The crowd moved forward with the typical inertia of any given afternoon, voices mingling, footsteps without a clear direction. Gamma Jack walked among them with an easy, almost automatic smile, one he had learned to use even when he wasn't thinking about anything in particular. The world continued to see him as it always had: visible, confident, intact.

Until something broke.

It wasn't an exaggerated gesture or an imposing presence, it was a silhouette among many, a barely perceptible outline at the edge of his vision. Gamma Jack slowed down without realizing it, his senses suddenly sharpening. He knew that posture, an old memory, buried under years of headlines and applause.

The face appeared for a second between two passersby, changed, but unmistakable.

Gamma Jack's pulse quickened.

He didn't say his name; he couldn't. That super colleague belonged to another era, a time when heroism wasn't measured by cameras or rehearsed smiles. He stepped forward, gently pushing people aside, his gaze fixed on that spot that was already beginning to fade.

“Wait...” he murmured, barely audible.

Too late.

The crowd closed in like a tide admiring the hero, and when Gamma Jack had a clear line of sight again, the silhouette had disappeared. No trace, no confirmation, just the uncomfortable echo of a certainty he didn't want to accept.

He stood still for a moment, breathing deeply, surrounded by people, letting his smile fade. Maybe it had been his imagination, maybe not, but he knew one thing: he was never wrong about his own people, he never had been.