Where Am I?

Old John's bar wasn't busy at all—the old man could handle it alone without breaking a sweat.

Still, he took Henry in, letting him work odd jobs around the bar. Cleaning tables, sweeping up. In return, he fed the big eater three meals a day.

Henry hadn't realized he could eat this much. Other people measured steak in ounces; he went straight by pounds. And with the way he tore into food, if a whole roasted cow were set on the table, no one would doubt he could finish it in one sitting.

Mashed potatoes—others ate a plate, maybe with some broccoli on the side. But this slop, even locals turned their noses up at, he'd wolf down an entire pot.

Maybe it was because those years before, every meal left him hungry, scared of starving. Now that he had the chance, he couldn't hold back—just ate his fill.

But Old John never said a word. He'd just cook more when it ran out. Eventually, it was Henry who started feeling embarrassed.

He knew his place. Sure, he was used to coasting, but he understood basic human decency.

To repay the kindness, Henry helped out as much as he could. Even if this rundown bar didn't have much to do...

The unfamiliar English, thanks to memories from before his transmigration, became familiar at an unimaginable speed.

Whether reading, writing, or speaking, it felt like using his mother tongue—no need to translate in his head before understanding.

The only differences from the locals were accent and some slang. But those, too, adapted quickly through conversations with Old John and the townsfolk.

Henry didn't bother hiding himself. After all, he had to help at Old John's bar. Even if business was slow, he'd still face people—regulars, at that.

In a place like this, a new face needed an introduction, or it was hard to blend in.

As for the extra strength and sensory abilities this body had gained since leaving the institute, Henry didn't think much of them.

Again, thanks to his pre-transmigration habits, a big part of coasting was keeping a low profile.

Not catching the boss's or supervisor's eye—hoping they'd ignore him, as long as they paid on time.

So moving quietly and carefully came almost naturally to Henry.

Even if his strength had multiplied beyond measure, as long as he was cautious in daily life, he didn't worry about breaking things and drawing attention.

The same went for his senses, sharpened several times over. How to see without seeing, hear without hearing—these feigning-death skills were ingrained in his bones.

No need to fret about information overload from the outside world. Ignoring useless data wasn't the trick; filtering out even useful stuff—that was the pinnacle of playing dead.

As for smell, no problem there. "Enter a room of orchids, and you won't notice their scent; enter a fish market, and you won't smell the stench." That was an old saying from the ancestors.

Simply put, get used to it, and it's fine. Now he just had a nose that caught a few more odors.

If some stench suddenly hit him, whether his nose was sharp or not, it'd be unpleasant. But once accustomed, it was nothing.

And taste... Henry wasn't a kid, shoving everything into his mouth.

A sharper palate made eating a pleasure—or a torment—but not a big deal.

In short, with the enhancements this body showed, as long as he didn't try to test his limits, living like an ordinary person was easy with his habits.

As for testing limits... why bother?

As long as he could pass for normal, did the limit matter?

He wasn't about to go challenge the Purple Sweet Potato Spirit to a punch-for-punch exchange, seeing who dropped first.

As for his origins, Henry had his guesses. First, Saiyans were out—no tail, no giant monkey under a full moon.

Then, he came from another planet. Looked human, but loved sunbathing. And while soaking up the sun, he could feel himself getting stronger in every way...

These traits brought one word to mind naturally: Superman. Or rather, Kryptonian.

Holy crap, had he wandered into the wrong universe?

That doubt came because he'd confirmed from Old John and other townsfolk that this world did have a Captain America.

They'd pulled out evidence—collector cards, news clippings. Old John even had a wartime photo with the Captain.

All old stuff. No reason to doubt its authenticity.

Second, aside from Captain America, he hadn't heard of other familiar superheroes, but this world had mutants—and plenty of them.

The X-Men and the Brotherhood of Mutants' love-hate drama showed up in tabloids all the time. If the ruckus was big enough, major papers covered it too.

Things like the Cuban Missile Crisis in the '60s and the mutant war in Egypt in '83—regardless of whether the papers saw mutants as a threat, they gave plenty of coverage.

Even today, mutants popping up nearby reminded him this world wasn't just for ordinary humans.

Then vampires and werewolves weren't just bedtime stories or movie fodder. They'd churn out zombies or wipe out a small town—stuff like that showed up in gossip rags regularly.

The US Government's wishy-washy attitude toward suppressing or not suppressing such news hinted at another layer. They didn't want to blow things up, but they didn't want the public completely clueless either.

So the yearly gun control debates went nowhere.

This wasn't just "Happy America, shootings every day." The world was genuinely dangerous. If ordinary folks couldn't even carry guns, they'd be like chicks in the eyes of those monsters.

And finally, one very important thing. The year was 1990. Henry was in some nameless town, Alaska, USA.

When Old John answered that, he oddly added "Earth" at the end, specifying the town's location.

Whether Old John suspected something, Henry didn't care. And Old John didn't seem to care much either.

He was a WWII veteran. Both sons died in Vietnam. Both had wives, but no kids.

The eldest daughter-in-law died of illness early on. The second remarried—no contact since.

In short, Old John was truly alone, with nothing to tie him down. So he'd muddled through the years running this little bar.

He wasn't afraid of how much Henry could eat. He just occasionally hinted that he wasn't senile.

New book—requesting follow-up reads, collections, recommendations. Thank you~