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The Los Angeles Continental Hotel sat downtown, between Dodger Stadium and Chinatown — one of the earliest-developed districts in the city.
Unlike the New York branch, whose distinctive flatiron silhouette had become a landmark, the L.A. Continental was far more understated in appearance.
Built around the same period — the late 19th to early 20th century — the building showcased an industrial American aesthetic: exposed steel-frame architecture and riveted joints that eliminated the need for heavy load-bearing walls.
That design allowed for larger windows, better natural light, and, on the façade, bold arched motifs blending French Gothic elements into the structure's otherwise utilitarian bones. Even surrounded by modern skyscrapers, it remained strikingly unique — the kind of building that looked like it had a story to tell.
Now, a group of gunmen who had just raided a state senator's mansion walked casually through the front doors, as if they were returning from a casual night out.
Some still had bloodstains on their clothes, yet the doormen didn't even glance at them — much less stop them.
Compared to Charlie's team (the old gunman leading Henry), the Russian syndicate that had collided head-on with the senator's bodyguards was in far worse shape.
They didn't come in through the front entrance — instead slipping through a side alley into a different access door. Wounded men were helped or carried inside; others were covered in white sheets, brought in on stretchers.
Their destination was another lobby — one separate from the main reception hall used by regular guests.
Henry, following Charlie's group, entered through the main hall and reached that same secondary area. There, he saw chaos: hotel staff scrambling to treat the Russian wounded.
Minor injuries were manageable, but for the heavily wounded, even the Continental's on-call surgeons struggled to keep up with the sheer number of casualties pouring in.
Of course, none of that really concerned Henry. He was simply… curious — his eyes wandering over the interior of a hotel he'd passed many times but never actually entered.
Unlike the bright lobbies of typical five-star hotels, the Continental's main hall resembled a dimly lit cocktail bar, designed for whispered deals and dangerous liaisons.
That atmospheric gloom, however, made it a terrible environment for emergency medical care. With so many wounded, several were simply laid out on tables instead of being moved to medical rooms.
Paramedics had to improvise — holding flashlights in their teeth or pulling over standing lamps to get enough light to work by.
Then came a sharp, cold voice from behind:
> "Charlie, what the hell is this? You didn't secretly help Senator Mike Liddell Horton ambush the Russians, did you?"
The speaker was a tall woman in a violet sheath dress, draped in white fox fur. Her crimson hair spilled in waves over her shoulders, and her blood-red lips gleamed even in the dim light.
But it was her eyes — sharp, commanding, and utterly without warmth — that shattered any illusion of softness or beauty. Admiration died in those eyes, leaving only respect... and fear.
Charlie gave a weary smile, feeling the hostile stares from the nearby Russians.
> "Miss Fisher, come on — do I look like I'd do something that stupid? The payout for this job was set from the start. Even if I killed a few Russians on the side, my pay wouldn't increase.
"You know me. I don't waste bullets for free."
> "Then explain," said Mooney Fisher, arms crossed, her gaze sliding toward the unfamiliar face beside him — Henry, whose tattered clothes and awkward posture stood out sharply.
"And who's this impolite-looking young man?"
> "The supposed wildcard of this mission," Charlie replied, "a bulletproof mutant — Henry Brown."
The name made Fisher's brows twitch — and a knowing glint crossed her eyes as she glanced at Henry's lower half, where his makeshift clothing told its own story.
> "Those holes," she asked, "your team's handiwork?"
> "No," said Charlie. "Those were courtesy of the senator's men."
> "Explain."
Charlie gestured for Henry to speak for himself.
Henry met Fisher's gaze without a hint of fear and said plainly,
> "Someone offered me a job I didn't want. I refused. He got angry. That's all."
A simple summary — but one that said everything.
Fisher frowned, processing that, then asked,
> "So those bullet holes all came from the senator's side?"
> "Yup. They went all out — emptied their magazines on me."
Charlie cut in smoothly:
> "We arrived right as that was happening. Seeing the situation, we moved immediately. The senator's group barely fought — most ran as soon as we returned fire.
"We killed a few. The rest fled. This guy was left behind. That's probably why the Russians took such heavy losses — they walked into what was basically the senator's full surviving defense force."
When he finished, everyone's eyes turned instinctively toward Henry.
The Kryptonian gave an awkward, almost shy little smile — the kind that said "What can I say? I'm adorable trouble."
> "So what exactly," Fisher asked, "am I supposed to do with him?"
> "You said it yourself — the order was no survivors," Charlie said. "That's not my call to make. But he's clearly not with the senator, so I saw no reason to execute him on the spot.
"I brought him here so you could decide what happens next."
Mooney Fisher didn't look pleased at having the problem dumped in her lap. The faint irritation in her face didn't escape the others' notice.
Immediately, a sycophant stepped forward.
> "Miss Fisher, there's nothing to decide. Slap a mutant suppression collar on him and put a bullet through his skull — problem solved."
The mutant inhibitor collar was a well-known device in this world. It didn't cancel powers outright — only suppressed them.
When that suppression failed, the collar's secondary function kicked in: an electric shock triggered whenever the wearer tried to use their abilities.
Some models went even further — wired with micro-explosives designed to blow the wearer's head off if they used their powers.
Such devices worked on most mutants… for a while. But in this era, battery life made them unreliable — a stopgap solution at best.
True mutant prisons required custom cells tailored to each inmate's power — for example, Magneto had to be held in a fully plastic chamber, no metal allowed.
But Fisher dismissed the suggestion outright.
Her tone turned cold and sharp as she addressed the would-be executioner:
> "No business transactions on hotel grounds — ever. That's the first rule of the Continental. The moment he walked through those doors, he's under my protection."
Then she turned to Henry.
> "But don't think that protection is permanent," she warned. "This isn't a charity, and we don't shelter refugees for free.
"If you can't pay to stay, you'll be thrown out.
"So tell me — what are you going to do to change my mind?"
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