Deeper Bonds

Henry didn't look disheveled, but he certainly wasn't dressed like someone from the upper class.

He'd shaved his beard with Heat Vision, but his messy hair definitely dragged down his appearance in others' eyes.

And he was carrying an old backpack...

Well, that backpack looked stuffed full. If it had been flat and empty, he'd have looked like someone about to rob the place.

Given Henry's appearance, no bank teller was going to greet him proactively. He didn't mind, walking up to the information counter himself and asking, "Hello, I'd like to open an account. What's the procedure?"

Henry was then directed to a small cubicle where a sharp-dressed Black man with a shrewd face sat.

"Sir, how can I help you?"

The bank employee spoke politely, but there was an unmistakable air of arrogance in his tone and expression, as if he wanted to make it clear he'd risen above his original station.

Henry wasn't here to make friends. He set the old backpack on the desk, unzipped it, and revealed stacks of cash inside. "Open an account. Deposit money. Please."

"We don't accept funds of questionable origin here." The bank employee refused outright with a look of disdain.

Henry wasn't surprised. Banks were always sensitive about this, especially in the United States.

If illicit gains could be easily deposited into the banking system, there'd be no need for "money laundering." Or they'd let you deposit it, then freeze it with a court order.

Unfazed, Henry pulled out some documents. "This is my pay from working on a Crab Boat in Alaska. Here are my employment verification, pay stubs, check copies, and a payment confirmation from an Alaska bank. And this is my Social Security card."

The employee took the documents, checked the official seals, and started tallying.

He also noticed the cash in the bag wasn't haphazardly bundled—it had bank seals from other institutions. Unless it was stolen from a bank, it had been withdrawn directly from one.

He asked, "How much would you like to deposit, sir? What type of account? Would you like recommendations for an investment portfolio?"

The disgust in his voice had faded considerably. If he closed a financial deal, he'd get a bonus. His dark face made those white teeth gleam even brighter.

"Two hundred ninety thousand in cash. Twenty thousand into a checking account, the rest into savings. I want a checkbook and to apply for a credit card. Nothing else."

Henry laid out his plans clearly—all advice from Old Tom. That guy's suggestions related to him personally were often traps, but his advice on other things was reliable enough.

"We need to make copies of these documents. Is that okay?" Though he hadn't closed a financial deal, the employee asked politely.

"Go ahead."

The employee took the documents to the copier while having a colleague wheel over a bill counter with counterfeit detection, ready to count the cash in Henry's bag.

Even though the cash had Alaska bank seals, money was money—once it left the vault, no one trusted the seals to still be reliable.

But counting two hundred ninety thousand in cash didn't produce any amusing hiccups that would give Henry a chance to slap someone down. After all, if a Kryptonian slapped someone, that face would literally be gone—no one wanted to see that.

Opening a bank account didn't require a fee, just an initial deposit. Henry's money was enough.

But the checkbook and credit card application both came with extra fees, which Henry had to pay out of pocket.

He had a few thousand in cash on him anyway, and after some rummaging, he scraped it together. The whole routine made the Black clerk roll his eyes hard.

Keep acting! Just keep it up!

Once everything was done, Henry got his debit card and walked out of the bank, looking up at the midday sun and realizing he was hungry.

The credit card required a credit check, so it wouldn't be ready quickly. Since he had no mailing address for now, the bank employee told him to come back in two weeks.

Don't think that just because he'd deposited over two hundred thousand, the bank would bend the rules.

In fact, this was already the result of leniency. Otherwise, someone without a place to live, with nowhere to send a credit card bill, couldn't even apply.

But with the bank account taken care of, Henry felt his connection to this world deepen a little more. That jarring sense of having truly crossed over surfaced again.

For nearly twenty years before, his blank, solitary existence—if not for the torment of the last few years—might have made him forget he was even human.

Even though it was human evil that had pulled him back into this world, Henry never thought about turning dark and taking revenge on the world.

As the saying goes, before crossing over, he had a worthless life; after crossing over, he still had a worthless life. He'd just become a Kryptonian, not a Celestial Dragon. Since he hadn't taken revenge on the spot, what was the point of taking it out on others?

But honestly, during his recovery time in Alaska, what kept him going were the memories from before crossing over.

Watching classic old movies that existed in both worlds, hoping to find something that belonged to his pre-crossing self, something from the other world.

The feeling of unreality about being in a new world never left him, not even when he was battling towering waves on the Bering Sea.

It felt like taking a max-level character to bully mobs in a newbie village—the waves couldn't dizzy him, the cold couldn't freeze him, King Crabs couldn't hurt him, and making money was as easy as picking it up. This was just a damn game.

If the boat captains hadn't stopped him, Henry would have spent the entire Crab Season on the ship.

But after arriving in Los Angeles, that max-level feeling quickly faded.

Maybe it was because the path he'd chosen didn't let him use his Kryptonian advantages. It meant he was truly starting from scratch, in an unfamiliar field, doing something he'd never done before.

Or should he go back and find something that played to his Kryptonian strengths?

Like robbing a bank.

Why did he keep circling back to robbing a bank? But seriously, Henry had never had the thought of selflessly helping people like an ordinary superhero.

Look at how miserable superheroes were in all those movies, shows, and comics—it didn't seem like a great career path.

He didn't have some noble belief in unconditional self-sacrifice. At the end of the day, he was just an ordinary person.

In short, let whoever wanted to be a superhero do it. He was just a laid-back Kryptonian.

Want to change my worldview? Only if Marvel turns into a wasteland, leaving me no chance to slack off and lie flat!

If a salted fish still wants to flip over, is it even a proper salted fish?

With his resolve steeled, Henry stood in the sunlight, feeling the power growing within his body. He also took a deep breath—this was the smell of Los Angeles.

His life had truly entered a brand-new second phase.

New book, requesting follow-up reads, collections, and recommendations. Thanks~~