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Strictly speaking, the black clinic didn't have a back door.
What most of the injured visitors mistook for one was actually a small storeroom — no windows, just bare shelves and a single cot.
Henry, the so-called Tinkerer, had originally planned it as one of several escape routes — a rabbit hole for emergencies — though he hadn't yet needed to use it.
On the other side of its wall ran a narrow internal passage connecting parts of the old apartment building. Few tenants lived there, so the corridor stayed quiet and empty.
That was the spot where the Tinkerer used his Kryptonian speed and molecular-phase trick — phasing straight through the wall — to make it look as if he were stepping out from inside the clinic.
So when he opened the "door" this time and saw who was ringing the bell at the fake storefront, his expression instantly soured.
"You're not hurt," he said flatly. "Get lost."
He was already pushing the door shut when the visitor barked,
"Wait!"
The guy was wearing a cheap suit — half-tucked shirt, jacket hanging open, and tattoos peeking from his neck and wrists. Everything about him screamed "thug pretending to be respectable."
He grabbed the Tinkerer's hand to stop the door. "Our boss wants to see you."
Henry arched a brow. "You know this place is under Big Ol' O's protection, right?" — referring to his landlord, a local black boss with some muscle.
The white punk gave a nasty grin. "Big Ol' O wouldn't dare cross our boss. You think dropping his name means anything?"
Henry gave his hand an experimental tug — the guy's grip was solid. He sighed, expression dripping with annoyance.
"So what, you won't even let me grab my tools first? Planning to have me patch someone up with a kitchen knife and a sewing needle? Or maybe you're not actually looking for a doctor?"
The thug snickered but still threw in a warning. "Doc, don't try to run. You can't run from us. Got it?"
That line made Henry curious.
Did this guy even know he was talking to a Continental Hotel service provider? Or maybe the Continental didn't give a damn if one of their subcontractors vanished?
Thinking it through, he had to admit that made sense. His relationship with the Continental wasn't one of loyalty — more like an outsourced contractor. A freelancer.
If someone strong enough picked a fight over him, the Hotel wasn't going to start a war for some guy who wasn't even a "made man."
That thought made Henry even more curious about who this "boss" really was. Was he some clueless street punk with delusions of grandeur, or a real player?
Either way, he wanted to see.
He grabbed his old flea-market doctor's case — full of basic tools and medicine — and followed the thug out.
Before leaving, he made sure to take down the call bell, leaving a note that read:
> "Out on a house call."
That way, anyone who came knocking wouldn't wait forever.
Once everything was set, he followed the thug to the street corner — where a Rolls-Royce awaited.
Not the top model, though — a low-end configuration of the luxury brand.
That alone said a lot: the owner was clearly rich, but not powerful.
Still, a Rolls was a Rolls. The moment Henry sat down, he could tell the difference.
It wasn't about luxury branding or the hand-painted coach line on the body. It was the seat — the angle, the leather, the subtle firmness of the cushion — everything screamed real craftsmanship.
There was no strange lingering odor either. Once the door shut, the cabin became its own world — the air outside sealed away with all its smog and stench.
European luxury cars like this had stiff suspension — a far cry from the soft, bouncy ride of American models.
Driving his own Cadillac felt like sitting on a half-deflated waterbed; hit a rough patch of road and you started questioning the meaning of life.
But this Rolls didn't take him to a Beverly Hills mansion or anything like that.
Instead, it rolled deep into an industrial district — past warehouses, around corners — and finally stopped at what looked like an abandoned factory.
The sight was jarring.
It was like seeing a man with slicked-back hair and a perfect suit — but wearing floral shorts, hairy legs out, and beach sandals.
You'd want to mock him, but wouldn't know where to start.
Inside, the factory was mostly grimy and empty. Except for one section — lavishly decorated like a designer showroom.
There were art-grade standing lamps, Rococo-style armchairs, and a single antique coffee table.
Oil paintings stood lined up on easels instead of walls, and an ornate Persian carpet defined the space.
Even a grand piano stood in the corner — and a woman in an evening gown sat before it, playing soft, elegant music that filled the air like perfume.
It was all utterly out of place, like a pocket of luxury carved out of filth.
There, finally, Henry met the man who had summoned him:
a fat old white man in a bright red silk robe, lounging with two stunning women — one dark-haired, one blonde — draped over his arms.
With that huge body and smug demeanor, if this were New York, Henry might've mistaken him for Kingpin from the Marvel universe.
But this guy lacked taste. He mashed elegance and vulgarity together like some Frankenstein of aesthetics.
Under Henry's X-ray vision, all that bulk wasn't muscle — just fat. So definitely not the crime lord who could punch out Spider-Man.
"Tinkerer, right?" the fat man asked, lighting a cigar with a girl's help.
Henry, without waiting to be offered one, snipped a cigar of his own and lit it.
The man watched patiently as Henry took a long draw and exhaled a thick cloud before speaking.
Henry smiled faintly.
"What if I said I wasn't the Tinkerer? Would you punish your boys for bringing the wrong man?"
Now that was a self-verifying trap of a question — one designed to confuse the small-minded and self-important.
But the fat man wasn't stupid. He could think outside the box. Unfortunately, Henry's insolent tone still irked him.
"If you're not," the man said coolly, "I'll have my boys beat you until you admit you are — or until you tell me where the real one is."
Henry gave a shrug.
"Alright then. Let's save time. I am the Tinkerer. So — what do you want from me?"
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