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If Henry really wanted to talk, turning on his acting skills and taking the initiative wouldn't have been hard.
But after what happened today, he had a few new thoughts — he wasn't in any rush to cozy up to someone like John Wick, the kind of man who practically radiated main character energy.
Instead, Henry turned his attention to Munie Fisher, the manager of the Los Angeles Continental Hotel.
He placed a gold coin on the table in front of her and asked,
> "One coin, one promise — isn't that how it works?"
Munie raised an eyebrow.
> "As Mr. Wick said earlier, I also have the right to refuse."
> "Oh, I'm just asking," Henry said easily, smiling. "Because honestly, I'm not sure your people can actually pull this one off."
A small bit of provocation — but not enough to irritate her.
Munie tilted her head slightly.
> "And what is it you want?"
> "Two FBI agents were the ones who brought me to that Black congressman's place," Henry said. "Now that he's dead — thanks to your people — I'm the only one left alive. Can you make my problem go away?"
Everyone else from that scene was dead.
Only one survivor remained.
Of course the authorities would see him as the prime suspect — or at least an accomplice.
If the FBI wanted to close the case quickly, Henry would be the perfect scapegoat.
It was like a cast-iron pot falling out of the sky, and he had no way to dodge it.
So it only made sense to let the ones who caused this mess clean it up.
Munie looked at his smiling face — the faintly mocking expression, the rumpled shirt, the casual stance.
She could tell this "request" was both a test and a probe.
If the Continental couldn't handle such a small issue, then Henry had no reason to collaborate with them.
No foundation for cooperation meant no chance to win this mutant over.
But Munie Fisher wasn't the type to be baited easily.
She shook her head and said simply,
> "That's not enough."
Then, taking a palm-sized amulet from her assistant, she set it down beside his coin and said,
> "Press your bloody handprint here, and I'll help you."
Henry raised an eyebrow.
> "What's this supposed to be?"
> "A blood oath mark," Munie explained. "It represents a promise that cannot be refused."
Henry examined it — the intricate sigils etched into its surface, the sharp needle hidden at the center.
Ah. So that's what the spike was for.
But he just shook his head.
> "That won't work."
> "Oh?" Munie arched a brow. "You don't actually think what you're asking is simple, do you?"
> "No," Henry said, feigning innocence. "I mean it literally doesn't work."
He pressed his thumb several times against the needle's tip.
The metal bent slightly under the pressure, but there wasn't a drop of blood on his skin.
Then he showed her the unmarked thumb with a grin.
Munie stared, momentarily speechless.
> "You can't even… draw blood from yourself?" she asked. "Then what happens if you get sick? How do you take injections?"
Henry clasped his hands together and crossed himself piously.
> "Then I can only pray to heaven that I don't fall ill."
He set the amulet down and casually reached for his gold coin — but Munie's soft, perfectly manicured hand stopped him.
She toyed with the coin between her fingers, her tone measured:
> "If I help you… what can you offer me in return?"
> "Hmm… how about another coin?" Henry suggested.
> "Quantity is meaningless," she replied coolly.
That was High Table law — the coins were tokens, not currency.
They were tickets of access, not actual payment.
And some doors wouldn't open, no matter how many tokens you threw at them.
Even a blood oath might not sway a member of the High Table.
So what use was a pile of coins to people who already had more than they could ever spend?
> "No one in the High Table is short on gold," she said lightly. "This isn't a club for the poor."
Henry looked around the hall — wounded men resting on stretchers, the smell of antiseptic still thick in the air — then leaned forward slightly.
> "Then how about this," he said. "Next time something like this happens… you call me."
That, of course, was what Henry really wanted.
---
Learning medicine through normal channels — especially getting hands-on clinical experience — was painfully slow.
To assist in surgery, you needed to win the favor of senior doctors, play politics, climb hierarchies.
It wasn't just about being good — without connections, you might never even get to hold the scalpel.
And hospitals were full of red tape.
To avoid lawsuits, everything had to follow protocol.
To maintain prestige and profits, physicians often did things that betrayed their conscience — part of the toxic ecosystem of American healthcare.
And that wasn't even touching the shadowy underbelly of the pharmaceutical industry.
So, Henry thought — why not become a black-market doctor instead?
People who came to someone like him weren't saints.
They were either broke or in trouble — too injured, too illegal, or too wanted to go to a real hospital.
If they lived, great.
If they died… well, who would dare sue him?
At worst, some street gang would come knocking for payback — but a Kryptonian wasn't about to fear that.
And Henry's motives weren't exactly noble — he wasn't driven by compassion.
He just remembered that feeling of helplessness watching that woman suffer from illness — knowing all the knowledge in his brain meant nothing without experience.
He'd read the books, studied the journals, memorized the theory — but without clinical practice, even a Kryptonian couldn't claim mastery.
That was why Audrey Hepburn's illness had dragged on so long — and why her loss still haunted him.
So if people were willing to risk their lives and come to him — why not use them to gain experience?
It was mutually beneficial, really.
At least his goal was to heal, not to experiment on the healthy for curiosity's sake — that kind of monstrous behavior was still a red line even for him.
Of course, in reality, most of his patients would be criminals — people hiding stab wounds, bullet holes, and illegal problems.
Maybe even botched abortions, who knew.
Serious or strange medical cases — the kind that fascinated him — would be rare.
And the poor, those who couldn't afford hospitals, would only crawl to him when they were half-dead.
Still — that kind of work was exciting in its own way.
It was a real fight with Death itself.
The more Henry thought about it, the more he liked the idea.
Even if the Continental refused, he could do it on his own.
Equipment? A Kryptonian could build anything with his hands.
As for medicine — well, synthesizing compounds was good practice for his chemistry skills.
It wasn't "fake" medicine, just… unlicensed.
His eyes gleamed as he looked at Munie Fisher.
> "So, Ms. Fisher — what do you say? Can we make a deal like that?"
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