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Henry had just reached for the money when Lena's hand ca down on his wrist — fast as a whip.
Her grip was firm, tendons standing out against her smooth skin, but her face stayed perfectly composed — that familiar mix of polite detachnt and cool seduction.
> "Call ," she said through clenched teeth, still smiling.
Henry didn't flinch. Instead, he turned his hand, caught hers, and lifted it gently to his lips.
He kissed the little skull tattoo inked across her middle knuckle.
> "I will, sweetheart — when I get the chance," he murmured.
Then, with his other hand, he deftly scooped the cash off the tray, gave it a little shake, and started toward the door.
But just as he turned, another figure blocked his path.
> "Mrs. Fisher," Henry greeted respectfully.
Moonie Fisher — the hotel's manager.
She had a taste for vintage glamour, especially dresses that hugged her figure like she'd just stepped off a red carpet.
Today's choice was a deep-V, erald-green gown with a thigh-high slit. Any normal person — man or woman — would've blushed at the sight.
Her wavy red hair cascaded over one shoulder, half-obscuring her face, while her eyes shimred with practiced allure.
Those eyes swept over Henry like a cat watching a mouse, and her lips curved into a half-smile.
> "Mmhmm. Lena, Luna, Anya, Daria, Laura… and when it cos to , it's 'Mrs. Fisher'? Really?"
Jealous? Hardly.
Henry knew her type — she treated every man this way, weaponizing charm like it was an extension of her managent authority.
And with the hotel's clientele being mostly male contract killers, her style worked perfectly. Even the few female assassins under her command respected her — or feared her enough not to push back.
Henry, however, wasn't one to play along.
> "Different titles for different ranks," he said lightly. "And I'm allergic to authority, so all you'll ever get from is respect, not flattery. Anyway, I've got things to do. Adiós."
With a grin and so nimble footwork, he slipped past the human wall of Fisher's bodyguards before they could close in.
> "I heard," ca her voice behind him — smooth, commanding.
Henry stopped mid-stride.
> "I heard you perford a very difficult surgery recently… in that little dump you call a clinic."
Henry turned his head slightly, answering calmly:
> "There's no such thing as a 'difficult' surgery, ma'am. There's only the difference between finding the simplest, least-damaging thod — and not finding it.
> "Doctors who call sothing difficult usually just want to justify higher fees. If a hospital told you the operation was simple but still charged a hundred thousand dollars, would you pay?"
He spoke as if brushing off the very idea — downplaying it so as not to draw attention.
And truthfully, he didn't even know which operation she ant — the skull-base tumor removal he'd done on a child, or the hand reattachnt for a contract shooter.
To him, a Kryptonian, as long as he could locate the problem precisely, any surgery that could be solved with a scalpel wasn't much of a challenge.
The real difficulty ca afterward — managing dication and recovery. That part required flexibility, but there was always a pattern to follow.
Operating on children, however, was trickier.
Their organs were smaller, more delicate; there was less room to maneuver. Every incision and suture had to account for future growth.
A stitch too tight could cripple developnt. A misstep could kill.
Still, none of it was unsolvable. All he needed was research — dical journals, case reports, successful precedents. Others had done it before; he just needed to copy their solutions.
In dicine, no one hoarded success — every breakthrough was published for others to learn.
The real barrier was experience. That's why senior surgeons, those with thousands of hours in the operating room, were so revered.
Henry's gap wasn't in surgical skill — it was in diagnosis. Knowing exactly what to cut, and why.
Once the diagnosis was correct, surgery itself was… trivial.
During both of those procedures, Henry had cleared the room of bystanders and worked at superhuman speed.
Minimal bleeding. No transfusions.
To exaggerate slightly — by the ti a scalpel even touched the patient's skin, he was already done suturing.
If he sohow nicked an artery, he'd still have enough ti to light a cigarette before calmly tying it off.
He didn't need anesthesiologists, either. A bit of localized numbness, maybe — just enough to block pain. In his accelerated perception, the patient might as well be frozen in ti.
He'd even had to waste ti afterward, pretending the surgery had taken hours. Usually, he'd go back to his rented apartnt and code for a while before returning to announce the operation was "finally complete."
No one ever questioned it. Who could?
Fisher eyed him skeptically.
She didn't entirely believe his modest explanation — but she wasn't sure the other doctors were any more honest.
As he'd said, rchants inflate difficulty to raise prices. Sotis they even destroy excess stock to keep values high.
Why wouldn't doctors exaggerate surgical risks for the sa reason?
> "So," she asked again, "that operation was really that simple?"
> "First of all," Henry replied, "I don't even know which operation you an.
> "Second, do you really think I could perform a complex procedure in that rundown place you called a dump? Wouldn't that be hurting the patient, not helping them?"
Two rhetorical questions — enough to tip the balance in her mind.
It wasn't that Henry refused to tell the truth; he just knew no one would believe it anyway. People only ever hear what they want to hear.
But of course, Mrs. Fisher wasn't going to let him go that easily.
> "Then why not stay," she said smoothly, "and tell just how 'simple' your surgeries are?"
> "Ha! Simple enough — three steps. Cut it open, take it out, sew it up. Done." Henry smirked. "Now, if you'll excuse , ma'am, I really do have work to do."
And with that, he turned to leave — ignoring the hotel manager's growing frustration.
He hadn't gone more than a few steps, though, before sothing caught his ear — a new piece of information that made him stop cold.
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