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Feeling that he had just prevented a catastrophic tragedy—
saving several future AFI "Greatest Actresses of the Century" from ruining their twilight years—
Henry couldn't help thinking:
This completely violates my salted-fish life philosophy… I'm basically doing good deeds now.
But eighty-seven-year-old Katharine Hepburn, unlike those energetic young starlets who could glide through crowds all night like mermaids, couldn't stand around forever.
Her legs were getting wobbly.
So Henry escorted her into a lounge for a break, and to finally eat something proper.
The banquet was buffet-style, but when you're busy chatting, just holding a drink already takes effort.
Nobody is going to balance a heaping plate of food while networking.
Henry naturally wasn't going to leave the old lady alone and then run off to network.
Not only did he barely know anyone here—
his interest in the Hollywood circus had long dwindled—
but the atmosphere was saturated with wariness.
Even though the younger actors soon learned Henry had no competing Oscar project this year, their guard still didn't drop.
Competition in Hollywood isn't limited to awards.
Even a nobody who wins the favor of an elderly Academy voter might get priority access to insider casting news, referrals, or roles.
Opportunities lurk everywhere, and everyone knows it.
Which is why Henry's presence—
someone who had effortlessly charmed a cluster of old legends—
made the other young actors extremely uncomfortable.
To them, undermining a potential competitor was practically instinct.
Henry wasn't a mind reader, but with Kryptonian hearing?
Every whisper, every snide remark, every calculating thought was as clear as day.
One of the many reasons he didn't want to stay in this circle.
Not that he expected to find close friends in Hollywood, but being surrounded by hostility wasn't pleasant either.
So the moment Katharine suggested retreating, Henry practically launched himself after her.
Besides, the old lady clearly had some intention behind bringing him here.
Sooner or later, that would come out.
And while talking movies with these old giants was fun, tonight's event was ultimately a campaign party for Oscar hopefuls.
Someone like Henry earnestly discussing cinema here would look out of place.
Furthermore—
this year's Oscars were basically predetermined.
"Schindler's List."
Directed by Steven Spielberg.
Plus the same director's Jurassic Park, the 1993 domestic box-office champion.
Best Picture and Best Director were already locked.
And in this Jewish-run circle…
who dared say anything negative about Schindler's List?
One offhand remark and you might get "humanely disappeared" the next day.
In a world with superheroes, aliens, and mad science…
the history of that group still played out almost identically.
Was it fate's joke?
Or something inevitable in the nature of that people…
Anyway—escaping with Katharine was a relief.
Henry was really here just to mooch dinner.
And Hollywood banquets did have good food.
Even if most attendees only nibbled, everything was made with real ingredients.
Though some dishes were… landmines.
Henry returned carrying two small plates—
stacked high like edible architecture.
Not messy—arranged with layered aesthetics, practically artistic.
It was as if he had condensed all the buffet's essence into two plates.
And he avoided the dangerous dishes—the ones that didn't make you sick, but would assault your soul.
Even Katharine, who had seen nearly everything in life, was stunned.
Henry set down the plates.
"Take whatever you like. I'll handle the rest."
"You child…"
Katharine looked at him with a strange mixture of amusement and heartache.
She had grown up in a large family—
her only older brother had died by suicide when she was thirteen,
so she had helped raise the five younger siblings.
Her nieces and nephews and even grand-nieces and nephews were countless.
Young people didn't bewilder her.
But Henry felt… different.
Like an artist had used layers of sculpting tape to reassemble a shattered glass bottle—
preserving its shape, even adding some aesthetic appeal—
but the underlying breakage, the hidden sharp edges, remained.
Such a bottle could no longer hold water.
Katharine had swum through the strangest depths of Hollywood.
She knew well the dangers of the highest circles.
Survival required intuition and judgment—
one wrong step could mean disgrace, destruction, or an early grave like Marilyn Monroe.
Her instincts told her that the fracture inside Henry was real.
And that made her want to watch over him.
Perhaps that was the same thing Audrey Hepburn had sensed.
After all, Audrey had lived through Europe's worst wars.
Developing such intuition was natural.
Katharine didn't know what would happen if all that metaphorical tape were peeled away and Henry shattered again—
and she had no intention of ever finding out.
But every meeting with him left a vivid impression.
His behavior constantly left her torn between laughter and exasperation.
Thankfully, his food plates weren't stacked like a Jenga tower—
otherwise she wouldn't know where to start.
"Go on, eat."
With Henry's "ladies first" expression urging her, Katharine picked up a cracker topped with caviar and took a bite.
As expected, Hollywood's banquet ingredients were excellent—
as long as you avoided the signature boiled chicken breast, the notorious safe-but-soulless staple of Oscar season.
It wasn't poisonous—just culinary punishment.
To avoid food poisoning, most award contenders stuck to that single dish.
Henry's Kryptonian nose made him a perfect food filter.
Katharine trusted his judgment—and the caviar did not disappoint.
"Knock knock knock."
A sudden knock interrupted them.
Happy Hogan—the man who had delivered the invitation earlier—stood at the door.
And behind him walked in a very unexpected guest:
Tony Stark.
CEO of Stark Industries.
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