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The waitress came by to swap out Henry's half-empty coffee pot with a fresh one. "You lookin' for something specific?"
"Yeah. First thing's a cheap motel," Henry replied, flipping through the Yellow Pages. "Otherwise, I'll be sleeping in a public park tonight."
She leaned over, flipped past the page he was on, and tapped an ad with a painted finger. "Try this place. Not the Ritz, but it's safe enough."
Henry raised a brow. The address was up north—closer to Hollywood than downtown. That meant she was probably giving him a genuine tip, not trying to steer him toward a place where she could claim a referral kickback.
Smart. If she wanted a cut, she would've picked one down the street.
He jotted down the name and address. "Appreciate it."
After fishing through various pockets like a broke college student, he scraped together enough bills and coins to cover the meal. He left a generous tip on the table.
That finally got a real smile out of her.
Turns out sweet words and charm were nice—but cold, hard cash still had the stronger magic.
Henry returned the Yellow Pages to its stand, slung his worn-out backpack over one shoulder, and headed back to the car. Inside that pack sat the bulk of his earthly possessions—and tens of thousands of dollars in cash. Not exactly the sort of thing you leave in a car window like a "rob me" sign.
Sure, bullets couldn't hurt him, but dealing with break-ins and petty thefts would be a massive pain in the ass.
Renting a place would take time—and buying one? Not unless he wanted a shack in the desert. A motel would have to do for now.
He headed north.
The drive was uneventful, and—more importantly—the neighborhood around the motel looked decent. No sketchy guys hanging out in wife-beaters and bandanas. No women tottering around in miniskirts and fur coats that looked more like roadkill. No one working the corner in broad daylight.
In other words: passable.
Henry pulled into the lot of the squat little roadside motel. Not seedy, not flashy—just anonymous. Perfect.
The reception area looked empty at first glance, but as he stepped in, he spotted a heavyset woman parked behind the desk, mostly hidden by the high counter. She was propped up in a chair, sipping Coke, munching on potato chips, and glued to a soap opera blaring on the tiny TV behind her.
Henry tapped the bell. Twice.
She didn't even pretend she hadn't seen him.
"Whatcha need?" she called without looking up.
"One person, one room. How much a night?"
"Twenty," she replied, still eyes on the screen.
Henry pulled a crumpled hundred-dollar bill from his chest pocket and slapped it on the counter. "Five nights. Key, please."
Like a machine, she reached with one hand for a key off the wall hook and slid it onto the desk, then used her other hand to snag the bill and shove it out of sight. Only when the money was in her fingers did her eyes flick down to check the denomination.
Not once did she question its authenticity. Not even a glance under UV light or a pen stroke. Just blind faith in the almighty dollar.
And why not? America had always assumed its money was untouchable—even though half the world's counterfeit cash was in U.S. bills. But unless you were dumb enough to hand fake money to the IRS, most people wouldn't risk blowing up their own shady operation by reporting it.
She slid over a paper guestbook. "Sign here."
Henry looked at the scrawled names already in the log. Half of them might as well have been ancient runes or doctor's prescriptions. Even with a superbrain, he could only decipher a few.
He hesitated for a moment, then—on a whim—scribbled down the name: Clark Kent.
Not because he wanted to be cute. It just felt...safer. Leaving his real name here felt wrong, like using your personal email to sign up for a sketchy website. Old instincts kicking in.
She didn't blink. Didn't ask for ID. Didn't care.
He took the key and slouched out with a sigh. Honestly, the whole no-ID thing made him a little uneasy. Sure, it was convenient—but it also meant anyone could check in under a fake name, do God-knows-what, and no one would question it.
He turned back. "You got a Yellow Pages?"
She cackled at something on the TV. "One in every room. Right next to the phone."
Hey, at least she answered. For twenty bucks a night, he wasn't expecting concierge service.
The room was exactly what you'd expect from every low-budget motel in every crime movie ever made: tacky wallpaper, low lighting, and furniture that had seen better decades. But it was clean. Sheets were fresh. Floors vacuumed. No visible bloodstains or mysterious smells.
The detergent on the sheets was strong enough to sting his Kryptonian-enhanced nose. His sinuses might never recover.
He dropped his coat on the wall hook and tossed his backpack onto the bed—his entire net worth in a single duffel bag. The Yellow Pages was right where she said it'd be, under the rotary phone bolted to the nightstand.
The cover said it was last year's edition, but that didn't matter. He wasn't looking for pop-up startups—he needed long-standing operations.
For a second, Henry stood in the middle of the room, just breathing.
This was it. No more crab boats. No more snow. No more quiet Alaskan mornings with Old John yelling at him from the bar.
Now it was cheap motels, Hollywood pipe dreams, and a city that chewed people up for sport.
He flopped back onto the springy mattress.
The difference hit him instantly.
This wasn't a lumpy couch in a freezing bar. Wasn't John's creaky guest bed. Wasn't the front seat of a car under a thousand Alaskan stars.
This was Los Angeles. Loud. Gritty. Alive.
He didn't feel hopeless. Not quite. But there was a weight in his chest now, one he hadn't noticed before.
Because now it was real.
He'd made it.
And now came the hard part.
Having powers doesn't guarantee success, he thought, staring at the ceiling. It just means dying is harder.
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