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Henry didn't have to wait long. Whatever meeting Tom was having inside his office wrapped up soon after Henry arrived.
Granted, they might've already been deep in conversation when Henry walked in, but from what little his delayed super-hearing caught, he only managed to catch a phrase like "...just find the target quickly."
If he really wanted to, Henry could've mentally rewound the ambient sound from memory—analyzed the vibrations stored subconsciously, processed them through his superbrain, and reconstructed the entire conversation word for word.
But honestly? He just didn't care that much.
He wasn't here to play secret agent. Sure, gossip was human nature—but unless it involved sex scandals or celebrity meltdowns, it wasn't worth tuning in. Two guys talking shady business? Boring.
A moment later, the office door opened and two men stepped out. They didn't linger. Just a curt nod to Tom and then straight toward the exit.
Henry didn't try to look busy, nor did he make it obvious he was watching. Like any normal guy sitting in a waiting room, he glanced up when he heard movement, then casually returned to his magazine.
Still, he noticed the looks.
Both men had sour expressions, like the world owed them a refund. As they passed him, one of them stared a little too long—trying, perhaps, to burn Henry's face into memory, make a connection.
Henry didn't return the stare, but his senses clocked everything.
Especially the creepy part.
The guy's eyelid flicked open vertically—like a bird's nictitating membrane. It blinked sideways, just once.
Henry didn't flinch, but internally?
Okay… another mutant. Cool. What is this world, an X-Gene convention?
As the two strangers exited, Tom's familiar voice rang out from behind the office door.
"Hey, Henry. About damn time you showed up. Get in here."
He set the magazine aside and walked in.
Tom was clearing two empty glasses off the desk. He handed Henry a steaming mug of coffee and gestured for him to sit.
Henry didn't bother checking if the chair was still warm from the last guy. This wasn't a five-star lobby. Nobody cared about details like that—except maybe Henry, who still carried a few neat-freak habits from his past life.
Tom reached into a drawer, pulled out a thick, worn-looking manila envelope, and slid it across the desk.
"Here. Everything's in there. Check it over. If anything looks off, speak up."
Henry emptied the contents across the desk.
There were documents—lots of them. Some of them he recognized. The passport, for instance, looked familiar enough. It had the same format he remembered from his old life, just a different color scheme.
But the rest? He recognized the letters, sure. But the actual function of each document?
Tom smirked at Henry's obvious confusion and began sorting them into neat stacks, explaining as he went.
"You recognize the passport. Good. This here's your Social Security card and supporting documents. That birth certificate makes you a full-blooded American citizen. Congrats."
He pointed to another form. "And this is the fun part—taxes. You've got a legal identity now, which means the government expects its cut. You'll want to hire a CPA. Someone who'll tell you how much you owe and how not to end up bankrupt."
Tom took a sip from his own coffee before continuing. "Don't blow all your cash. IRS agents are scarier than the FBI. They won't shoot you—but they'll bleed you dry and sell your bones to make up the difference."
Henry raised a brow but kept listening.
"This stack's your work permits and employment history. I figured you cashed your check directly, so I had George write you a proof-of-income statement. Next time, make a copy before you cash anything. You'll need it when tax season rolls around."
He pointed to a laminated card. "That's your driver's license. Plate transfer and registration are here too. All squared away. It's legal—FBI-proof, even. So don't go robbing banks with it or anything."
Henry narrowed his eyes. "That's it? Just like that? Doesn't this feel a little... too easy?"
Tom shrugged. "Welcome to Alaska. This place, and a few other flyover hellholes—Hawaii, Saipan—are soft spots. Tourist traps might get more scrutiny, but up here? No one gives a damn."
"The federal government gives us incentives to keep these remote territories staffed. Paperwork is real. But enforcement? Sloppy at best."
He leaned forward. "The docs are legit, make no mistake. But if someone really wanted to dig—wanted to pick apart every line of data? Sure. They'd find something eventually. So maybe don't go flashing them around at Langley."
"Understood," Henry said, carefully organizing the documents back into the envelope.
Tom leaned back. "So, you planning to bring all this with you next time you head out with George?"
"Not a chance," Henry replied. "Already talked to him this morning. The Annie 21 won't be back for another two days. No work today. And I'd rather stick with George's crew than roll the dice on someone else."
Tom nodded approvingly. "Good call. Working for the right guy is more important than making a few extra bucks. Most kids don't get that."
"Yeah, well," Henry said, sipping his coffee, "it's only good advice if that 'right guy' isn't dangling future promises just to squeeze free labor. Loyalty doesn't pay the bills."
Tom laughed. "Exactly. At the end of the day, it's all about that sweet, stupid paper."
He paused, then added, "You free today? I've got a quick job for you. Real simple. In, out, little extra cash."
Henry tilted his head. "What kind of job?"
"Just go check on something. A quick drive out, have a look, report back. You can be back before dinner."
"Does this have anything to do with the two guys who just left?"
Tom raised an eyebrow. "Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn't."
Henry set his coffee down. "Then I'll pass. Call it a gut feeling—but getting tangled with guys who blink sideways doesn't sound like a great career move."
Tom didn't press the issue. He lifted both hands in surrender. "Fair enough. Your call."
Henry smirked. "Didn't realize you were moonlighting in the information business, Tom."
Tom chuckled. "Out here in the boonies, you do what you gotta do. Can't crab fish—I get seasick just thinking about it. If I didn't hustle , I'd be broke."
Henry shrugged. "You could always buy a boat. Hire someone you trust to run it."
Tom gave him a half-smile. "Kid, that game's deeper than it looks. Trust me—you're not ready for how dirty that water gets."
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