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A termination agreement didn't require a lawyer.
Henry asked for a blank sheet of paper and a pen, and in a few strokes wrote a document that met all legal requirements.
It simply stated the names of the two parties and that both agreed, unconditionally, to dissolve the talent contract signed on a certain date.
Charlize, who had been silent this whole time, didn't even think. She immediately signed her name.
John Crosby, however, shouted nonstop:
"You have no right to make me give up my own artist! I've taken care of her all this time—she owes me a fortune!"
No matter what was said, he refused even to pick up the pen, let alone sign. He kept ranting about all the "help" he'd given Charlize, listing every petty thing he could think of.
Finally, the suited man could no longer tolerate the noise.
He took a gun from one of his men and pressed the barrel against the back of John's head.
John went dead silent.
The suited man leaned toward Henry.
"Kid, don't you think my termination method is much more effective?
If he refuses to sign, let's just use my way."
John didn't wait for Henry to respond.
He grabbed the pen and scribbled his signature wildly.
Then he threw the pen away, hands raised high.
"I signed! I signed! Don't shoot!"
The suited man tossed the gun back to his subordinate — in the exact same careless motion his man had thrown the camera back to the photographer earlier.
Henry checked the signatures and tucked the document away.
Then he took out three rolls of cash and placed them in front of John.
"You did help Charlize in the beginning. Nobody wanted things to end up like this.
And I know you invested quite a bit in her.
"So take this as compensation for your losses.
Whether it's enough or not, let's consider today settled.
And please — don't bother her again."
After speaking, Henry accompanied Charlize to the dressing room and waited outside.
Once she changed and gathered her things, he took her out.
The suited man's men did not interfere — honoring the deal faithfully.
Only John Crosby looked miserable.
Because two of the three rolls of cash Henry laid out were immediately taken by the suited man's subordinates.
Why did Henry bundle cash like a gangster, rolling it instead of stacking it neatly?
Because rolled bundles made counting harder — especially with mixed denominations.
Cheap, simple misdirection.
He had destroyed all counterfeit bills long ago, so nothing illegal remained — just a chaotic mix of big and small notes. Rolls like that tended to pass unquestioned in criminal circles.
But John's distress wasn't only because he received so little.
He complained bitterly to the suited man:
"I've sent you so many girls — I thought we were partners."
"We are," the suited man replied calmly, pouring more whiskey.
"That hasn't changed. There are plenty of girls out there — no need to fixate on one.
I look forward to the next one you bring."
He tried to reassure the man who brought him steady income.
But John, who had just experienced the worst loss of the day, huffed angrily:
"Hmph! He thinks that signature ends everything?
The termination conflicts with the original contract's clauses.
If we go to court, he won't win.
He didn't write the compensation into the agreement — that's his fatal mistake."
"Oh? That's what you think?"
The suited man sat down again and placed the second gold coin on the table.
"I think the reason he didn't write the money into the agreement…
was actually a warning.
"He's saying: we follow rules — not laws.
Today he solved the matter using both rules and laws.
If you try making trouble through the legal system,
don't blame him for using our rules next time.
"And in the worst case?
I would stand on his side and help clean up the mess.
"Because I agreed to handle this matter —
and if you stir up trouble afterwards,
it's my face you're damaging."
That was a deadly serious warning.
John froze. All bluster drained out of him.
He finally stammered, "…Who the hell is Henry Brown? Do you know him?"
"I've heard the name.
But anyone who can put a Continental gold coin on the table is one of ours.
And remember something — having a corpse disposed of by the Undertaker costs one single coin.
"So tell me…
how much would it cost him to make you disappear forever?"
John swallowed hard, unable to respond.
---
Henry half-carried, half-supported the dazed Charlize out of the studio and spotted the taxi he'd hired earlier.
He opened the back door, pushed the shell-shocked girl inside, and climbed in after her.
The driver turned his head.
"No trouble? No one shooting after you?"
"Yeah," Henry laughed. "Pretty lucky. Ran into reasonable people."
He glanced at the driver.
"And I took longer than expected. Thought you might've left."
"After that tip you gave me? I figured I could wait a bit. If things really took long, I would've called the cops — that's about all I can do.
But looks like you saved whoever you meant to save."
Henry chuckled.
"Save? No, no. She's just a friend. Needed me to come keep her company."
The driver didn't pry further.
"Where to?"
Henry gave the address of old Gary's apartment.
He then gently touched Charlize's shoulder.
"It's over. We're going home."
Just those few simple words — and the light touch — snapped something inside her.
Charlize threw herself into Henry's arms and began to sob softly.
No outsider could understand how terrifying that studio had been for a young girl alone in a foreign country.
Her seductive expression before the camera had been nothing but a mask over raw fear.
She had reached for help from another stranger—Henry.
When the answering machine picked up, she wasn't sure whether she felt despair or relief.
But in the end, he came.
Like a knight on a white horse.
Charlize's mind was a complete blur now.
All she could feel was the strong heartbeat in her ear — steady, warm, overwhelming.
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