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Having both performed a play and watched one unfold, Henry sat on the floor, chuckling to himself in satisfaction. But laughter shared with no one else eventually faded; the joy ebbed away, and calm returned.

He suddenly turned his head — all around him stood the gunmen who'd launched the earlier assault.

"Aren't you going to chase that fat black senator?" Henry asked lightly. "You must realize I'm unarmed. There's nothing I could do to stop you."

One of the gunmen stepped forward, his voice striking Henry as oddly familiar.

It took him a moment, but then he remembered — over a year ago, during that mansion banquet where he'd been working security, this same man had been part of the hit squad that broke in. He was the one who'd dragged out the target and ended him cleanly.

So… these guys again? From The Continental?

Henry wasn't surprised — he'd overheard Tony Stark and Alex Hart's private conversation in the study back then. He knew exactly where these assassins came from.

But acting dumb was a habit, and now was no time to stop. Henry brushed at his bullet-riddled clothes and said with feigned innocence,

"Look at me — I've got more holes than a cheese grater. I'm the victim here, remember? None of this has anything to do with me."

The older gunman gave a low chuckle. Beside him stood two very unusual figures.

One had a long, twisted face and sharp fangs — unmistakably some kind of vampire.

The other's arms shimmered with white light, hardening into solid armor.

So, they'd even brought freaks like these? Was The Continental now recruiting mutants and monsters? Well, Henry supposed there was no rule that said assassins had to be human.

The old gunman waved a hand, stopping the other two from acting. He crouched down in front of Henry.

"You know," he said, "we were supposed to attack yesterday. The employer's orders were clear — everyone in this house was to die. No survivors.

"But then we got word that you'd joined the senator's side, so we postponed and made extra preparations.

"Looks like things turned out a little different than everyone expected."

Henry glanced at the two creatures who were still glaring at him hungrily.

"So," he asked, "these two are what you call preparations?"

The old man smirked. "Something like that. Though honestly… I'm not sure they're much use."

Henry tilted his head.

"If you can't finish the job your client asked for, what happens then?"

"You weren't the primary target," the gunman said evenly. "But at the very least, we're supposed to make sure you don't interfere."

Henry grinned.

"So the senator escaped — and by that logic, I technically did my job protecting him, didn't I?"

The gunman laughed and rose to his feet.

"Heh. Russians came in through the back garden. Baba Yaga herself is with them. If that fat bastard hopes to get out alive, he'll need the X-Men to bail him out.

"And sure, if this were New York, maybe he could actually reach them faster than the police. But this is Los Angeles, kid. By the time they get here… he'll be long dead."

Henry blinked.

"Ah, so should I be happy for you or sorry for him?"

"If you're worried about someone recording this," the old gunman said dryly, "this is where you should probably squeeze out a few tears for the poor senator — you know, to make it look like you're not with us."

Henry laughed under his breath. So they'd seen right through his little act, huh?

Still keeping his tone casual, he said,

"In that case, can I go home now? I'm freezing. These clothes are full of holes."

He poked a finger through one of them for emphasis, giving a helpless shrug.

The gunman sighed and spread his hands.

"Didn't I just say? The employer's orders were for a clean sweep — no survivors.

"But you're… a special case. Clearly you want to stay out of it, and I'm not even sure we can kill you. So, instead of risking a bloodbath, you're coming with us to see the manager. She'll decide what to do about you.

"Trust me — that's a lot better than having us declare an open contract on your head."

Henry stood up, looking down at his ruined clothes — more ragged than a beggar's.

"So you mean, I have to go with you to this… hotel of yours, or nothing gets resolved?"

"The Los Angeles Continental Hotel," the gunman said. "The only assassin sanctuary on the West Coast.

"You can refuse, of course — but then we'll have to carry out the original order. You understand."

The man's oily tone was pure professional charm — perfectly matched against Henry's own brand of feigned idiocy.

But Henry wasn't in the mood for an acting contest.

"Fine," he said. "I'll go. I don't have a weapon anyway, so it's not like I can resist. But could someone at least find me some pants?

"Showing up at a hotel like this would be… indecent. I'd hate for the concierge to throw me out."

Because while Henry might be bulletproof, his clothes certainly weren't. And during that earlier hail of gunfire, the shooters hadn't exactly been careful where they aimed.

He wasn't completely naked, but there were… drafts in places there shouldn't be.

Once he stood up, the situation became clear — one more bullet hole, and modesty would've been a lost cause.

The old gunman noticed, grimaced, and muttered something under his breath. But instead of sending someone back inside for clothes, he sighed and shrugged off his own jacket, tossing it at Henry.

"Here. Borrow this. Just remember to give it back."

Henry caught it and felt the surprising weight in his hands.

"What's this made of? Feels heavy."

"Kevlar weave," the man replied. "Stops small-caliber rounds."

"Ah, bulletproof," Henry said appreciatively. "A true Continental classic. Every man should own one."

He wasn't even joking. After all, he was bulletproof — his clothes weren't. There was no point surviving a firefight if you ended up socially dead afterward.

Henry didn't use the jacket to cover himself directly. Instead, he tore off his shredded shirt, tied it around his waist to hide the worst of the damage, and slipped the jacket on over his bare torso.

At least it kept him from freezing to death in this godforsaken winter night.

The gunman looked almost relieved. If Henry had used his jacket to cover his crotch, he might've just burned the thing afterward.

As it was, he nodded approvingly.

"All right, let's go. Time to collect our bounty. The cleanup crew can handle the rest."

Someone muttered,

"But the target isn't confirmed dead yet."

Even as the words left his mouth, the distant gunfire suddenly ceased. Three sharp shots — bang, bang, bang — echoed through the cold night.

The old gunman grinned.

"You kids really don't know what 'Baba Yaga' means, do you?"

That shut everyone up. Not a soul questioned his orders again. They holstered their weapons and began heading out.

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