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Over the next few days, Bobbi continued touring Los Angeles and Hollywood with Henry as her guide.
They even managed to slip into several major studio lots for behind-the-scenes visits.
Truth was, people came and went constantly in places like that. Studio guards couldn't possibly recognize everyone.
As long as you didn't lurk around like some paparazzi rat or crazed fan, no one would stop you. Only a few filming locations with strict confidentiality enforced real access control.
With Henry's Screen Actors Guild card on hand, he could walk through most places without any trouble.
They even watched several productions filming—and received very different treatment.
Henry was almost dragged off to help with grunt work.
Meanwhile, Bobbi's looks made the actresses hostile; they assumed she was some random pretty tramp who had slept with the director and was about to steal someone's role.
Before the situation escalated, the two quietly slipped away.
There were no surprise cameo opportunities either—thanks to union rules, no producer dared violate an actor's contract, not even for a background extra.
But Bobbi's stunning appearance and athletic figure caught the attention of more than a few agents and talent scouts.
Despite her stated interest in a Hollywood career, she merely accepted their business cards politely.
Her attitude wasn't eager at all—almost like she had suddenly remembered that academics should come first.
The real pity was: despite her aggressive flirtations, Bobbi never managed to get her man.
Henry found a different excuse each night to politely end the day.
Day 1: "My cat hasn't been fed yet."
Day 2: "My cat got a bone stuck between its teeth."
Day 3: "My cat overate yesterday; I didn't prep enough food today. If I don't go back and watch it, it'll throw a tantrum and wreck the place."
Day 4: "My cat is injured; I need to take care of it early."
(He certainly didn't tell her the "injury" came from him kicking the bratty little tiger the day before. One kick was all it took to correct its behavior. "Love and tenderness" were nonsense—discipline required both grace and force.)
By now, the "tabby cat" Katie had practically become Bobbi's imagined romantic rival.
Day 5, the final day of her winter break—Bobbi was flying back to Georgia, so they hadn't scheduled a tour.
They'd said their goodbyes the day before and agreed to meet again during her next vacation.
After all, East Coast and West Coast weren't exactly a short stroll apart.
But the "no meeting" plan was, of course, intentional.
Following their arrangement, Nick Fury had already stirred up a small gang scuffle in South Los Angeles—right near the Tinkerer's illegal clinic.
It wasn't big enough for the police to care, but not small enough for the participants to just shrug it off.
No one died and no bystanders were hurt.
For the Black and Hispanic gangs—well, Mexican, really—whipping up trouble over a few grams of powder was practically routine.
No one questioned whether someone had engineered the situation.
Light injuries didn't matter; they'd just dab on medicine or spit.
Severe wounds normally meant getting dumped at the ER…and straight into jail.
Doctors didn't need to identify fugitives; their wounds did it for them.
Gunshot? Mandatory reporting. End of story.
But if the injured guy had tight-knit buddies, they might drag him to a vet or some off-the-books medic to avoid the police.
Ever since the Tinkerer opened his clinic, things became much easier:
Just bring them to that filthy, unsanitary-looking hellhole.
His fees were cheap.
His methods? Not so humane.
Baseball-bat anesthesia…
Or having several people pin the patient down so he could cut without anesthetic…
But he kept people alive.
So today, both the Black and Mexican gangs had brought their heavy casualties to the Tinkerer.
Everyone tacitly refrained from fighting on his turf.
Not because the clinic was neutral ground.
But because fighting there meant extra fees for injuries—and both victim and attacker had to pay.
Don't pay?
He'd call the police.
And he didn't even need to say they were stiffing the doctor—whoever came to him always had a filthy record.
Police would find mountains of old charges and haul them off.
Whether they came out again… depended on luck.
Of course, Henry always dumped them far enough away to avoid implicating himself.
Even if the crook tried to name him, cops pretended not to hear.
They'd tried raiding the clinic before—never once found him. Eventually they gave up.
So the two rival gangs—who'd just shot each other an hour earlier—stood side by side before Tinkerer's metal shutter, carefully pretending not to notice each other.
One lifted the shutter, pressed the doorbell attached to the old fridge near the entrance.
Henry opened it, stuck his scarred face out, scanned them, and said:
"Those about to die come in first. Others wait outside."
Having confirmed the target was present, Fury—hidden nearby—immediately used a burner phone to contact Bobbi Morse, S.H.I.E.L.D. intern agent.
Bobbi appeared near Henry's apartment soon after.
She instantly spotted Old Gary sitting outside the building, basking in the morning sun.
She waved lightly. "Morning, Gary."
"Well, if it isn't Bobbi. Morning. Aren't you flying back to college today?"
"These past few days Henry's been taking me all over L.A., so I prepared a thank-you gift last night. Is he home?"
Gary hadn't heard about the Tinkerer business; he'd only seen Henry leave.
So he said, "He just headed out. Doesn't look like he'll be back soon. If you want, you can leave it with me and I'll hand it to him later."
Seeing the pink, dainty little gift bag, he raised an eyebrow.
That definitely didn't look like something you gave to a "just friends" acquaintance.
Gary waggled his brows, wearing a filthy grin.
"So? The guide I introduced you to wasn't bad, right?
If you like him, go for it.
He's a good kid—solid boyfriend material."
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