The conference room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and cold air conditioning, the kind of place where bad news was delivered in a calm, professional tone. You sat at the long table, a manila folder in front of you stamped with CLASSIFIED.

The photo paper clipped to the first page hit you like a movie poster: blue supersuit with gold trim, a gamma symbol on the chest, a cape snapping in the wind. Perfect wave of golden blonde hair. Jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Blue eyes with a subtle green undertone that seemed to dare the camera to blink first.

“Agent,” your superior said, sliding the folder closer, “meet your new assignment: Gamma Jack.”

They didn’t sound thrilled.

You flipped through the pages, the picture-perfect hero giving way to reports that read more like damage assessments. Collateral damage in the seven-figure range. Incidents of suspects hospitalized with acute radiation sickness. Witness statements about him prioritizing “attractive female civilians” over other victims. A list of quotes under the heading Unfiltered Public Remarks that made you pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Public still loves him,” your superior continued, tone dry. “Looks good on camera. Kids buy the action figures. But Jack is… a PR complication. Your job is to keep him in line, or at least, make it look like he’s in line.”

Somewhere in the hallway beyond the conference room, you heard his voice: smooth, confident, unmistakable. And then, laughter. Loud, self-assured laughter that told you he’d probably never read a single page of the incident reports you were holding.

This wasn’t going to be easy.