Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

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After finishing the report, Black Superman returned all the documents to the briefcase.

Everything—including the combination lock—was restored exactly as before, then returned to the original room.

It was as though the briefcase had never been taken.

As though he had never been there at all.

He also retrieved the listening device secretly planted on John Garrett.

With his ocular superpowers completely disabled and no certainty whether they would ever recover, precision devices of this level were no longer easy for him to manufacture.

He couldn’t afford to treat them as disposable items.

Back on the rooftop, Black Superman reviewed the contents of the files in his mind while considering his next steps.

The alien research facility had operated for nearly twenty years.

Aside from himself as the primary research subject, the escape pod that had originally brought him to Earth had also once been a major research project.

In the middle and later periods, however, the pod was seized by other research organizations, leaving only the living sample—himself—for the institute to study.

Over such a long span of time, personnel came and went constantly, involving more than a thousand people in total.

But among them, only forty-seven individuals—including Director Pyotr Roslov himself—had possessed the authority to directly interact with him or handle matters related to him.

Of those forty-seven:

Twenty-three had been extracted from Russia by S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and brought to America.

They were currently staying in this very hotel.

Nineteen were marked deceased.

There was still the possibility of mistaken reports among them, though Pyotr Roslov was one of the few confirmed dead cases.

Among the remaining five, three had managed to build relatively successful lives and therefore refused S.H.I.E.L.D.’s assistance.

The last two remained imprisoned in special Siberian prisons.

They had been deemed unworthy of the massive resources required for rescue and were therefore still serving their sentences.

Of the three who had done well for themselves:

One was an interrogation specialist who had joined the new BSF.

Another had become the wife of a natural gas oligarch. With the resources she controlled, her husband’s career flourished spectacularly.

The final one had emigrated to America early on and was recruited by Norman Osborn with a high salary to work in Oscorp’s biological laboratory.

So…

There were twenty-eight items on his to-do list now.

After changing out of the Black Superman outfit and returning to his hotel room, Henry found himself reflecting.

He always insisted he didn’t want to become someone consumed by vengeance.

But when people practically gift-wrapped your enemies and delivered them to your doorstep, doing absolutely nothing somehow felt unfair to himself.

Especially after recently being broken up with by a girlfriend he had thought things were going very well with.

Short of going insane, collecting the Infinity Stones, and snapping his fingers all over again, he had no way to win her back.

His entire life trajectory had been rewritten. That wasn’t something simple amnesia could explain.

Combined with the uncertainty surrounding whether his eyes would ever recover, his mood lately had been terrible.

At times like this, he really needed some sort of emotional outlet.

And since someone had walked right into his line of fire…

How could he not pull the trigger?

With that thought in mind, what should have been a sleepless night instead became one where Henry fell into an unusually deep sleep.

In his dream, he seemed to be playing and chasing after his lost girlfriend beside a river flowing with the blood of his enemies.

The scene resembled a cinematic fantasy.

The laughing couple wore blissful smiles while casually tossing shattered human limbs and body parts at each other playfully.

His girlfriend scooped up blood from the crimson river with a radiant smile.

The image should have shimmered beautifully…

If not for the eyeball resting in her palm.

Nearby, skeletons and zombies danced hula dances.

A massive stitched-together corpse wearing a floral summer shirt drooled while strumming a ukulele.

But gradually, his girlfriend’s figure and appearance faded.

Until finally, he could no longer see her clearly.

Could no longer remember her face.

Only the hellscape of blood and corpses remained, accompanied by music and joyful laughter echoing through the air.

That sleep left Henry feeling utterly refreshed.

His entire body felt as though happiness itself flowed through his veins like carbonated sugar water.

Had the hotel bedside phone not interrupted him, sleeping until noon would not have been surprising.

Recently, Katie had constantly jumped onto his bed like she was hosting dance parties. He was honestly beginning to crave roasted tiger meat.

”Hello… who is this?” a half-awake Henry mumbled groggily.

An urgent voice came from the other end.

”Get to my house immediately. Don’t make me wait too long.”

Then the caller hung up.

”Damn it, are you calling a dog or something? Dog Tony. How the hell am I supposed to know where your house is? What am I, some paparazzi reporter?”

Henry cursed at the dial tone.

Deciding to ignore the overly self-important bastard, he hugged the blanket and prepared to go back to sleep.

Unfortunately, with Kryptonian hearing, the knocking at the door was impossible to ignore.

He opened his eyes and stared uselessly into space before remembering that his visual superpowers were gone.

Dragging along a body that somehow still felt exhausted, he walked to the door and loudly said:

”I don’t need housekeeping.”

A female voice came from outside.

”Mr. Brown, I’m Virginia Potts, President Tony Stark’s personal assistant. I’m here to escort you to Mr. Stark’s private residence.”

Potts…

Hearing the surname, Henry became curious and opened the door slightly until the security latch stopped it.

Outside stood a red-haired white woman in office attire.

Despite the professional clothing, she looked very young, with faint freckles scattered across her face.

Judging from her posture, she likely had a modeling background.

Probably one of those girls who had only recently graduated from university.

The moment the door opened, Virginia Potts immediately greeted him.

”Mr. Brown, I—”

”I understand. Please wait in the hotel lobby. I’ll be down in five minutes.”

”Of course.”

Seeing the unkempt appearance of the person inside, Virginia naturally understood he had only recently woken up.

She wasn’t some debt collector who insisted on barging into someone’s room or standing guard outside the door.

In truth, proper business etiquette would normally involve waiting in the hotel lobby while hotel staff relayed the message by phone.

It was only because of her boss’s strange request that she had come upstairs personally.

Now things were simply returning to normal procedure.

After shutting the door again, Henry yawned and stood there quietly for several minutes while his brain fully rebooted.

Only afterward did he use super speed to clean himself up and put on the suit that made him look somewhat respectable.

During the elevator ride downstairs, Henry seriously considered something.

Future Tony Stark would famously live in a Malibu beach mansion in Los Angeles while commuting to work in New York during the daytime.

How exactly had he rationalized that commute?

A normal commercial flight from Los Angeles to New York took over five and a half hours.

Even with a private jet—and probably a private airport—that kind of commuting schedule still qualified as insane.

So the question was:

Where exactly was Tony Stark’s New York home?

The answer arrived quickly.

Contrary to Henry’s expectations that the Stark family would possess property in Manhattan’s Upper East Side, the Stark driver instead headed toward Long Island, eventually arriving at a manor villa in the Hamptons.

This was a summer retreat for New York’s wealthy elite.

Not a primary residence.

After all, driving there from Manhattan took more than two hours.

Ordinary wealthy people would never choose this place as their main home.

The type of rich men who spent their entire lives chasing money naturally lived in the Upper East Side closest to Wall Street.

Only lesser elites expanded outward.

Which made it obvious that Tony Stark’s thought process differed completely from ordinary money-obsessed rich people.

He was willing to waste precious, irreplaceable time rather than choosing a convenient residence in the city center.

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