you with today?" the bank employee asked. Though polite, there was a distinct air of condescension in his voice and expression—like he was eager to show how far he'd risen above his original social class.
Henry wasn't interested in making friends. He plopped the old backpack on the table, unzipped it, and revealed tightly packed stacks of cash inside.
"Opening an account. Depositing money. Thank you," he said simply.
"We don't accept money from unknown sources," the employee replied with immediate rejection, his disgust barely concealed.
Henry wasn't surprised. Banks—especially in America—were notoriously cautious when it came to large sums of cash. If you could easily deposit shady money, there'd be no need for the entire money laundering industry. At best, they'd let you deposit it, only to freeze the account later through legal action.
Unfazed, Henry retrieved several documents and laid them out. "This is the compensation I received from working on a crab fishing boat in Alaska. Here's proof of employment, salary statements, a copy of the check, the Bank of Alaska payment confirmation, and my social security card."
The employee took the documents and began examining the seals. He noticed that the banknotes weren't just randomly bundled—they bore the official seals of various banks. Whether withdrawn directly or transferred from another branch, they didn't look stolen.
He adjusted his tone. "How much would you like to deposit, sir? What kind of account would you like to open? Would you be interested in a financial investment portfolio?"
The disdain in his voice had mostly vanished. After all, closing a financial deal would mean a bonus for him. His dark skin made his white smile look particularly sharp now.
"There's $290,000 in cash here. Use $20,000 to open a checking account, and put the rest into savings. I'd like a checkbook and to apply for a credit card."
Henry's tone was calm and decisive. These instructions had come from Old Tom—one of the few things Henry actually trusted him on. While Old Tom's personal advice often led into traps, his practical suggestions were generally sound.
"We'll need to make copies of these documents. Is that alright?" the employee asked, now much more deferential.
"Go ahead," Henry said.
The employee took the paperwork to the copier. At the same time, he signaled a colleague to bring over a cash counting machine equipped with counterfeit detection features. Even though the bills had seals from the Bank of Alaska, that didn't mean the bank would accept them without verification.
No surprises came from the count. The $290,000 was all legitimate. No plot twists, no drama, no Kryptonian face-slapping moments today. Not that anyone would want that—getting slapped by a Kryptonian wouldn't just be embarrassing, it would be life-altering.
Opening a bank account didn't require a service fee—just an initial deposit, which Henry had more than covered. However, applying for a checkbook and credit card did involve additional fees. Henry rummaged through his pockets and managed to scrape together enough cash for the extras.
This move earned him a dramatic eye-roll from the bank employee.
Just you wait, the employee thought. Let's see how long you can keep up this act.
After completing all the necessary steps, Henry received his ATM card. He walked out of the bank, glanced up at the midday sun, and realized—he was starving.
The credit card would take more time. The bank needed to run a credit check, and without a permanent mailing address, they couldn't complete the process right away. He was told to return in two weeks to follow up.
Just because he deposited over two hundred thousand dollars didn't mean the bank would bend all the rules for him. In fact, they'd already made exceptions—normally someone without a permanent residence wouldn't even be allowed to apply.
Still, as he finished the process, Henry felt a shift—a subtle but real deepening of his connection to this new world. The reality of his transmigration sank in again. Those nearly twenty years of his previous life—a lonely, empty existence—felt like a fading dream. If it weren't for the bitter memories of his last few years, he might have completely forgotten what it meant to be human.
Even though the cruelty of human nature was what had dragged him back into this world, Henry never considered turning dark or seeking revenge on society.
As the saying goes: a worthless life before transmigration, a worthless life after transmigration. He didn't come here to become some divine being—he was just a Kryptonian, not a Celestial Dragon.
If there's no immediate need for revenge, what's the point of taking it out on others?
Truthfully, during his time recuperating in Alaska, it was memories from before transmigration that sustained him. He often watched old classic movies that existed in both his original and current world, hoping to find some anchor to his past self—something to remind him that the other world was real.
But no matter how hard he tried, the feeling of unreality never completely faded. Even while braving monstrous waves on the Bering Sea, he couldn't shake the sensation.
It felt like being a max-level player steamrolling through a newbie zone. The waves couldn't make him seasick. The cold couldn't kill him. The king crabs couldn't hurt him. Making money was as easy as scooping it off the deck. It was all too easy—just a game.
If the boat owners hadn't had rules in place, Henry might've stayed on that fishing boat for the entire season.
But after arriving in Los Angeles, that sense of invincibility vanished almost immediately.
Maybe it had to do with the path he'd chosen. Here, he couldn't rely on his Kryptonian powers. He had to start from scratch, in a field he had never worked in, doing things completely outside his wheelhouse.
Should he just turn back and do something that made use of his superpowers?
Like robbing a bank.
…Wait, how did he end up thinking about robbing a bank again?
In all seriousness, Henry never had any intention of becoming a superhero. The miserable lives led by superheroes in movies and comics didn't exactly paint the role as a promising career choice.
He lacked that pure idealism—the belief in selfless sacrifice for the greater good. In the end, he was just an ordinary guy with extraordinary abilities.
If others wanted to be superheroes, that was their business. Henry? He was content being a salted fish Kryptonian.
If someone wants to change his values, it'd take nothing less than the Marvel Universe becoming a post-apocalyptic wasteland—when there's not even a couch left to lie on!
And honestly, if a salted fish still wants to flip over, is it really a qualified salted fish?
With renewed conviction, Henry stood under the sun, feeling the power coursing through his Kryptonian body. He took a deep breath. This—this was the smell of Los Angeles.
His life was about to enter its second phase.
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