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Spring mornings in Los Angeles had their own kind of magic sunlight soft and golden, just warm enough to push back the lingering bite of early-season chill.
Henry drove with the windows down, one arm resting casually along the open edge of the car door. The streets were surprisingly calm—L.A.'s infamous traffic didn't really hit full swing until rush hour, which gave him time to cruise leisurely toward the Screen Actors Guild office.
Breakfast joints weren't fully open yet most cafés and fast food places were still prepping. If you wanted something to eat this early, your best bet was one of the street vendors already set up at intersections or gas stations.
And after three months in the city, Henry thanks to his hypersensitive Kryptonian nose and a solid work ethic had already scoped out most of the hidden gems tucked across greater Los Angeles.
He'd learned not to underestimate the food carts. Sure, they weren't glamorous, and half the vendors probably didn't have the paperwork to be here legally but some of these folks were culinary warlocks with recipes from back home that could knock your taste buds into orbit.
And Henry? He didn't give a damn about immigration status or Michelin stars. Good food was good food.
As for sanitation?
Well... Kryptonian digestion was weird. Unless he actually saw something horrific like raw meat being chopped with a tire iron or someone prepping tacos shirtless over a garbage can he was fine. You could pour him a shot of filtered Ganges water and he'd gulp it like spring water.
But show him a cockroach crawling over an unwashed cutting board? Instant gag reflex. He wasn't that invincible.
The place that had made the cut this morning? A weather-beaten taco truck with a weathered old señora and a killer recipe for spicy carne asada breakfast burritos. Three burritos, blazing with enough chili to offend half of Southern California, were tucked neatly into his passenger seat.
And for coffee? None of that sugar-syrup swill from Starbucks. Henry had a standing deal with Paul, a French expat who ran an obscure café and was one of the few people in L.A. with access to small-batch estate-roasted beans.
Paul didn't do American-style breakfasts just croissants, baguettes, and a few pastries but Henry came for the coffee anyway. Today, he'd ordered two.
One for him.
One for someone else.
Of course, he wouldn't be a monster and eat his burritos inside Paul's café that would be rude. Especially since the old man took his coffee as seriously as the French take war and wine.
So here he was, back in his parked car outside the Screen Actors Guild, sun on his face, burrito in one hand, and a worn paperback copy of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar in the other.
He read fast superhuman fast but literature wasn't just about speed. It was about texture, cadence, human emotion. The poetry of grief, betrayal, ambition... things that no superbrain could truly compress into raw data.
Reading Shakespeare, cooking a proper meal these were sacred acts. No matter how powerful he was, some things required patience. Waiting for a roux to brown or a monologue to breathe weren't things you could fast-forward through.
He was mid-soliloquy "Cowards die many times before their deaths..." when a loud rap against the windshield snapped him back to the real world.
The window was already down, so whoever had knocked hadn't even tried to tap the side they'd gone right for the front glass.
Henry glanced up.
"Morning, Marianne," he said with a grin. "Is that Chanel N.M. on your lips today?"
"Ha! Wrong again, handsome. It's N12. Took me three months and a miracle to find a shade that actually works for me."
The woman standing outside was probably in her fifties laugh lines around her eyes, a sharp sense of style, and the kind of confidence that made men in their twenties lean in a little too close.
Henry reached over to the passenger seat and handed her the second coffee.
"Paul's latest roast. Black. Strong enough to put a dead man in a good mood."
"Ooooh, bless you!" Marianne said, taking a dramatic sip. "If I don't get caffeine in me before 9 a.m., I basically become Satan in heels."
She led the way toward the front doors of the guild building, Henry falling in beside her.
"Checking for new casting calls again?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
"Of course. Any new productions pop up yesterday?"
"Sadly, no. But rumor is the Big Eight are gearing up for some heavy shoots. You should really think about getting a proper agent."
Marianne worked the front desk at the Screen Actors Guild. Filed the paperwork, kept the casting bulletin board updated, and acted as an unofficial gatekeeper to half the unrepresented actors in Los Angeles.
Henry had been dropping by daily ever since he arrived in town. And somewhere along the line, a free coffee had turned into a morning ritual. Marianne didn't play favorites but for Henry, she made an exception.
"Any word back on the casting sheets I submitted?" Henry asked, hopeful.
She winced dramatically, then gave him a pout. "Sorry, sweetheart. If anyone had reached out about you, I'd be blowing up your phone. Radio silence."
They stepped inside, and Henry glanced up at the bulletin board.
Nothing new.
Exactly as Marianne had said.
Not that he didn't believe her but building rapport had started with him checking that board religiously. Back then, Marianne had just been a curious woman wondering who the handsome kid was reading War and Peace between call sheets.
Now? She was practically his morning co-conspirator.
Behind the front desk, Marianne started sorting through her planner and paperwork.
Then she paused.
"Huh. Aren't you supposed to be on set today?"
Henry checked the time and smirked. "Yeah, but it's a street scene. They're filming just a few blocks away. I've got time."
This new job was part of a "bigger" production well, "bigger" by B-movie standards. It was destined to go straight to VHS shelves in a Blockbuster somewhere in Nebraska, but it was still more organized than the backyard film sets he'd been on before.
And unlike the last time, he was officially on the call sheet.
Since the location was close, he'd parked at the Guild to avoid L.A.'s hellspawn known as metered parking. From here, he could just walk to set at his own pace.
He didn't even use superspeed.
Henry strolled through the city streets at a lazy, human pace burrito-fueled, caffeinated, and oddly content.
He had no name in the industry, no agent, no lines in any of his scenes.
But he had a reputation.
The kid who showed up on time, didn't complain, didn't mind getting thrown through breakaway tables, and never said no to a job.
He was still a background extra.
But he was an employed background extra.
And in this town?
That was enough.
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