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Just as Henry had guessed, Senator Michael Liddell Horton was knee-deep in trouble — and what he really needed wasn't an aide, but a human shield.

Apparently, word about Henry's abilities had already reached the ears of certain higher-ups. That much wasn't surprising — he had shown off in front of financial titan Alex Hart, after all.

During his time with Audrey Hepburn, plenty of well-connected people had sent offers his way too, but Henry never agreed to any of them. Those people, at least, knew where the line was — they didn't dare use force. They understood what kind of danger it might invite.

Only this senator didn't get the memo. Maybe he'd been pushed to desperation, which was why he resorted to this kind of underhanded "invitation."

As for the salary — eighty thousand dollars a year sounded impressive, almost double the national average at the time.

But when Henry had been Hepburn's assistant, he'd made a clean hundred grand after taxes. The lady had been far more generous.

So regardless of the pay, Henry wanted nothing to do with this job. It wasn't about money — it was about principle.

Sure, he could smash his way out right now if he wanted, but instead he decided to stick around and watch the show.

One, if he forced his way out, he might reveal more of his powers — which could cause bigger problems later. And two, this was a good chance to teach these people a little lesson:

"Doesn't matter how big the sky or earth is — when I say I'm not in the mood, that's final."

He didn't yet know what kind of mess the senator was in, but his enhanced senses made eavesdropping easy. Even confined to the aides' lounge, Henry could hear and see everything happening throughout the mansion.

Everyone was tense — nerves on edge, ready to spring at the slightest noise. It was like they expected an attack at any moment.

At least the lounge wasn't too bad. There was food, water, a bathroom, even a bed. So Henry just made himself comfortable. He ate when he was hungry, drank when he was thirsty, and napped when he felt like it — ignoring the guards who hovered over him.

Eventually, a phone call gave him the missing piece: the whole situation traced back to last year's Los Angeles riots.

Turns out, this big-bellied senator had been quietly backing certain Black activist groups — and even after the protests turned violent, he went on TV to fan the flames nationwide, hoping to ride the chaos into higher office.

Even after the riots were crushed, he kept funding and encouraging smaller factions, keeping tensions alive instead of letting them die down.

That stance had finally pissed off the wrong people. The latest phone call wasn't a warning — it was a final ultimatum.

Could the senator back down now? He knew better than anyone that he'd already burned his bridges. If he tried to retreat, the same people he once supported would push him off the cliff themselves.

So he had no choice but to double down. Either he'd survive this gamble and climb higher — or he'd die a martyr, like Martin Luther King Jr. Better that, he figured, than live as a traitor despised by all.

Henry, for his part, didn't think the people on the other end of the line were "the good guys" either. It was just dogs fighting over the same bone — and he had no intention of getting involved.

This had nothing to do with him. So, full and relaxed, Henry went right back to sleep.

Honestly, this "soft detention" was a lot more comfortable than being locked up in Siberia had been.

Unfortunately, the peace didn't last long.

Late that very night, the sound of gunfire shattered the calm like a stone thrown into still water — ripples of panic spreading instantly through the house.

The aides in the lounge jumped to their feet, grabbing the suit jackets that hung beside their beds as they bolted for the door. They were all armed — none of them had even changed into pajamas. Clearly, they'd been sleeping ready for war.

Henry, however, stayed sprawled on his bed, utterly unmoved by the chaos outside.

"Kid! Get up — it's your time to shine!" one of them shouted, shaking him by the shoulder in a panic.

Henry's response was a perfectly upright middle finger — strong, steady, defiant. Then he pulled the blanket back over his head and continued pretending to sleep.

A furious click echoed as someone pressed the barrel of a gun against his head.

"You don't get up right now," the man hissed, "and you'll be sleeping here forever."

Henry slowly peeled the blanket down, squinting blearily at his would-be executioner.

"F**king idiot," he muttered, then promptly closed his eyes again.

The man didn't hesitate — he fired.

The bullet ricocheted.

The room froze. Everyone suddenly remembered why the senator had brought Henry in to begin with: not as an aide, but as a bulletproof shield.

The shooter nearly got hit by his own ricochet. He cursed, clutching his still-smoking pistol.

"Goddamn mutant!" he spat.

Henry couldn't even be bothered to correct him. He just rolled over, trying to fall back asleep.

The man's rage boiled over. He grabbed Henry by the hair, yanking him upright, and punched him square in the face.

A scream followed — but not from Henry.

Henry blinked sleepily. "Huh? Mosquito bite?"

The other guy's knuckles were split open, bone showing through the torn skin. He'd broken his hand punching Henry's face.

Swearing under his breath, he wrapped the bleeding hand in a rough bandage and glared daggers at Henry — though holding a gun was now nearly impossible.

The others, seeing that intimidation wasn't working, exchanged helpless looks.

Their leader finally sighed and barked an order:

"Forget it. You two — pick him up. Haul him to the senator's side. He can block the damn bullets there."

The two younger men who'd been singled out looked miserable but didn't dare argue.

Henry, of course, went completely limp, refusing to cooperate.

Each man hooked an arm under his shoulders and looped Henry's arms around their necks, struggling to lift the two-hundred-pound Kryptonian off the ground.

If Henry had even pretended to help, it might've been manageable. But since he refused to move a muscle, he was twice as heavy and ten times more trouble — dead weight with a heartbeat.

The man who'd broken his hand followed behind them, clutching his bandaged fist and a pistol in his good hand, glaring murder at Henry's back.

He was already thinking about how to get a bigger gun — something with a large enough caliber to finally punch a hole through this bastard.

That was the purest form of American logic:

If you can't pierce armor, your caliber's too small.

If the caliber doesn't work — go bigger.

If that still fails… bring explosives.

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