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The archive room—accessible only after firing someone—was utterly unremarkable. There were no glittering treasures, no antique, leather-bound volumes one might expect in a wealthy family's collection.
Instead, what stood out was poor management.
The air was thick with mold and dust. Several fluorescent tubes flickered intermittently, and while there was thankfully no smell of rodents or animal droppings, the place still felt neglected.
After pocketing the key, Henry turned to the Black, heavyset woman.
"Julian, you don't need to stay here. Go notify all department heads that there will be a meeting in two hours—ten twenty-five sharp—in the main conference room."
"Yes, Mr. Brown."
"Go on."
Once the archive room was empty, Henry immediately activated his super speed and skimmed through nearly twenty years of records.
For all its filth, the archive room at least had a functional classification system. Files weren't scattered randomly; documents were stored by year and category, making them easy to navigate.
The entire process took less than ten minutes.
In fact, Henry was moving so fast that he stirred up all the accumulated dust in the room. If he hadn't been able to hold his breath, he would've been choking on decades-old grime.
Cleaning and organizing this place was best left to someone else. Henry had no desire to overstep his role—even if he could finish the job in no time. Once he'd absorbed everything he needed to know, he returned to the CEO's office.
The mountain of documents on his desk wasn't difficult to deal with.
Stark Pictures had gone a long time without a CEO overseeing the big picture. Departments had operated independently, each head doing as they pleased.
Because of that autonomy, most documents didn't actually require upper-level guidance. A simple "approved as proposed" was enough to keep things running.
Only a small portion truly required review—and some of those were obvious traps.
But these pitfalls were poorly concealed, hastily dug. Henry could spot the problems at a glance, so he rejected them outright, not even bothering to suggest revisions.
---
The film production department, on the other hand, had brought in piles of project proposals and scripts.
After Howard Stark shifted his focus elsewhere, Stark Pictures had downsized its production division but never shut it down completely. Every few years, the company still released one or two low-budget independent films.
This served several purposes: keeping the production department functional, maintaining the distribution arm, supporting new directors or creative indie projects, and preserving Stark Pictures' reputation.
However, there was no real standard for choosing which projects or directors to support. The only constraint was the annual production budget—a fixed one million dollars.
That figure had been respectable in the early 1950s. After forty years without adjustment, it was barely enough to make a single film.
Unused funds could roll over to the next year. Profits went to the company. Losses didn't come out of employees' pockets—but producing a money-losing, critically panned film would severely damage the reputation of whoever led the project.
As a result, the production department had played it safe for decades, never touching large-scale productions in the tens of millions.
Now, with a new CEO in place, they acted as if glory days were returning—dumping every project they could find in front of Henry, waiting for his blessing.
After all, Tony Stark had promised Henry a production budget more than ten times the previous amount. Even big-budget projects weren't automatically rejected anymore; they just required reporting to Tony and requesting approval.
But as Henry looked through the pile, he couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't genuine enthusiasm—it was harassment.
There were plenty of "female-led prestige projects," clearly designed to elevate a leading actress. Charlize Theron's presence hadn't gone unnoticed.
Henry hadn't tried to hide their relationship. Frankly, taking this job in the first place was partly about paving the way for her future. Her agent should know how to leverage resources like these.
Yet the projects submitted by Stark Pictures' production department were garbage.
Not only did Henry have no memory of them from his pre-rebirth life, some didn't even have full scripts—just a few storyboard sketches, already asking for funding.
Those were obviously shady and didn't merit discussion.
Worse, some scripts were for films Henry knew were already greenlit by other studios—some even deep into production, with casting notices already sent out through the actors' union.
With Henry's memory, the chance of misremembering was essentially zero.
In short, almost everything the production department submitted was filler trash—or legal landmines waiting to explode.
Any hope of "picking up a classic" from his foreknowledge was pure wishful thinking. After reviewing everything, Henry accepted reality: great scripts didn't just fall into your lap.
---
As for Stark Pictures' real cash cow—the equipment division—their submissions were mostly user feedback.
Requests for improvements. Reports of defects discovered during use. Complaints about pricing.
The absurd part was that Stark Pictures already had equipment manufacturing and R&D departments. Most of these issues should've been handled internally, yet they'd been dumped onto the CEO's desk.
The intent was obvious: more troublemaking.
Looking at what was essentially a pile of customer reviews, Henry didn't issue any instructions.
He hadn't even seen the complained-about equipment in action. Without firsthand understanding, redesigning anything would be pointless. So he simply categorized the documents, grouping similar issues together.
Once that was done, Henry looked around the now-empty office.
The outer office—where a secretary or executive assistant should've been stationed—was equally deserted.
With no other choice, the newly minted high-level wage slave gathered a thick stack of documents—nearly up to his chin so he could still see—and headed for the conference room alone.
Maybe the route from the CEO's office to the meeting room was unusually remote. Or maybe something else was going on. Either way, he didn't encounter a single person he could order to help carry the load.
He couldn't help wondering: what exactly was American office culture like? Could superiors casually ask subordinates to help with menial tasks? Or would someone immediately respond with, "That's not in my job description"?
Having never worked in an American office, the Kryptonian felt a bit uneasy.
Even before rebirth, he'd only ever been a cog—a wage slave, not a manager, let alone a CEO. Everything about this was new territory.
Finally reaching the conference room, he saw a group of administrative staff preparing the space. At a glance, he spotted the same conspicuous Black, heavyset woman again.
Apparently, her seniority in the department wasn't high—otherwise every troublesome job wouldn't keep landing on her.
Still, this was a department that had just witnessed Henry assert his authority. Unlike others that played dead or blind, they moved efficiently.
The moment Henry entered carrying a stack of documents, everyone stopped what they were doing and greeted him in unison:
"Mr. Brown."
A few quick-moving younger staff hurried over to take the documents from his arms.
Finally free of the burden, Henry clapped his hands lightly and let out a quiet sigh of relief.
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