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The reason Henry considered the production department's work unimportant was simple: it wasn't daily work. Moreover, it wasn't the core focus of Stark Pictures, so there was no urgency to deal with it.
Even after accumulating for an entire week, the stack of proposal documents on his desk wasn't very thick.
Originally, Henry planned to clear them all in one go today—but the home-guard unit BB suddenly emitted a high-frequency alarm, warning him that a very important uninvited guest had arrived.
Although he secretly felt a flicker of delight, Henry still put on an unwilling expression, informed the secretary in his small office, and left work early.
As a side note, the black, chubby girl who had guided Henry around and introduced the company when he first arrived at Stark Pictures—Yulian Williams—was now the executive secretary of Stark Pictures.
That said, she mostly handled trivial tasks like answering calls, arranging schedules, and recording messages. She was nothing like the kind of secretary who wielded influence over her boss. Henry didn't need anyone to filter documents or summarize reports for him.
Since he judged that things at home weren't urgent enough to warrant using super speed, Henry chose to drive back instead.
As he drove, he pondered what he might have gotten himself into this time. Otherwise, why would that girl show up again—ignoring Katie's intimidation and barging straight into his home?
It wasn't rush hour, so traffic was light. Henry returned to his rented place fairly quickly.
Because it was late autumn and the fiercest afternoon sunlight had already passed, Old Gary wasn't keeping watch on the street. He had retreated indoors.
California autumns weren't winter-cold yet, but without warm sunlight, a gust of cold wind was more than enough to make someone catch a chill.
It was probably because Old Gary wasn't on duty that outsiders could slip into the building so easily.
Or perhaps, thanks to their superficial acquaintance, even if Old Gary had seen someone enter, he might've pretended not to notice.
Either way, Henry unlocked his door and stepped inside.
Katie was crouched beside an unconscious woman lying on the floor, as if the tiger were struggling with a profound question: Could this thing be considered a snack?
The woman in a professional business suit was none other than Barbara Morse, the woman Henry had cut ties with after their falling-out in the middle of last year—future S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent No. 19, codename Mockingbird.
The reason she'd collapsed in Henry's home was obvious. Her entire body was riddled with injuries, soaked in sweat, and she clearly looked completely exhausted.
Being hunted?
Should I just toss her back out onto the street?
Henry struggled internally for less than three seconds.
Then he let out a heavy sigh and compromised once again.
At the very least, she was someone he knew. Even if their past interactions had been purposeful, she had never shown overt hostility.
Henry carried her to the couch, retrieved his home first-aid kit, and began treating Barbara's wounds.
With over a year of experience playing an underground doctor, injuries of this non-lethal level didn't faze him at all.
Without needing to strip her naked, Henry took care of the bleeding wounds. Any bullets lodged in her body were removed—he wasn't about to leave them in as souvenirs.
What needed stitching was stitched. What needed bandages got bandaged. Large wounds left unsutured would naturally heal—but they'd leave scars.
Henry didn't know how Barbara felt about scars on her body, but he decided to handle it properly anyway. After that, he wiped away whatever bloodstains he could. The rest? He left them alone.
Henry had no intention of taking advantage of her—especially not a female agent. Doing that would be like voluntarily handing leverage over to her.
As expected, Barbara's injuries weren't serious. While Henry was wiping the grime off her face, the cool towel woke her up.
The moment she opened her eyes, she saw a tiger head licking its lips right in front of her.
"Walter!"
Startled, Barbara shot upright and scrambled backward as far as she could! Her mind screamed that the cold sensation earlier might've been the prelude to the tiger chewing on her head.
Henry promptly shoved the tiger's head aside, stepping into her line of sight.
Perhaps the scene was too shocking, and perhaps there were too many things that made no sense. It took Barbara a moment to process the situation.
She looked at Henry. Then at the tiger.
Only then did she give a helpless, bitter smile and greet them both:
"Hello, Katie. Hello, Henry."
Henry's expression was relatively mild, but there was no warmth in his tone.
"Girl, what happened to you? How did you get shot several times? Did you go somewhere a good girl shouldn't, piss off a bunch of uncles, and get biubiubiu shot at?"
With her rational mind fully back online, Barbara suddenly grabbed Henry by the collar and said anxiously,
"Run—now. Someone's coming to kill you."
"Whoa, calm down." Henry raised a hand. "Take a deep breath first, then explain slowly. First question: who wants to kill me? Second: how do you know? And does this have anything to do with your injuries?"
Her emotions were running too high. Combined with the sudden movement tugging at her wounds, Barbara clutched her abdomen—the most severely injured spot.
Following Henry's instructions, she took several deep breaths and glanced down at herself.
Henry added, "I've already treated your injuries. If you're worried, you'll need to go to a hospital for a tetanus shot."
"It's S.H.I.E.L.D.—the organization I was supposed to join. I'm still an intern. I received an emergency assembly order from my superior. They instructed us to form a strike team. The target was you, Henry Brown. Orders were to shoot to kill. No survivors."
"Shoot to kill?" Henry looked genuinely puzzled.
"Yes. Shoot… to kill?" Barbara repeated it, but her confidence wavered by the end of the sentence.
Henry asked, "I'm not familiar with your… 'bureau.' Let me ask one thing. Do they have my file? Why target me?"
"I saw your file through another superior. My clearance level isn't high enough to access it myself. As for the reason—they didn't say. They only claimed you were an extremely dangerous criminal and told us not to hold back."
The stench of conspiracy was so thick it practically suffocated Henry.
S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't have my bulletproof profile?
Then what exactly are they relying on to 'shoot me to death'? Anti-mutant gear? Or… are they just sending people to die?
"Did your team prepare any special equipment to deal with me?" Henry asked.
Barbara shook her head, her expression grim. She had clearly realized the same problem.
In S.H.I.E.L.D.'s upper echelons, Henry Brown's abilities as a mutant weren't some top-secret mystery. Yet the strike team had made no preparations whatsoever. What kind of operation was this supposed to be?
"And you?" Henry continued. "How did you end up getting shot by your own people?"
Barbara blushed, clearly unable to understand why she'd acted so impulsively back then.
She awkwardly circled her index fingers together, uneasily explaining:
"I said I was just an intern and hadn't passed field operation assessments yet—that I wasn't qualified to join a strike team. And the order itself was far too vague. They kept emphasizing how 'evil' you were but gave no concrete evidence.
"So I refused to accept the order and wanted another superior to review it. Before I could find anyone else, someone shot me in the back. I managed to escape after that."
Henry stared at her with a strange expression.
"This is the organization you wanted to join? What was your original reason, anyway? Don't tell me it was something like justice and peace."
"Stop…" Barbara covered her face, utterly dejected. "I regret it now. I'd rather go back to school and do academic research with my professor."
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