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Compared to the black, heavyset senator still dressed in silk pajamas, Henry looked like a half-dead mutt being dragged across the floor — wearing the same wrinkled clothes from yesterday.
After all, he hadn't volunteered for this job, and certainly hadn't packed a change of clothes.
The two men in black suits who had carried him over now dumped him unceremoniously onto the ground in front of the senator. Henry let out a loud, exaggerated "Ouch!" as he hit the floor, as if genuinely in pain.
The fat senator stood over him, chin lifted in arrogant disdain, and said coldly,
> "Mutant, it's time for you to do your job. Protect me and make sure I get out of here safely."
Henry rolled over and sat up slowly. He reached into nowhere in particular and somehow produced a cigarette, lighting it with the deliberate slowness of a man performing a sacred ritual.
He took a long drag, exhaled a lazy stream of smoke, and said,
> "Senator, I'm afraid I'll have to decline. I didn't want this job from the very beginning — so why force a little nobody like me?"
"You—!" the senator choked on his words, then his face twisted with fury.
> "Do you have any idea what happens to people who defy me, you mutant?"
Henry widened his eyes in mock curiosity.
> "Oh? And what does happen?"
"If I die, you're coming with me!" the senator roared. Then, turning to his men, he bellowed,
> "Kill him! I'll handle the aftermath!"
No one knew where he'd found such a bunch of lunatics — but the moment he spoke, almost every one of his bodyguards drew their guns and opened fire.
A few of them hesitated, recognizing Henry from earlier, but they were too slow to stop the hail of bullets.
Henry fell backward under the barrage, rolling on the ground and howling like he was being torn apart. The shooters, hearing him scream, assumed they were finishing the job and kept firing until their magazines were empty.
The floor around him was left riddled with holes.
And then — instead of screams — came laughter.
Deep, booming, genuine laughter, rising from Henry's chest like a dark, mocking song.
That sound made the shooters' faces go pale. It finally hit them why their boss had gone to such lengths to capture this man in the first place.
The fat senator's expression was priceless — a mix of shock and disbelief, almost cartoonish in its exaggeration.
And then, as if nothing had just happened, he suddenly changed his tone.
> "I'll give you one million dollars! Just get me out of here alive!"
Henry smirked, blowing another puff of smoke.
> "Oh, Senator… I'm afraid I can't do that. My whole body hurts right now — probably some fractures, muscle tears, a few broken nails… oh, and I think I've got split ends too.
"If anyone shoots me again, I might really die this time. So keep that million for your funeral. Maybe you can afford a bishop to lead the ceremony. Ahh, I'm dying… I'm dying! Hahaha!"
He couldn't even keep a straight face anymore — the act cracked halfway through, and he broke into genuine laughter, rolling on the floor.
The senator's face turned purple with rage.
> "F**k! You're dead! You're so dead! I know the military's still doing mutant experiments — you think you're untouchable just because bullets don't hurt you—"
Gunfire erupted again — but not from his own men this time.
This was exactly what Henry had been waiting for. He'd been dragging out the conversation on purpose, stalling for time until the real shooters arrived.
He didn't need to dirty his hands, didn't need to expose any more of his powers. All he had to do was play dead and let someone else take out the trash.
The senator had made himself a target long ago — Henry was just giving fate a little push.
The intruders were professionals — silent, efficient, and perfectly coordinated. While everyone inside had their attention on Henry, the strike team had quietly fanned out, surrounding the senator's position from every advantageous angle.
By the time they moved, it was already too late.
Their first volley cut down several of the senator's men immediately. And thanks to Henry's earlier "performance," most of the bodyguards had already emptied their clips shooting him.
The fat senator, somehow, was still miraculously unharmed — not because of any skill, but pure dumb luck.
In the dim lighting of the room, with only faint shadows to go by, no one could tell friend from foe — or where the senator even was.
Seeing that they were surrounded, the surviving aides finally seemed to regain their intelligence. Those who still had bullets didn't bother firing back — they just grabbed their boss and bolted for the exit.
The wounded were left behind without a second glance. Even Henry, sprawled theatrically on the floor, was completely ignored.
At last, they'd realized what a terrible idea it had been to drag him along in the first place.
He was useless as a shield, and a massive liability besides. Carrying him slowed them down, he talked too much, and he couldn't even be killed — who the hell had thought bringing him was a good idea?
Henry sat up slowly, brushing imaginary dust off his clothes, watching the panicked retreat with a faint, mocking smile.
He'd met plenty of powerful men before — real old-money elites with more power and wealth than this clown of a politician. They'd all offered him lucrative deals, and when he turned them down, they'd simply nodded, smiled, and moved on.
Were they more polite? More civilized?
Of course not. They were just smarter.
They understood something simple — a man who doesn't want to block bullets is less reliable than a bulletproof briefcase.
If you want someone by your side, someone who'll see your private affairs and guard your life, trust is everything.
And trust can't be built on threats.
If you try to coerce someone like Henry, you're just asking to have your life blown apart when things get rough.
Any sane person could see that. That was why, back when he'd applied to be Audrey Hepburn's assistant and bodyguard, Henry had chosen to reveal only one of his powers — the steel body.
It was a purely defensive ability, harmless to others — and it required his consent to be useful.
Money couldn't buy that. Threats couldn't force it.
And since no one could use his loved ones against him — no parents, no wife, no kids, no girlfriend — there was no leverage to exploit.
Some had thought Hepburn might've been his weakness once. But she was gone now.
What were they going to do — dig her up and hold the corpse hostage?
So tonight, Henry had stayed behind for one reason only: to send a very clear message to everyone watching from the shadows.
> "I don't care how big the world is — if I'm not in the mood, that's the biggest law of all."
A lazy fish can flip itself over only if it wants to.
And if it doesn't — well, even if you come at it with a frying spatula, it'll still lie there and do absolutely nothing.
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