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Henry was on a mission—a culinary mission.
He rummaged through the "premium" supply shelf like a man with purpose, collecting ingredients that would make any high-end chef nod in approval: fresh butter lettuce, vibrant kale, thick-cut heirloom tomatoes, and a brick of aged Parsan he shaved down himself. Finally, he grabbed a massive, soft white bun—big enough to serve as a flotation device—sliced it cleanly in half, and laid it all out like he was about to perform a sacred ritual.
Big Al, watching from across the kitchen with a look of betrayal, choked on his own disbelief. "No. No, no, no, no! Tell you're not doing what I think you're doing."
Henry grinned. "Oh, I absolutely am."
"You're desecrating the ingredients, man! This is a hate cri against flavor!"
"I prefer to think of it as democratizing gourt. Look—protein, vegetables, dairy, carbs. It's basically a complete, balanced al. Ask any nutritionist."
Big Al looked like he was experiencing an existential crisis in real ti. "I an… technically, yes."
With zero sha, Henry stacked the burger like a mad architect—beef patty sizzling with juices, crisp greens, roasted tomato, molten Parsan—and finished with the pillowy bun. The whole thing looked like it belonged on a magazine cover titled 'Burgers for Billionaires.'
Lifting it up proudly, Henry said, "But isn't it weird? Stack all this gourt stuff into a burger and suddenly everyone calls it junk food. Why?"
Al opened his mouth to argue… and closed it again. He had no coback. His soul was conflicted.
And truth be told, part of him was already thinking about how to sneak this onto a private event nu as a limited-run novelty.
anwhile, Henry grabbed a pristine white ceramic plate, plated his masterpiece with all the grace of a Food Network star, and found a spot in the ss area. He didn't bother with a knife and fork. Burgers were ant to be eaten by hand, damn it. Still, sothing felt incomplete.
He looked at the lonely burger.
"…Fries? Nah. But you can't eat a burger like this without a soda. That's sacrilege."
With the solemnity of a somlier picking the perfect wine, Henry returned to the bar fridge and pulled out a can of Coca-Cola. Sure, there were other options—Pepsi, Fanta—but when it ca to pairing with artery-clogging joy, nothing beat Coke.
Al spotted the soda and grimaced like he'd just seen soone dip a croissant in ketchup.
"That's exactly why burgers get a bad rap! Pairing it with that is culinary blasphemy!"
Henry popped the can with a hiss, shrugged, and said, "Co on, it's just like pairing wine with French cuisine. The right drink makes the al. Don't look at like that."
Al crossed his arms. "Coke is not wine."
"It's… emotional wine."
"Coke is diabetic napalm."
"Not my problem. Kryptonian tabolism, rember? One sunbath and I'm back to factory settings."
Henry turned to head back to his table—only to stop dead.
His burger. His glorious, custom-built, handcrafted burger… was in soone else's hands.
And a quarter of it was already gone.
The guy munching on it looked way too pleased with himself.
"MOTHER—" Henry let out the most Arican of curses. "Are you outta your goddamn mind?! You just grabbed my food off the table and started chomping like so mangy raccoon?! What if I'd laced that thing with testosterone gel or poison, huh?! You'd be halfway to growing a second pair before you even noticed!"
The guy blinked. "Relax, I checked. No gardenia scent—definitely not a hormone binder. But there is rosemary. So whatever crap you're spewing is just to scare off."
He gave Henry a smug look, lifted the burger, and took another massive bite. Then moaned like he was doing a food comrcial in hell.
Henry detonated.
"THAT. WAS. MY. LUNCH!"
The guy licked his fingers and smirked. "Worth it."
For a mont, Henry's Kryptonian fists itched for action. Punching soone into the sun had never sounded so tempting. He'd spent weeks keeping a low profile, never showing off, never letting anyone even suspect he wasn't just another background extra. And now this... this jackass had awakened sothing primal.
Deep breath.
He narrowed his eyes. "You're not with the production team. I haven't seen your face around here before."
That jogged a mory. "Wait a second… weren't you with that dumbass from Caltech? The one who asked the director if the ship's radar was real? Don't tell this is what passes for top talent at a world-class university now."
The burger thief didn't react. He just kept chewing, one hand scooping up gooey strands of Parsan and slapping them back into the bun.
Henry stepped closer. "Let guess. You snuck into set to fanboy over soone? What's next, hiding in a laundry cart? I can have security boot your Ivy League ass off this ship before you finish that last bite."
The guy blinked and asked, with zero irony, "Wait. You seriously don't know who I am?"
Henry blinked back. "Oh, spare . You think you're green Franklin Roosevelt or sothing? Nobody gives a crap."
The rich kid looked wounded—like Henry had just slapped him with a gold-plated credit card. "I may not look like Franklin, but I've got enough Franklins to crush you like a soda can. You will rember this."
Henry scoffed. "Wow. Threatening soone with wealth. Original. Are you gonna rain money on until I drown? Will you tip to death?"
The guy shook his head, puffing up his chest.
Henry smirked. "Exactly. You're not giving a cent, so why should I pretend to care? I don't owe you flattery, I don't owe you respect, and I sure as hell don't owe you my lunch."
He leaned in, voice low and cutting.
"You think because you're rich, I'm gonna treat you like so sugar daddy? Buddy, you've got the wrong actor. I don't dance for free."
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