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The receptionist greeted the approaching man with a sweet smile. "Good afternoon, sir. How may I assist you?"
A pity—his forehead was a bit too shiny and his hair a bit too thin. Otherwise, he'd be exactly her type. Should I give him my number? she wondered, hesitating internally.
"Hello. I'd like to meet Mr. Henry Brown, the CEO of the studio."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No. Please inform him that my name is Phil Coulson. We have a mutual acquaintance—Nick Fury."
Catching sight of the comic book in his hand, the receptionist maintained her smile and leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Are you here to discuss adapting a comic into a movie?
"I don't want to dampen your spirits, but I should tell you in advance—our company mainly produces low-budget films. The chances of approving a comic adaptation aren't very high."
Phil Coulson went along smoothly. "Oh, thank you for the reminder. But since Mr. Brown and I share a mutual acquaintance, perhaps I can find a way through him."
"Ah, that's one way to do it. Please wait a moment while I contact him." She picked up the phone and dialed an internal line.
After a brief, hushed conversation, she hung up and gave Coulson a bright smile. "Please take the elevator to the seventh floor. Turn left when you exit, and you'll find the CEO's office. Mr. Brown is available right now."
"Thank you, miss." Though it was just a polite response, Coulson couldn't help but flash a charming, easygoing smile as he left.
The receptionist immediately regretted it—why hadn't she given him her number? Wasn't the whole point of applying for a front desk job at a film company to meet charming men like that?
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While the receptionist indulged in her daydreams, Henry, seated in his office, was already considering how to deal with this unexpected visitor after being notified by Yulian.
Phil Coulson might be called old-fashioned, but there was no denying he was the kind of man you could trust with your back—so long as Nick Fury wasn't standing behind him…
In an era full of antiheroes where morality was often blurred, someone like Coulson—an old-school do-gooder with classic superhero values—was, in Henry's view, the hardest type to deal with.
Someone openly looking for trouble was actually easier. If the timing and conditions were right, Henry wouldn't mind giving them a one-way, equipment-free tour of outer space.
But this man—future Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.… should he alter the course of history?
Just as a certain dark thought began to take shape, Phil Coulson knocked lightly on the already open office door and greeted, "Good afternoon. It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Henry Brown."
"Hello. Please, have a seat, Mr. Coulson." Henry stood to greet him briefly, then gestured toward the chair across the desk without offering a handshake.
After sitting down first, Henry used the office intercom. "Yulian, please bring my guest a cup of coffee."
Once Coulson was seated, Henry spoke first. "Mr. Coulson, you mentioned we have a mutual acquaintance in Nick Fury. Don't tell me—you're from that organization as well?"
"Yes. I'm a Level One agent of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. Director Fury is my superior."
Pulling out the full name, huh? No wonder people got confused—it was long enough to make verification a hassle.
At that moment, the secretary—who was essentially doing odd jobs—entered with a cup of coffee. "Here you go, sir."
"Thank you."
Watching the young secretary leave, Coulson couldn't help but remark, "Mr. Brown, shouldn't you close the office door?"
"No need. The soundproofing here is terrible anyway. Even if I close it, anything loud inside can still be heard outside. I can't be bothered with useless renovations."
It's not like I'm planning to call anyone in here for anything… inappropriate, Henry thought to himself.
"Fair enough." Placing the Superman comic he had been holding onto the desk, Coulson said, "I'm here because of this."
"Looking to adapt it into a film? That doesn't really seem… within your organization's scope," Henry said curiously, picking up the issue.
It wasn't a first edition, nor a special issue marking a character debut. Nothing particularly valuable—maybe in ten years, with a full set, it might catch a collector's interest.
Coulson smiled. "Our scope is quite broad—it's not strictly limited." Then, lowering his voice, he added, "What we really want to know is… are you him?"
Henry burst into laughter, openly mocking. "Are you serious? A fictional character that existed before I was even born—and you're asking if I'm him? Hahaha, sorry, that's just too funny. Me? Superman? Ha!"
Henry had specifically checked this world's timeline. The X-Men comics only appeared after Charles Xavier—Professor X—had already formed the X-Men.
In fact, if you traced the ownership, the publishing company behind the X-Men comics held shares from Professor X himself, along with licensing rights for mutant likenesses.
At the time, Magneto hadn't yet split from Xavier, so the likeness rights for members of the Brotherhood of Mutants were also included.
This was a crucial source of funding for Xavier's school. Even after Magneto went his own way, he still allowed the licensing fees to go to Xavier's institution rather than claiming them for himself as a wanted criminal.
Of course, Xavier had agreed not to interfere with creative freedom—one of the conditions required by the government to permit publication, ensuring the comics wouldn't become mutant propaganda.
Because of that freedom, the comics often featured bizarre mutant settings and unexpected romantic pairings.
Most mutants, however, scoffed at these portrayals and even refused to acknowledge certain characters as being based on them.
In other words, in this world, comics were comics, and real mutants were real mutants.
Which made it all the more absurd for someone to take a character that existed before his birth, point at him, and claim he was Clark Kent.
"And yet, aren't you?" Coulson pressed. "You're both Kryptonians."
Henry sneered. "That's something I only learned from the Skrulls. And now you're telling me that nearly sixty years ago, someone already wrote out my life's trajectory—and I'm supposed to follow it? Is that what you mean?"
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