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Henry didn't exactly look homeless, but he also wasn't dressed like someone expecting red carpet treatment. His jacket was decent, the beard clean-shaven courtesy of a quick heat vision trim, but his hair? Wild, unkempt, like a man who'd fought a windstorm and lost.
The old backpack on his shoulder didn't help matters.
Well… at least it looked full. If it'd been flat and empty, he might've looked more like someone planning to rob the place than open an account.
As expected, none of the bank tellers at Citibank rushed over to greet him. That was fine. He walked straight to the info counter and asked plainly, "Hi. I'd like to open an account. What's the process?"
He was quickly directed to a consultation cubicle, where a sharply dressed Black man in a too-tight suit and an expression that screamed I-don't-get-paid-enough-for-this waited behind a desk.
"Good afternoon, sir. How can I assist you today?" the banker asked, with the kind of customer service tone that tried a little too hard to mask the disdain underneath. He had the air of someone eager to distinguish himself from the background he thought Henry belonged to.
Henry didn't care. He dropped the backpack onto the desk and unzipped it.
Inside were stacks of cash. Neatly bundled, banded, and resting like a miniature treasure hoard.
"Open an account. Deposit this. Thanks."
The banker's smile faltered.
"We don't accept unverified cash deposits," he said flatly, eyes narrowing. "Especially not of this... nature."
Henry wasn't surprised. In a country like America—where laundering dirty money was a national sport—banks had to be cautious. Sometimes they took the money, smiled, and then froze the account the next day with a shiny little court order.
"No problem," Henry said, reaching into his jacket. "Here's my paperwork."
He laid it out calmly: proof of employment on an Alaskan crabbing boat, pay stubs, a scanned copy of the original check, a letter of verification from the issuing bank, and finally, a legitimate-looking Social Security card.
The banker took the documents, brows lifting ever so slightly as he read through them.
Then he noticed something else: the money wasn't just thrown together. It was banded with an Alaskan bank's seal. Not street cash. It either came from a bank—or from robbing one.
Still, his tone softened.
"How much are you looking to deposit today, sir? And what kind of account are you opening? Would you like to hear about our investment portfolio options?"
The sales pitch was automatic. He probably saw dollar signs in his head. Hell, with a commission-based bonus system, who could blame him?
Henry didn't hesitate.
"$290,000. Open a checking account with $20,000. The rest goes into savings. I want a checkbook and a credit card application. That's it."
The man blinked, then nodded, already reaching for forms.
"Of course. We'll need to make copies of your documents, if that's alright?"
As the banker disappeared with the paperwork, a colleague wheeled over a bill counter—equipped with counterfeit detection, naturally—and began counting the cash. It took time. But no alarms were raised. No surprise fakes. No drama.
Henry didn't expect any. He wasn't here to make a scene. He was just a guy with some money and a Kryptonian tolerance for bureaucracy.
The account itself was free to open, as long as the minimum deposit was met—and Henry more than met it. The checkbook and credit card required fees, of course, but he had a few thousand in walk-around cash and made the payments easily.
His method of paying, though—digging into every pocket, pulling out random bills like a disheveled magician—earned him a few long-suffering sighs from the banker.
Keep pretending, Henry thought with a smirk. You don't know the half of it.
Once the final form was signed and the debit card handed over, Henry stepped out into the sunlit L.A. street, stomach rumbling.
The credit card would take a couple weeks to process—assuming the bank's background checks went smoothly. Since he didn't have a fixed address yet, the banker had told him to come back in two weeks to check on it in person.
And no—just because he'd deposited a small fortune didn't mean the bank was going to bend over backward for him.
This was America, after all. And two hundred-ninety grand in cash might raise eyebrows, but it didn't open doors. Not unless you were already someone—or knew someone.
Still, walking out of that bank, Henry felt something strange stir in his chest.
Like another tether had been tied between him and this new world. A sign that he wasn't just drifting through it anymore—he was settling in. For better or worse.
The past twenty years of his existence were a blur of isolation and silence. Sometimes, it was easy to forget he was human at all. He had no one. No roots. No purpose.
Sure, he could've turned bitter. Could've gone full supervillain and nuked a city just to watch the world burn.
But what was the point?
He'd been a nobody before he crossed into this universe, and he was still a nobody now—just one with heat vision and bulletproof skin. He wasn't born to rule. He didn't want to rule.
He just wanted a life.
Maybe that was why he'd spent so much time in Alaska binging old movies—classics that existed in both worlds. Trying to find fragments of his old self hidden between film grain and end credits.
Even in the middle of Bering Sea storms, that sense of unreality never fully left him. The cold didn't bite. The waves didn't shake him. The crab traps may as well have been made of foam.
Like a max-level character stomping through a beginner's dungeon. Too strong. Too numb.
Part of him had wanted to stay at sea forever—if the captains had allowed it, he might've spent every crab season out there. A machine in a man's shape.
But then came Los Angeles.
Here, the cheat codes didn't mean anything. Being bulletproof didn't help you land a role. Having x-ray vision didn't get you a meeting with a casting director. Kryptonian muscle wasn't worth jack in an audition room.
He was really starting from scratch now.
He briefly wondered—Should I pivot? Use my powers more directly?
God, why did that idea keep circling back?
Honestly, the thought of being a superhero had never appealed to him. Too much responsibility. Too much misery. Look at every caped crusader on screen—trauma, guilt, dead parents, existential dread.
He didn't have some noble dream of self-sacrifice. He wasn't a martyr. He was just a guy trying to get by. If someone else wanted to play hero, they could knock themselves out.
Let Spider-Man swing through New York. Let Cap punch Nazis. Henry just wanted to sleep in, eat real food, and not get shot at—unless it was funny.
Unless the Marvel universe completely went to hell and he was forced out of his laid-back lifestyle… he wasn't changing a damn thing.
If being lazy was a crime, he was guilty as hell—and proud of it.
Standing on the sidewalk, feeling the warmth of the midday sun on his skin, Henry took a deep breath. Smoggy, yes, but it was his smog now.
Los Angeles. Phase two.
His new life had officially begun.
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Loving the story so far? Want more chapters? Drop a Power Stone to show your support! A quick review would mean the world too.Thanks, everyone! ❤️
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