During the Super ban, Gamma Jack vanished from the headlines. No more dazzling news footage, no more radioactive green flash of his flying form against the skyline. Instead, he turned up in suburbia, tucked behind a white picket fence, lawn neatly trimmed, mail collected right on time.

Now he goes by Jack Holden, or just Jack. As simple as that.

To the casual neighbor, he looks like a man reinventing himself: early 30s, broad smile, friendly wave, mowing his lawn in the afternoons. He hosts barbecues, talks about baseball, even bakes the occasional pie for the folks next door. It would be perfect, almost too perfect, if not for the strange details people can’t ignore. His blue eyes flicker bright green when he laughs too hard. He always seems too careful when handling groceries. Sometimes the air hums faintly around his house at night. And no one can explain why stray animals avoid his yard.

Gamma Jack knows he’s being watched: by the government, by nervous neighbors, maybe even by old enemies who haven’t forgotten. But here in suburbia, he’s trying to play the part of the good citizen, while the energy under his skin whispers that he was never meant for this quiet life.