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Henry — the Tinkerer — had his own way of saving people.
To call it "unconventional" would be putting it kindly. To call it what it really was — reckless disregard for human life — would be closer to the truth.
Anyone watching him work would probably be shaking with rage… or terror.
Removing a bullet from someone's abdomen? For a man with Kryptonian X-ray vision, that was child's play.
Most surgeons either had to cut the wound wider to get a better view, or grope blindly inside the patient's body, praying to find the slug before the victim bled out.
Either way, it usually caused even worse damage. Plenty of people had died from the treatment rather than the wound.
But Henry? He didn't miss. The tweezers went in — click — and the bullet came out. Smooth, precise, like it was nothing. Anyone who saw it would've been impressed.
The real problem was the internal bleeding.
If it was minor, he could just stitch up the surface and let the body handle the rest. But if it was serious — like in Derek's friend's case — he had to stop the bleeding first. Otherwise, the guy wouldn't live long enough for the stitches to matter.
Henry's method of stopping the bleeding wasn't just wild — it was horrifying.
He pulled from his bag… a soldering iron. Plugged it in, waited for the tip to glow red.
At first Derek didn't even understand what it was for — until Henry plucked the bullet out and, without hesitation, pressed the burning tip into the open wound.
The smell of scorched flesh filled the room.
Derek nearly drew his gun and shot him on the spot.
His unconscious friend sure woke up — screaming, thrashing in agony.
Thankfully, the Tinkerer was faster. He slammed a hand onto the man's chest, pinning him to the bed before he could move, keeping the red-hot iron steady so it didn't tear through anything vital.
Moments later, the patient passed out again — and Henry calmly pulled the soldering iron free. Blood still clung to the tip, some of it blackened and burned to crust.
Then he stitched, disinfected, and bandaged.
In all honesty, the speed and precision of his work were the best Derek had ever seen.
But the method? Using a soldering gun as a cauterizer? That had fried Derek's brain. He stood there in shock long after the operation was over.
It wasn't until Henry peeled off his gloves, tossed them in the sink, and began rinsing his hands that Derek came back to himself — furious. He whipped out his pistol and shouted:
> "What the hell did you just do to him?!"
> "Saved him," the Tinkerer said calmly, not even turning around. "What else?"
> "That thing—" Derek pointed at the soldering iron now lying unplugged on the desk. "—that's medical equipment?"
> "It works, doesn't it?" Henry shot back, drying his hands with some random rag. "If it saves a life, who cares what it's meant for?"
Derek's hand trembled as he aimed the gun.
> "This thing you're waving around," Henry said evenly, glancing at the pistol, "won't do you any good. Put it away."
> "Shut up! Shut up!" Derek snapped, voice cracking. Adrenaline flooded his system. "Give me your money. All of it!"
Henry frowned.
> "Now that's not fair. My prices are already way cheaper than a hospital's. I didn't cheat you, and I just saved your buddy. You're really gonna rob me?"
> "You don't need a reason to rob someone!" Derek barked, emboldened by the weapon in his hand. "I've got the gun. That's reason enough!"
The Tinkerer sighed, pulled the five hundred bucks he'd just been paid from his pocket, and laid it on the table. Hands up, he stepped back a few paces.
> "That's all I've got," he said. "Yours."
But Derek didn't believe him.
He stepped closer, eyes scanning the room, then snatched up Henry's leather medical bag, dumping its contents across the table.
Clatter, clang. Gauze, bandages, tweezers, tape — nothing of value, just the tools of a street doctor.
Frustrated, Derek raised the gun again and moved in to frisk him.
> "Don't move," he warned. "You stay still, and I won't hurt you."
Henry didn't move. He just muttered something under his breath.
> "What?" Derek leaned in, ear tilted toward him. "What did you say?"
And that was when Henry struck.
In one motion, he snatched Derek's gun hand, twisted it inward and down, and formed his other hand into a tight fist-like cylinder, pressing it against the gun's muzzle like a makeshift silencer.
Derek had just enough time to realize something was wrong — and then bang!
The gun went off.
The bullet, slowed slightly by Henry's improvised grip, didn't pass through. It slammed into Derek's own abdomen — and stayed there.
Anyone who'd compared the wound later would've noticed: it was identical to the one his friend had arrived with.
Before Derek could even scream, Henry's free hand snapped up, pressing against the artery in his neck. The sudden lack of blood flow to the brain made the young man's eyes roll back. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
Henry let go, shaking his hand with a faint scowl.
> "Seriously? That's all you've got?"
Then, with an almost bored expression, he picked up the phone and dialed 911.
> "There's been a shooting," he said. "One male, critical condition."
He gave them the address — not of his clinic, of course, but a nearby street corner with no security cameras in sight.
Before the operator could even finish confirming the details, Henry hung up.
A blur of superhuman speed later, Derek's unconscious body was lying exactly where he'd said. By the time the paramedics arrived, the Tinkerer was back in his clinic, cleaning up.
His patient — the first one — still slept soundly on the bed, face much calmer now.
Henry left a handwritten note:
> "When you wake up, leave. Lock up behind you."
Then he tidied the place, washing, scrubbing, disinfecting.
The clinic looked filthy — but in truth, it was cleaner than it seemed. Most of his tools were old hospital throwaways, sterilized and reused, perfectly functional.
And thanks to his Kryptonian speed, the entire cleanup took only an instant.
Just as he finished, Henry heard the wail of sirens outside. The ambulance had arrived right where he'd dropped the would-be robber.
He allowed himself a crooked smile.
> "See? I am a good person," he said lightly.
"Between the ambulance bill and the ER fees, he'll only owe a few grand. If he's wanted, the cops will make sure he survives anyway."
"Either way — the guy lives. Not bad for a stray mutt who tried to bite me."
He glanced toward the window, amused.
> "From a certain point of view," he murmured, "maybe I do have the makings of a superhero."
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