Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

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"What the hell would I buy some rundown hotel for?" Tony shot back instantly, caught off guard by Henry's suggestion.

Henry just shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe you want to retrofit the whole building into a giant robot. Or turn it into a love hotel and rig every room with hidden cameras…"

"Okay, first one's delusional, second one's disgusting. If you ever actually try either, don't tell people we've met."

Henry only smirked, unbothered. It wasn't like he planned to run around pretending to be Tony Stark's best buddy. That name didn't just bring perks—it came with a laundry list of enemies. If he introduced himself as that guy's friend, who knew what kind of lunatics might crawl out of the woodwork.

"Not joking this time," Tony said, his tone sharpening. "Remember what happened back in L.A.?"

Henry narrowed his eyes. "Which part? You and me don't exactly have a 'past,' Stark. Just to be clear—I'm innocent."

"Jesus Christ. Even if I slept with your wrinkly old mom, I still wouldn't look twice at you. That's not what I meant."

Henry didn't even blink. With his unique… heritage, a jab like that was nothing but background noise.

They each grabbed a flute of champagne off a passing tray, sipping to reset the mood.

Tony leaned in, lowering his voice. "The hit squad that attacked us in L.A.? My sources say they came out of the Continental Hotel."

Henry tilted his head. "And?" His tone screamed not my problem.

Tony's jaw tightened. He knew if he let the conversation wander, Henry would derail it with another joke, so he pressed on. "I want you to come with me. To the Continental. We pay them a visit. Get answers."

"Nope," Henry said flatly.

Tony blinked. That blunt refusal stung more than he expected. "I know you weren't in any real danger that night," he said carefully—still respecting Henry's secret. "But if someone takes a shot at you and you just roll over? People are gonna keep coming. You can't look soft."

Of course Tony Stark knew that better than most. He'd skipped grades, always the smallest kid in class, always the rich kid too. That made him a prime target for every idiot looking to prove themselves. Dad never stepped in. So Tony learned fast: fight back hard, fight back loud, and make it hurt.

Every time he'd cracked some bully's nose, every time he'd seen Howard Stark's sour, disappointed expression in the principal's office, it had been worth it. Because that was how you survived—by making damn sure no one thought you were easy prey.

And now? The shooters from the Continental had nearly ended him. He wasn't letting that slide.

The problem was, up until tonight he hadn't found a single lead. He'd assumed an assassin outfit like that would be buried in the gutters somewhere, only accessible through bottom-feeders and rats. Too bad Tony Stark didn't have a Rolodex full of sewer rats.

And then—surprise. The whole operation had been hiding in plain sight, running a literal hotel right in Manhattan.

Henry, though, wasn't biting. "Look, if they're contract killers, then they're just tools. You don't waste your time beating up the wrench—you go after the guy swinging it. We already dropped most of the shooters who came after us that night. Some of them even stayed down permanently. That's the end of it."

His voice was calm, logical, even smug.

"What, you're gonna chase down every survivor? Hunt the hotel because you're in a bad mood? That's like getting bit by a dog, and instead of kicking it in the moment, you let it run away. Then later you obsess over tracking it down just so you can bite it back."

Tony opened his mouth, but Henry wasn't done.

"You want payback? You find the owner who trained the dog to bite in the first place. That's the target. Not the mutt. From where I'm standing, that night was just bad luck—we were collateral damage, not the mark. Nobody tried to tie up loose ends with you. So why throw yourself back into the fire?"

Damn it, Henry had a point. And Tony knew it. But what he didn't say—what he couldn't say—was that this wasn't about the shooters. It was about who sent them. About the island. About the execution.

Alex Hart had warned him: Josh Hilton had been killed because he couldn't keep his mouth shut about the island. That was the real nerve center, the thing Tony needed to uncover. But you didn't ask around about the island directly—not unless you wanted to wind up on a slab. The Continental, though… that was a safer entry point.

At least, safer in theory.

He just didn't know what came after. What to do if he actually got through those doors. Without knowing the enemy, any plan was just scribbles on a napkin.

So for now, all he could do was ask. "You really won't back me up on this?"

Henry's eyes narrowed. "Back you up how? You look like you're about ready to storm the place with a minigun. And you want me along as what—the bullet sponge?"

Tony glared, but Henry only smirked.

"Honestly? If it's a real organization, money will get you further than muscle. Bring them a suitcase of cash, you'll get answers. Hell, bring a case of gold bars if you want extra protection. At least when they start shooting, the bricks might actually stop a bullet."

Henry raised his glass, saluted, and downed the rest of his champagne.

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