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"I'm back," Henry called as he pushed open the bar's side door.
"Yeah, I see that," came the dry reply.
No emotional reunion. No tearful hugs. Just two men acknowledging each other in the most unceremonious, perfectly normal way.
They hadn't known each other long maybe a couple of months and neither of them was the sentimental type. They weren't going to start sobbing over a fishing trip.
Behind the bar, John didn't even glance up as he wiped down a glass.
"You just get off the boat?"
"Docked this morning. Had a few things to handle before coming back."
John, a man well-versed in the grueling rhythm of crab fishing, did the mental math and grunted in understanding. He didn't ask for details.
"If you're tired, go crash in the room. Don't pass out in the bar like some goddamn vagrant. I don't run a shelter."
He slid a glass of whiskey across the bar without asking. Legal drinking age? Irrelevant.
"Got it," Henry said. He tossed the shot back in one gulp and ducked into the back to sleep.
He could've pushed through, but there was no point in drawing attention to how inhuman his stamina was. Better to play it normal, blend in. And truth be told, he was tired.
Crab fishing in the Bering Sea had been a brutal grind days of nonstop labor in freezing weather. Even with Kryptonian-level resilience, it wore on him.
Sure, the constant daylight helped like charging a battery while working. But food energy and sunlight were two different things. Sunlight didn't repair muscle tears or replenish nutrients. His body could keep going, but the moment his mind relaxed, the exhaustion hit like a sledgehammer.
He didn't know how long he slept. Long enough that he woke up desperate for a bathroom, that was for sure. Ever since his body had stabilized post-transmigration, all his natural functions were back online—bladder included.
Shivering in the cold room, wearing nothing but a tank top and boxers, Henry sprinted to the bathroom.
When he stumbled out, bleary-eyed and barely awake, the bar was dark and closed. John was slouched on a couch against the wall, shooting him a withering look like he'd just stepped on his lawn.
"…You sleeping out here?" Henry asked, and immediately realized how dumb it sounded.
Predictably, John's sarcasm was locked and loaded.
"When you first showed up, I could've dragged your sorry ass across the floor with one hand," he said. "Now I'd need a damn forklift. I'm starting to think I fed you pig steroids."
He pointed toward the back room with a thumb. "You take up the whole bed like a damn tree trunk. I couldn't roll you over if I tried. And for the record even if you washed your ass properly, I still wouldn't be interested. I'm not into men, you walking linebacker."
Henry smirked. "Well hey, next time I'll clean up real good, let you judge for yourself. Might change your mind."
He waved it off, then turned to the fridge. His stomach was growling.
He'd brought back groceries earlier from town, and now was the perfect time to make use of them.
"You want something to eat?" he asked without looking up. "I'm starving."
John sat at the bar, arms crossed. "Nah. Eating this late's hell on an old man's digestion."
Henry didn't argue. He focused on cooking.
Back in his original life, he'd lived alone. He wasn't a master chef, but he knew his way around a stove. Not for nutrition. Not to save money. Just because sometimes, when you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself.
He'd once watched a European indie film—half family drama, half soft-core art house—with a scene featuring red wine-braised chicken. While everyone else remembered the "emotional complexity," Henry walked away craving that damn dish. Couldn't find it in any restaurant nearby, so he tried making it himself.
Same with golden fried rice from a favorite anime. He didn't just want to eat it—he wanted to recreate it. Bought a wok. Practiced flipping.
Results were mixed. But the passion stuck.
Over the last month living here, Henry had cooked a few times. He wasn't magically transformed into some culinary god, but he had the basics down. And now—with his enhanced senses and processor-speed brain—he was evolving.
The spices were basic. This was Alaska, not Southeast Asia. Fancy imports like star anise or five-spice powder were luxuries, not staples. Most households relied on salt, garlic, or whatever herbs they could scrounge from the woods or buy at a premium.
And the local economy? Built on fishing and oil. Meaning fresh produce was rare, and quality meat depended on shipping schedules or getting lucky with local farmers.
Still, America's food culture leaned heavy: bold flavors, bigger portions, rich sauces. That gave him some wiggle room.
Thanks to his enhanced smell and taste, Henry could sniff out bad meat from twenty feet away. Rotten? Chemically treated? Tainted with some weird freezer burn flavor? He could tell instantly.
So tonight's steak? Perfect cut. Marbled just right. All it needed was a cast iron pan and salt. Maybe a touch of pepper.
As the meat sizzled, he boiled some elbow pasta on the side—carbs were a staple here, and the only real choices were pasta or potatoes. Pasta won out tonight.
With every flip, sear, and pinch of seasoning, Henry let his instincts and his overclocked brain work in sync. Cooking, for him, had become a kind of science experiment—optimizing taste, texture, aroma in real time.
Somewhere out there, if scientists knew a guy with near-infinite memory and sensory precision was using his powers to perfect steak? They'd probably cry. Or try to dissect him.
Henry didn't care. All his power, all his skills—they existed for his benefit. Not to save the world. Not to chase glory. Just to make life a little more enjoyable.
That whole "suffer now, rise later" crap? That was just corporate propaganda. In real life, you suffered while your boss bought a new Mercedes.
As the steak finished and the pasta hit al dente perfection, Henry plated everything up and brought it to the table.
John hadn't gone back to bed. He'd opened a bottle of California red and was already pouring two glasses.
"Figured we might as well do this proper," the old man said, handing Henry a glass.
Henry took a sip. Not bad. Smooth. Balanced. Cheap, but decent.
John stared at the wall of framed photos and dusty medals behind the bar—the so-called "Wall of Glory." His eyes softened a bit, glass in hand, as if the past were whispering just loud enough to hear.
He didn't say anything Henry could make out.
Just murmured to himself.
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