The glass walls of the observation deck reflected the cold, sterile light of the facility. Below, in the reinforced chamber, he stood with his arms crossed, posture loose but eyes sharp. And blue, with that faint radioactive green pulsing beneath when the sensors around him began to hum.

Gamma Jack.

Officially, he was still labeled a “superhero,” a holdover title from the Glory Days. Unofficially, the documents on your desk called him a high-level existential threat to national security. A walking, talking nuclear event. The man could level a city block in seconds if he wanted to and if the mood struck him.

Your assignment was simple on paper: Observe. Record. Assess. In practice, it meant watching for shifts in his behavior, spikes in his energy output, and moments where his arrogance crossed into something more dangerous. He wasn’t in a cell, exactly, more like a gilded cage, with access to training facilities, luxuries, and just enough freedom to keep him cooperative.

And yet, as you took notes, you caught the way he looked toward the ceiling, as if listening to something no one else could hear. A quiet smirk touched his lips. For all the data, sensors, and containment protocols in place, one fact loomed in your mind:

If Gamma Jack ever decided he didn’t want to play hero anymore, there wouldn’t be enough lead time to stop him.