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The construction site for the seabed server was chosen near the docks. Henry rented a warehouse and worked entirely inside it.
The benefit was obvious: once the build was complete, he could slip straight into the water nearby and move the server to its seabed location with minimal exposure to official surveillance. Fewer eyes meant fewer risks.
And Henry, when it came to making things, didn't need factory-grade industrial machines. Most work could be done with heat vision and his own hands. Only a handful of steps required tools, and even then, they were nothing large — mostly lenses and fine material needles. The lenses helped narrow heat-vision beams; the needles adjusted tiny details.
This prototype seabed server wasn't designed for maintenance or upgrades. If it broke, he'd scrap it or bring it back to melt down and rebuild. So he didn't bother with screws or modular slots — he just welded everything solid. That saved time, materials, and headaches.
By autumn, the number of bikinis on the beach hadn't decreased — he simply had the location selected, the simulations complete, and the design ready. Time to begin.
But right as construction was in full swing, the phone at his apartment rang.
Since the phone line was wired into Henry's own alert device — capable of emitting an ultrasonic ping he could hear from twenty kilometers away — he didn't have to babysit the phone. Anyone with important business would leave a message on the answering machine.
Today was different.
The caller was Charlize Theron — and her voice trembled with fear.
> "Henry… I'm sorry, I didn't know who else to call.
"If you hear this message, please help me.
"I don't know where I am — just that it's a photo studio somewhere north of Hollywood.
"I'm sorry… I don't know what to do. Please save me…"
Obviously, he couldn't ignore that. But rushing blindly "north of Hollywood" would be stupid.
Henry dropped everything, triggered super-speed, and returned to the apartment. First step: check caller ID.
American landlines did transmit caller information — the phones just didn't display it. But Henry's modified answering machine recorded it.
With the number, he could infer the switching center, which narrowed the area. Old telephone system habits persisted even after technical upgrades — blocks of numbers still reflected the region where they were issued.
And with the number, he could try the Yellow Pages. Listings were sorted by name, not number, which made searching manually nearly impossible for a normal person.
But Henry wasn't normal. He scanned the phone book in seconds.
Fortunately, the caller's number was listed, registered under Joffe Photography Studio.
There was no advertisement, no address — just the studio name.
Still, it was enough to narrow down the search zone.
Henry flew to a rooftop overlooking the area — close to the legendary San Fernando Valley, the other "Hollywood" of Los Angeles.
So… had she been tricked into shooting adult films?
He didn't jump to conclusions. He focused his super senses and searched methodically.
The area had almost no tall buildings — mostly stand-alone houses. His rooftop vantage point was just a three-story apartment building, but that was enough.
Finding her turned out to be very easy.
Charlize was wearing a bathrobe — nothing underneath. She was surrounded by men, but none of them were in similar robes. And the equipment present was cameras, not film cameras.
So… a photoshoot, not a video shoot?
Standing beside her was her agent, John Crosby. The talent scout was persuading a clearly uncomfortable Charlize with the usual "it's for art" excuses.
At this rate, she'd be one step closer to San Fernando Valley's "main industry."
Henry didn't barge in. Instead, he walked a block away and flagged a taxi. This wasn't a busy district; taxis were rare, but he eventually found one.
He slipped into the back seat.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
Henry gave the studio's address — only a couple streets away. The driver blinked, turned his head, and asked:
"Sir… you sure you don't just want to walk?"
Henry took out a stack of twenties and folded them. "Once we arrive, wait ten minutes. I'll bring someone out, then we leave immediately. Fare paid separately."
The generous tip made the driver hesitate.
"I'm not getting dragged into trouble, right?"
"If you hear gunshots, just drive off. I probably won't be walking out alive."
"HEY!"
"Hahaha, kidding. I just need to pick up a friend. Hard to find a cab around here — you understand." He shook the money again.
The driver took the bills, though reluctantly. "For a tip like this, I'll warn you — the place you're headed?
It's a photo studio that shoots Playboy girls and… Valley girls.
"They've got connections.
Even South L.A. gangs and the Mexican crews don't mess with them. That's all I know."
"Gangsters?"
"No. But they're… people you don't want to piss off. If you're not absolutely sure, I'll have to ask you to get out. Keep the money — that's my warning fee."
Henry thought for a moment, then said:
"Drive. You can park far away. If anything happens, just leave. Fair?"
The driver shrugged, pocketed the cash, and started the car
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