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Henry's private meeting with Tony Stark ended without resolution.
Neither of them gave a clear refusal, nor a clear agreement.
There was no denying that the position of CEO of Stark Pictures was an attractive lure. And with that young master's boldness, he really would dump the whole company onto Henry's lap and then stop caring altogether.
He kept saying, "Just don't bankrupt it."
But if that really happened one day, Tony would probably laugh at him a few times and move on.
Even so, Henry didn't dare reach out to take it.
The biggest reason was simple—he was scared of Tony Stark's tendency to act purely on impulse, to care about the head but forget the tail.
Shutting down Stark Industries' weapons division.
The Ultron Project.
Blowing up thirty or forty suits of armor like fireworks.
One after another, all proof of Tony Stark's irrational streak—each accompanied by a massive price tag, which he himself brushed off with an airy attitude.
If Henry got involved, he was afraid he'd be forced to clean up Tony's messes.
Then Iron Man might not even live long enough to see Thanos snap his fingers—let alone reach the one-in-fourteen-million chance at victory.
And surrounding Tony was that circle of watchful eyes.
If Henry stayed too close, wouldn't he expose himself right in their line of sight?
Better to avoid trouble whenever possible.
Compared to that, being on the FBI's list—and the lists of many others—wasn't really a big deal.
Ever since he revealed his abilities directly, he had mentally prepared for this.
Yes, it proved he wasn't like ordinary people.
But being "one in five billion" wasn't the same as "one in the millions" or "one in the hundreds of thousands."
This world had too many dangerous superpowers and extraordinary species.
A simple "bulletproof body" was barely a ripple in this ocean.
And he didn't have any obvious unusual appearance—he could blend into a crowd easily.
Unless the X-Men leaked the true identity of the "Clown Superman"…
But considering the X-Men were founded upon the suffering of mutants, if they casually sold out others, that would completely undermine their own identity.
In this regard, he could gamble—Henry felt the odds were in his favor.
If they ever thought he was a threat, they'd come punish the alien themselves, not hand him over to the U.S. military or the government.
So as long as he stayed low-key, he could continue living a leisurely life.
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Spring slowly moved toward summer.
The girls, as if suffocating under winter's heavy coats, impatiently tore themselves free—winter clothes became spring wear, and the bold ones had already switched to summer outfits, tossing on a jacket only for early mornings and nights.
As one of the most extravagant cities on Earth, home of Hollywood, Los Angeles had far more beauties per square meter than most places.
If not beauties, then women dressed to showcase fashion taste—handbags, heels, brands on full display.
Henry didn't stay home much.
Sometimes he carried a camera, wandering like a paparazzo or talent scout, snapping photos of pretty girls.
The era wasn't yet strict about portrait rights—so long as he wasn't too blatant, there was usually no trouble.
He wasn't photographing anything obscene—just street scenes and people.
And if anyone complained, well… pull out the film and expose it.
Evidence gone, case closed.
Sometimes he took his sketchbook, found a good angle, and drew street scenery for fun.
If someone lingered somewhere—on a park bench, leaning by a railing—he could sketch a quick portrait with a few strokes.
He couldn't use super-speed out in public, of course, but he'd practiced enough to draw smoothly.
He wandered outside more and more—not only to enjoy this beautiful world he never got to appreciate in his previous life as a wage slave, but also because of the sixty-some thousand dirty dollars he'd gotten.
Those bills couldn't be deposited into the banking system; he needed to spend them quickly to feel safe.
The simplest way was everyday small expenses.
So Henry began a food tour of Los Angeles—street stalls and famous restaurants alike.
He'd done this once when he first came to LA, but back then he only went where his super nose detected high-quality aromas—guaranteed good food.
This time he relaxed his standards, entering places with ordinary smells.
As long as the scent wasn't full of artificial chemicals, he'd try it and look for the strengths in the food.
With the lowered bar, he indeed found many restaurants that rivaled the ones he'd chosen before, expanding his personal LA food map.
Meanwhile, the black clinic in South LA was closed more often.
Especially if someone suspicious was nearby—then Henry would simply shut the door.
He wasn't saving lives to stay alive—it was just part of the Continental deal and a way to gain more clinical practice.
If he stopped entirely, he wouldn't lose anything.
Besides, manager Munee Fisher hadn't exactly dealt with the FBI problem perfectly.
There were still cops or agents who tried making side money by acting like crooked officers.
And honestly, Henry hadn't paid much for this protection—she'd asked for a blood oath, and yet he merely joined the Continental as a freelance service provider.
So sloppy work wasn't her fault.
Henry had already thrown three people into space.
He had no idea how that aftermath was brewing, but one thing he knew—
He should not make more policemen or FBI agents disappear.
That would only attract unwanted attention.
Best solution: stay quiet for a while and avoid trouble.
His home computer upgrades, improving BB the core robot, the tiger Kitty's brainwave translator, CK's activities online—they weren't forgotten.
He had simply slowed the pace.
Everything was still there, no deadlines, no clients pressuring him.
Finishing fast meant nothing.
And some projects had no end anyway—they could continue indefinitely.
Henry's technology already exceeded this era's level, nearly catching up to what he remembered.
Moving forward required new incentives.
For now, his equipment served his needs well.
Especially CK's released toolkits and his push for Linux development—if he didn't slow down, others wouldn't be able to keep up.
He didn't want to perform a one-man show; having a slight advantage was enough.
Kitty's brainwave translator had entered the data collection stage, with initial progress.
Next came endless gathering, comparison, and correction—making translation more accurate over time.
It was a grind, not something that could be rushed.
No software or hardware upgrade would make a tiger speak English overnight.
So he'd just have to grind.
Now Henry sat in a restaurant, cutting a steak, thinking about his recent progress.
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