What does supersonic flight feel like?
Henry felt like he could write an eight-thousand-word essay just to describe it in detail.
First off, the wind was insane.
If it weren't for his ridiculously overpowered new body, he was pretty sure his face would have been blown into a tattered, flapping rag.
Second, his vision was a blur. Everything around him looked like a badly edited fast-forward movie, dragging out long, colorful streaks of light.
"Not bad, way more exciting than a private jet," Henry thought to himself.
"Just a bit rough on the clothes."
He looked down at his already-ruined experiment jumpsuit, which now, under the friction of supersonic flight, had shredded into almost nothing.
He looked like some performance artist who had just smashed bricks on his chest at a beggar gang annual meeting.
"I'll bet if a plane flew past right now, the pilot would think he just saw a UFO! A naked UFO! I can already see tomorrow's headline…"
"Shocking! Naked man flies over New York, suspected alien behavior!"
Nope, that wouldn't do. Not good for the Stark family image.
He grumbled to himself while trying to control his flight posture.
This was way harder than driving a car. No steering wheel, no throttle—just some mysterious mental force.
He felt like a newbie who just got a license and jumped straight into an F1 car—several times he nearly slammed into the clouds from too much thrust.
"Calm down, Henry, calm down. You're a genius. Treat this as a new physics model: intent is a vector, force is a scalar."
"Physics my ass! This is complete nonsense!"
One miscalculation and his body spun midair, nearly performing a full Thomas rotation.
The wind cut at his face like knives—not enough to hurt, but damn, it was uncomfortable.
The worst part? He was lost.
Vast world, no GPS—he was like a drone straight out of the factory without any navigation module.
All he had was the sun to roughly estimate a direction and plow forward.
"Really, Hydra couldn't throw in a GPS with their serum? How inhumane," he complained, struggling to adjust his posture mid-flight.
After struggling for ten minutes, he finally got a hold of stable flight.
Now, he had two urgent problems to solve:
1. Figure out exactly where he was.
2. Find some proper clothes.
He lowered his altitude and skimmed over a dense forest.
Soon, a winding asphalt road appeared, with a red Ferrari casually cruising along.
"Oh, perfect target."
Henry's eyes lit up. Like a guided missile, he silently descended right in front of the Ferrari.
"Screeeech!"
The sharp brakes tore through the quiet countryside.
The Ferrari stopped less than half a meter from him.
The driver, a slick-haired trust fund kid, poked his head out, ready to unleash a torrent of colorful swears—but froze.
Because in front of him was a man over 6'3", every muscle flowing like a Greek sculpture, wearing only tattered strips of cloth around his waist.
And he was staring at the kid like he was an idiot, deadpan.
The impact was immediate.
Who was this guy? A survival show contestant? A gym nut on steroids? The muscles were absurd.
"Sir… uh… need help?" the trust fund kid stammered, hand creeping toward the phone in the passenger seat.
"Of course," Henry said, striding to the car with undeniable authority.
"I need some clothes. And your phone. That jacket looks decent enough."
"Yours will do, though your taste is questionable, it's better than mine," he added.
The trust fund kid went pale. "You're robbing me?"
"Robbing?" Henry raised an eyebrow like he'd heard the dumbest joke in history.
"Kid, could your imagination be any more pathetic? You think I need to rob you?"
Well… with his current look, he did sort of fit the part.
He cleared his throat and put on that signature Stark-family arrogant expression.
"Listen, I'm Henry Stark. My private jet had a little… malfunction. Right now, I need to borrow your clothes and your phone to handle some urgent matters.
Leave me your contact info. Tomorrow, my assistant will drop off a brand-new car, even higher-end than yours, plus a little compensation to keep you quiet. Got it?"
The trust fund kid was utterly stunned by the rapid-fire words, especially the name "Henry Stark."
He studied Henry's face closely. Even though he looked disheveled, the structure of his features really did resemble that little genius who frequently graced the covers of business magazines.
Stark? The missing playboy genius? He actually escaped?
Judging by that physique, the rumors about the Stark family being frail were clearly false.
"You're really Henry Stark?"
"Genuine article," Henry said impatiently, waving his hand.
"Move it. I'm on a tight schedule. Or do you want me to borrow them in a more… direct way?"
A few minutes later, Henry was leaning against the Ferrari door, wearing a slightly ill-fitting Armani, dialing Pepper's number.
The call rang for a while before it was picked up, and Pepper's usual composed voice came through, though tinged with fatigue and worry.
"Hello?"
"Pepper, darling, it's me," Henry said, phone wedged between shoulder and ear, sounding casual.
"Guess which party I snuck out of this time?"
There was silence for a full five seconds.
"Henry?!" Pepper's voice shot up with surprise and relief.
"Oh my god! You're alive! No, that's not what I mean! I mean… where are you? You've been missing for two whole weeks! We were losing it!"
Her heart had been in knots these past days.
God, he was back! He really came back!
Thank heavens! Wait… why does his voice sound so nonchalant?
"Relax, Pepper," Henry chuckled lightly.
"I just went to experience life. Service was awful, no champagne, no women. I won't be visiting again.
By the way, my brother? That narcissist hasn't secretly sold the company while I was gone, has he?"
Henry knew where Tony was, but asked anyway.
"Tony… had an incident," Pepper said, her voice dropping.
"He was attacked by a group of terrorists in Afghanistan, went missing just like you did."
Henry took a deep breath.
Even though he already suspected the truth, hearing it from Pepper made his heart sink sharply.
That idiot. He had armor on and still managed to get himself lost. Truly exasperating.
"I understand," he said calmly. "What about Obadiah? He hasn't caused trouble in my absence, has he?"
"Mr. Obadiah went to Washington for a meeting, he's not in the company for now. Henry, please come back! The company's a mess!"
"I'll be there soon!" Henry cut her off.
"Listen, Pepper. I need you to do a few things. First, contact Happy immediately. Make sure he secretly investigates all of Obadiah's recent financial transactions and communications, whatever it takes.
Especially his shell companies and anything linked to the Middle East. I suspect the attacks on Tony and me are connected to him."
Pepper drew in a sharp breath.
Obadiah? Impossible.
She had watched Henry grow up; he didn't joke around with serious matters. If he suspected something, it was serious.
"Henry, this—"
"No time to explain. Trust me," Henry's tone left no room for doubt.
"Second, personally check with the military for any coordinates regarding Tony's disappearance in Afghanistan. Any intel will do. Third, and most important, don't let anyone know I contacted you—especially Obadiah. Wait for me to return."
"Understood, I'll handle it. But where are you?"
Henry glanced at the trust fund kid and asked, "Hey, buddy, where are we? Which direction to the Stark Mansion in Malibu?"
The kid was dumbstruck by Henry's behavior and pointed west, almost instinctively.
"Go on the highway from here, keep going west… um… it'll take a while."
"Got it," Henry said into the phone.
"I'll be at the company soon, Pepper."
He then tossed the phone and the kid's wallet back to him.
"Thanks, man. Someone will contact you about your… losses tomorrow."
Before the kid could react, Henry bent his legs slightly.
Then, with a dull sonic boom, he shot straight up into the sky, disappearing into the clouds in an instant.
The trust fund kid dropped his phone and wallet with a clatter, rubbed his eyes, pinched himself hard, and muttered:
"Did… did I forget to pray before leaving today?"