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Chapter 74: The Late Arrivals
🕑 Added 2025-06-27 16:17:25 +0000 UTC
Henry couldn’t care less about the chubby kid throwing a tantrum by the pool. He casually exited the water via the metal steps on the other side.
Stripping off his soaked suit jacket, he slung it over one shoulder. With his free hand, he loosened his tie and walked toward the villa’s front door with all the style of someone who gave precisely zero f**ks.
The little fatty tried to cut him off.
“Motherfker! Go get my phone or I swear I’ll fire you!”**
“Oh, no need for that, sir. I quit. You can save the trouble of firing me and maybe go shop for a new phone while you’re at it.”
Honestly, considering the current price of electronics, Henry figured soaking that fancy little cell phone with his suit was a pretty fair trade—he came out ahead.
So instead of sticking around to argue, he simply shoved the spoiled kid out of the way. Gently, too. If he’d used even a fraction of his real strength, the guy would’ve pancaked against the nearest wall.
What was more amusing? The event staff—other greeters and bodyguards hired for the party—acted like they hadn’t seen a thing.
And that was probably standard protocol handed down by the event company: if conflict breaks out, don’t escalate—just disengage. As long as no one got hurt, everything could be smoothed over later. But if fists flew, that was a whole different legal beast.
Clearly, the party planners knew exactly what kind of trash they were dealing with. Probably had a whole chapter in the manual dedicated to “Rich Assholes: Handling with Care.” No one wanted to play bodyguard vs. billionaire drama every weekend.
Just as Henry reached the front drive, the gates parted to let in a gaudy red Ferrari, practically nose-to-nose with him.
The driver stepped out—it was none other than Tony Stark, one of Henry’s primary targets at this party. Tossing his keys in Henry’s direction, he said,
“Park it. Oh, it’s you.”
Recognized instantly, Henry tossed the keys right back.
“Which eye told you I was valet? You looking to replace your leather seats or something?”
“Well, you look like shit.”
Not an unfair observation. Henry’s soaked clothes were still dripping.
“Then you really shouldn’t be bossing around this pile of crap, or it’s gonna end up all over those nice Italian seats. Unless, of course, you want an excuse to upgrade—I’d be happy to help you decide.”
With that, Henry didn’t bother explaining himself.
These were all rich pricks anyway. If he’d already burned this bridge with Stark, then so be it.
If Hollywood didn’t work out, so what? He was a goddamn Kryptonian. It wasn’t like he could be taken out by hunger, bills, or bad press.
So he moved to walk around the flashy Ferrari and get the hell out of this circus of a villa.
But fate wasn’t done yet.
Just then, a car crashed through the half-closed gate and skidded to a stop, blocking off the Ferrari’s escape path.
Two armed men jumped out.
One of them pressed a pistol to Henry’s head.
“Nobody moves.”
The second gunman trained his sights on Tony Stark.
Henry had no desire to play hero. Sure, his Kryptonian body should be bulletproof… but he hadn’t tested it yet, and now wasn’t exactly the ideal time for a live experiment.
So he played along—hands raised, posture compliant.
“Where’s Josh Hilton?!” the guy holding Henry at gunpoint demanded.
“Who?” Henry replied innocently.
He had seen that name on the guest list earlier… but without a photo ID next to it, there was no way to link names to faces.
Oh, and while mentally flipping through that guest list, Henry also noticed that only one name started with "Justin"—Justin Hammer.
Wait—that Justin Hammer? The bumbling antagonist from Iron Man?
This one didn’t look anything like Sam Rockwell, or the balding 60-something from the comics. So much for matching people to faces. Henry sighed and glanced at Tony Stark, wondering if he could spot even a trace of Robert Downey Jr. in him.
And then he blinked—hard.
Tony Stark didn’t seem remotely bothered by the gun in his face. The guy had probably seen too many movies, or the gunman was just dumb enough to get within arm’s reach.
With a swift redirect, Stark deflected the weapon’s aim and knocked it from his attacker’s hands.
The guy holding Henry turned, ready to shoot his buddy’s opponent.
And that left Henry no choice.
He couldn’t let Stark get shot. And realistically, surrendering hadn’t earned him any mercy. These clowns weren’t interested in hostages—they just wanted bodies on the ground.
A single bullet could decide everything. These two might not be pros, but they had no hesitation about pulling the trigger.
So Henry struck.
Grabbing the gun’s barrel, he twisted it away and, with a measured punch, clocked the guy across the jaw. Hard enough to knock him out cold—but not fatal.
The attacker dropped like a sack of potatoes, and Henry caught the gun mid-fall.
Tony, meanwhile, was still in the middle of a sloppy brawl. Neither man had proper technique—it was just flailing fists and gritted teeth. The kind of messy scrap that made bystanders cringe.
This wasn’t a movie fight. It was just two dudes windmilling at each other, awkward and exhausting.
That said, Tony clearly had some boxing training. He landed a few decent punches, but the thug powered through, grabbing at him in desperation.
Without the raw strength to end things quickly, Stark was stuck in a clinch.
But even in the heat of the fight, Tony noticed Henry had finished his guy and now had a gun in hand.
“Fk! Don’t just stand there—shoot him!”** Tony shouted.
The attacker didn’t flinch. He was dead-set on subduing the young billionaire and didn’t even glance back.
Henry didn’t fire.
He raised the gun, faked a couple of tracking motions, and pretended he couldn’t get a clean shot with the two men grappling and moving so much.
