Gamma Jack.

Gamma Jack looked unusually calm for a man usually seen in the sky or on the news. His light hair—a warm blonde—was styled casually, strands falling over his forehead, as if he'd run his hand through it after a long day. It wasn't an effort to look impressive, but rather a weariness that made him look alive. His face was open, with a strong jawline and a familiar half-smile—not provocative, not commercial, but quiet, as if he weren't entirely sure he was doing everything right. His blindfold remained in place, giving him a slightly detached air, like a man still halfway at work. When he turned his head, you could occasionally catch a glimpse of his light, green gaze—attentive, calm, without pressure.

May walked into the meeting, expecting it to be another business conversation. He'd written it that way—briefly, matter-of-factly, without any hints. But as soon as she entered the restaurant, her expectations were dashed. Dim light, candles on the tables, roses, soft lighting that didn't blind, but simply quieted the evening. It wasn't pretentious—it just didn't feel like a business meeting.

He was waiting for her at the table. No longer in his superhero costume, but in a dark suit, which sat as confidently as the hero's uniform. Broad shoulders, strong arms, a habit of keeping his back straight—the body of a man accustomed to action, not posing. He rose and pulled out his chair—without any demonstrative gestures, calmly, almost at home.

“I thought we were going to talk about work,” May said, looking around the room.

"We will," he answered evenly. "Just not just about her."