Old John's bar wasn't busy. The old man could manage it alone with ease, but he still took in Henry, letting him do odd jobs like tidying up tables, stacking chairs, and cleaning. In exchange, he provided this big eater with three meals a day.
Henry hadn't realized he could eat so much. While others ordered steaks by the ounce, he went straight for a pound. With the way he ate, no one would've doubted he could devour a whole roasted cow in one sitting. Where locals turned up their noses at mashed potatoes or overcooked broccoli, Henry could down a whole pot of what they called pig feed without blinking. Maybe it was because he'd spent so many years going hungry—now that he had the chance to eat freely, he just couldn't stop.
Old John never complained. After stuffing himself, Henry always went back to work. Eventually, even he started to feel a bit embarrassed. What was his background, anyway? Although he'd always been a bit of a slacker, he wasn't clueless about basic social etiquette. To repay this kindness, he naturally pitched in as much as possible, even if there wasn't all that much to do in the run-down bar.
His English, unfamiliar at first, improved rapidly—far faster than it should have. Thanks to the lingering memories from before the transmigration, reading, writing, and speaking soon became as effortless as using his native language. He no longer needed to translate mentally. The only things separating him from a local were his accent and the occasional misuse of slang. But even those started to fade as he chatted with Old John and the townspeople.
Henry didn't bother hiding himself. He was helping at Old John's bar, after all. Even though business was slow, he still had to interact with customers—mostly regulars. In a place like this, a new face stood out unless someone introduced them, and it was hard to fit in without that bridge.
As for the superhuman strength and heightened senses he gained after leaving the research institute—those weren't a big deal to him. Again, thanks to his pre-transmigration habits, his primary goal was always to avoid attention. A key to slacking off effectively was minimizing his presence. If the boss didn't notice you, they couldn't give you more work, and you'd still get your paycheck.
Moving quietly was second nature. Even with his strength increased a hundredfold, he could avoid drawing attention as long as he remained careful. He didn't have to worry about breaking things by accident and setting off alarm bells.
The same went for his enhanced senses. He knew exactly how to ignore unnecessary sights, sounds, and smells. These deadpan survival skills were ingrained in his bones. Blocking out excessive sensory input wasn't just a convenience—it was an art form. The real challenge wasn't ignoring useless information, but rather training yourself to tune out even the useful bits. That was peak "playing dead" strategy.
As for his sense of smell… well, there's an old saying: If you stay long enough in a room full of orchids, you won't notice their fragrance; and if you linger in a dried fish market, the stench stops bothering you. In other words, people get used to things. Having a heightened sense of smell just meant he could pick up more scents. Sure, a sudden stench might catch him off guard, but once he adapted, it wouldn't be a big issue.
Taste was the same. He wasn't a child who grabbed anything in reach and shoved it into his mouth. A more sensitive palate meant better enjoyment of food—or occasionally more suffering. But still, not a real problem.
In short, as long as he didn't go around testing his limits, living like an ordinary person was easy with his current habits. And really, why would he want to test the limits of this body's enhancements? So what if he had the strength to shatter mountains? As long as he could function like a normal guy, did the upper limit even matter?
It wasn't like he wanted to pick a fight with Thanos, trading punches to see who would fall first.
As for his origins, Henry had done some thinking. First, he ruled out being a Saiyan—he didn't have a tail, and he hadn't turned into a giant monkey under the full moon. Next, he considered whether he might be an alien. He looked human, but he loved sunbathing. And when he did, he felt his body becoming stronger—his senses sharper, his muscles denser, everything improving bit by bit.
All signs pointed to one possibility: Superman. Or more specifically, a Kryptonian.
Was he on the wrong set?
It wasn't a baseless theory. He'd already confirmed through Old John and other residents that Captain America was a real figure in this world. People brought out memorabilia to prove it—trading cards, newspaper clippings, even wartime photographs. Old John himself had a black-and-white photo with the Captain. These items were so aged, their authenticity couldn't be doubted.
He hadn't yet heard of other familiar superheroes, but there were mutants—and plenty of them. The ongoing saga between the X-Men and the Brotherhood of Mutants was tabloid gold. When the chaos got out of hand, even serious newspapers covered it.
Events like the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Mutant Egyptian War of 1983 were well-documented in the press, regardless of whether the media painted mutants as heroes or threats. Mutants still popped up occasionally, reminding everyone that this world didn't belong solely to regular humans.
Then there were the vampires and werewolves—no longer just horror movie material. They existed here. Occasionally, they even caused mass casualties by turning towns into zombie-ridden wastelands. Such reports appeared often enough in tabloids to become familiar, and the government's vague response—neither confirming nor suppressing these stories—hinted at deeper truths.
That attitude also explained something else: the ongoing, fruitless debates over gun control. It wasn't just the usual "America loves its guns" rhetoric. The reality was much darker—this world was far too dangerous. Without weapons, ordinary citizens would be like helpless chicks in the face of vampires, mutants, or whatever other monsters lurked in the shadows.
One last detail stood out. The year was 1990, and Henry was currently in a nameless town in Alaska, United States—Earth, as Old John had clarified when asked. That last part—adding "Earth" to the answer—made Henry pause. Did Old John suspect something? Maybe, maybe not. But even if he did, he didn't seem to care.
Old John was a World War II veteran. His sons had died in Vietnam—both of them. Though they had married, neither left any children. The older son's wife had died young from illness, and the younger one's widow had moved on and remarried. In the end, Old John had no family left. He simply guarded his old bar, slowly wasting away the years.
He wasn't afraid of Henry eating too much. He just reminded folks now and then: "I'm not a fool."