Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The city awoke to its usual bustle. The avenues filled with impatient cars, horns blaring in a harmonious cacophony, and hurried footsteps rushing against the clock. Office workers with coffee cups in hand, university students carrying backpacks that seemed larger than themselves, shopkeepers opening their metal shutters with a harsh screech, all part of the daily morning ritual. It was the ordinary life of those heading off to another day of work, with routine as their only companion.

But not everyone lived by that rhythm. In the shadows of these ordinary days existed different men and women, possessing impossible gifts, whom the public called Supers. While the city pretended to be normal, they remained vigilant for any sign of danger, ready to intervene between calm and chaos.

Behind that heroic facade, however, lay a much more austere and precise machine, the NSA. A government agency dedicated to monitoring, regulating, and, when necessary, controlling the Supers. They were bureaucrats, strategists, and military personnel working together, with a common goal, maintaining balance.
Society applauded the heroes, but rarely suspected that, behind them, someone was ensuring their power didn't run out of control.

Among those unseen agents was (Y/n). The adopted daughter of a general in the nation's military, her life had never known indulgence. Discipline was her language from childhood. Early mornings, grueling training, lessons in obedience and precision. From a young age, she learned to defend herself like a soldier and move like a spy. She was not allowed any weakness, not even the weakness of doubt in her decisions.

Her inclusion in the NSA wasn't mere nepotism, although her family name opened doors. What truly made her indispensable was her gift. (L/n) could neutralize the abilities of others. The strength that could tear down walls, the speed that defied human perception, the resilience that allowed her to survive impossible wounds, even the manipulation of elements or mind reading... She could neutralize those gifts with an ingrained ethical code as a prerequisite.

Such power was too valuable to be exposed to public scrutiny. For the NSA, she wasn't a hero; she was an asset, a contingency plan. A piece that moved only when the situation demanded it. And she accepted that. She didn't crave the glory of being a superhero or the applause of the masses. She didn't seek to have her name appear in headlines or for people to erect statues in her honor. Her mission was clear: obey, perform, continue. A mantra she repeated silently, convinced that anonymity was her true strength, as she had been conditioned to believe.

The agent entered the office building with a firm step. She had been called to a meeting with her colleagues, a routine gathering where they presented the weekly analysis of the assigned heroes' monitoring data, and shared observations, criticisms, or recommendations to optimize their performance.

It was still early; the building was quiet, almost deserted, except for a few receptionists who, with sleepy expressions, occupied their desks. The silence of the lobby offered her a respite before the bustle of the meeting, and she was grateful not to have to greet too many acquaintances at that moment.

She decided to stop in one of the break rooms, and upon entering, she noticed a familiar face. At the table, with a tired expression and his back slightly hunched, was Mark, a young man with brown hair who was reviewing a report with obvious fatigue. (Y/n) approached naturally, recognizing her old training partner.

"Hey, Mark, how are you?" she greeted softly, sitting down next to him. "You don't seem to have gotten enough rest." The young man barely lifted his eyes, and upon seeing her, he sighed as if her presence instantly alleviated some of his exhaustion.

"You have no idea," he replied, massaging his forehead. "Monitoring Universal Man is a job for people who thrive on adrenaline. This guy never separates his civilian life from his superhero life, so I have to be on alert twenty-four hours a day." He let out a short, ironic laugh rather than a genuine one, before continuing, "And the worst part is when his personal problems with his 'partners' pile up along with the arguments with Blazestone. It creates a chaotic mess of disagreements. Sometimes I feel like I'm monitoring children instead of heroes. At least with these monthly reports, I can get some respite from his presence."

(Y/n) looked at him with an empathetic expression. She knew that Mark was a naturally active, resilient man, someone who enjoyed physical challenges. Seeing him like this, completely drained by the stress, showed how little he enjoyed being assigned to this particular superhero. However, his sense of responsibility compelled him to persevere.

"And what about you?" he asked after a moment of silence, turning his gaze towards his friend. "I suppose, with your skills, dealing with the super you're assigned to isn't that complicated."

Mark knew the abilities of his colleagues, just as they knew his; it was an essential requirement within the NSA, since everyone had to be prepared as a contingency in case a Super went out of control.

(Y/n) pondered for a moment before replying. "Uhm... Hypershock can be impulsive at times," she finally replied, shrugging to soften her admission, "but he fulfills his duties as expected. We just have to pay closer attention to him when he's not in his right mind." She didn't want to go into too much detail; Mark already looked like a walking corpse, to exaggerate, and burdening him with more worries would have been unnecessary.

The truth was that Hypershock, the hero under her care, had developed the unfortunate habit of resorting to alcohol. Intoxication clouded his judgment, triggered severe headaches, and heightened the risk of him using his powers unconsciously. Lately, his drinking had grown worse, forcing her to monitor his abilities more frequently.

Mark chuckled softly, though his voice still carried the weight of fatigue. "I suppose none of us are free from the personal problems of superheroes, right?". That light, though brief, laugh eased the tension in the conversation. (Y/n) silently appreciated that gesture of humanity, an attempt to make the burden they both shared more bearable.

Many of the agents certainly wanted to be part of the BM04I group. That group fell under the direct supervision of manager Rick Dicker. It consisted of the most active and reliable heroes. Those supers with the highest ranks, those whose potential could become a real disaster if it turned against the NSA. They were monitored with special care, but also with respect. However, that was the most coveted team, as they were surrounded by a larger number of agents, assistants, mediators, and even presenters who meticulously crafted their public image.

As the minutes passed, the agents began to arrive at the center. Amidst formal greetings and brief conversations, they exchanged anecdotes about their work, shared some lighthearted jokes, or commented on the weekly reports. The murmuring grew until a voice over the loudspeakers announced the meeting in the conference room. As was customary, everyone followed protocol and moved in an orderly fashion to the designated room.

Once seated, the head supervisor, Mr. Dicker, began the session. "I am pleased that you all could attend," he started in his deep voice, projecting the NSA logo on the screen. "We will proceed as usual, but before that, there are certain procedures that we, the supervisors, have coordinated to update the Superheroes' statistics."

With a click, he changed the slide. The screen displayed the list of registered heroes, each with their respective rank and classification. "There have been some changes in the reported abilities," he explained. "Based on the monitoring you have recently conducted on some of you, a restructuring of the agent assignments will be required, according to each Super's capabilities."

Silence fell over the room. Some agents looked at each other, intrigued; others frowned, wondering what this decision meant. The supervisor sensed the doubts and spoke firmly again. "Everything will depend on the results of the individual interviews that will be conducted with each Super. Once completed, we will determine whether a change in objectives is necessary."

(Y/n) listened attentively, though inwardly she thought it unlikely she would be reassigned. Her ability was unique within the agency, especially for containing Hypershock; it was unlikely another agent could replace that role. Even so, she knew that alternatives existed. The NSA had experimented several times with artificial suppressors—injections capable of inducing a hypnotic state that temporarily blocked a Super's powers. However, their effectiveness were inconsistent and depended on the individual's resistance. If the Super had low endurance, they were easier to neutralize; otherwise, the side effects made the procedure risky, unreliable, and ineffective.

The meeting continued with a review of the weekly reports and new details that required immediate attention. Everything was discussed in a meticulous and formal tone, characteristic of the agency. Working as a spy or informant required absolute discretion. It was an unspoken rule, each agent had to keep the NSA's secrets and those of the Supers, without asking too many questions. During their training, they had all been taught to obey orders and act in silence, aware that information was as dangerous as any weapon.

Finally, Dicker raised his voice to conclude the session. “Each of you will report to your respective supervisors. They will assign you the appropriate procedures for interviewing your targets.” The murmuring ceased. The agents, disciplined, stood up, ready to receive their new instructions. The day had just begun.

Mark and (Y/n) took different paths to their respective rooms, as each of them reported to different supervisors. The young woman's team consisted of three agents, herself, in charge of Hypershock; John Williams, responsible for Everseer; and Erick Anderson, the group leader, who supervised the superhero known as Stormicide.

The (h/c)-nette couldn't help but feel a bit envious of Anderson. Stormicide was known as the most calm, responsible, and focused of her generation; her relaxed personality made monitoring her easier, but it also made her the most unpredictable member of the group. Stormicide was the only woman in that circle of Supers on her team. For (Y/n), this represented an opportunity to empathize, to find a connection with someone similar. However, that same quality was seen by the NSA as a risk. Sympathizing too much could compromise the agent's impartiality.

The Supers under her charge rarely interacted with each other, which demonstrated the wide variety of abilities and dynamics that each team had to monitor. Her supervisor was Sir Grayson, a man with a dignified bearing, a serene gaze, and natural authority. An old acquaintance of her father, he was one of the few who knew both the strengths and weaknesses of the woman agent; that was why she had been assigned to be his subordinate.

"Well, since all three of you are here," he began calmly, holding three folders in his hands. "Each of your assignments has been outlined. Here you will also find the standard questions you must use during the interviews with your respective Supers." He handed each agent their corresponding folder.

Upon reviewing it, (Y/n) noticed that it contained the schedule for meetings with Hypershock, as well as a questionnaire that mixed technical aspects of his abilities with personal questions. Some of the latter seemed unnecessary, almost intrusive, as if deliberately designed to make the interviewee feel uncomfortable. Even so, she understood the hidden purpose, to provoke reactions, to destabilize the Super's emotional state, and thus reveal facets that would otherwise remain hidden in a controlled environment. Unethical, perhaps, but such measures had to be taken.

Worried about what might happen, she spoke up. "Excuse me, Sir, don't you think some of these questions could provoke unwanted reactions from the Super? I understand the need to verify information, but the magnitude of Hypershock's powers could cause a disaster in our facility... one that perhaps even I wouldn't be able to fully contain."

(Y/n) knew well what the limits of her ability were. Although she trained tirelessly to increase her endurance, the prolonged use of her power required a tremendous amount of energy and adrenaline, proportional to the force she had to counteract. Her endurance was good, yes, but not limitless; if the Super's strength exceeded that threshold, she wouldn't be able to maintain control for long and would collapse. That's why she had to use her gift with utmost discretion.

Sir Grayson observed her silently for a moment, before responding with the same solidity that characterized him. "Don't worry, Miss (L/n). There will be countermeasures in place should what you fear occur." He set aside his folder and took out another, thicker and different one, containing additional information not shared at the general meeting. "This wasn't presented at the plenary session to avoid creating chaos or unnecessary confusion," he explained. "Each supervisor is responsible for explaining the details to their team."

He pulled out some sheets and placed them on the table. They showed the design of some devices, discreet black wristbands with an elegant metallic finish. The manufacturer's logo clearly indicated their origin; they had been developed by the renowned superhero costume designer, Edna Moda, whose creations were both functional and effective.

"These bracelets monitor the superhero's heartbeat," he explained. "If an abnormal increase is detected, such as that which precedes the use of their powers, the device automatically releases a sedative into the bloodstream."

The document detailed the substance, a compound called Nerfisol, a laboratory drug designed exclusively for gifted organisms. In ordinary humans, it dulled the senses, generating a deep drowsiness accompanied by a degree of disorientation. However, in Supers, it acted differently; rather than weakening them, it modulated their nerve impulses, attenuating the intensity of energy discharges and reducing emotional impulsiveness. The effect didn't completely nullify their abilities, but it did slow their reactions, producing an artificial state of calm.

(Y/n) examined the graphs carefully. It was an ingenious method, although she couldn't help but think that, in essence, it was just another form of control disguised as a preventative measure.

To the young woman's surprise, her colleague Williams spoke up to express a concern. "What countermeasure exists to counteract Everseer?" he asked seriously. "I know this super-powered individual trusts the NSA, but his powers of clairvoyance and telepathy could distort the perception of those of us participating in the interview, putting me at a distinct disadvantage."

According to the reports compiled by Williams, Everseer was a highly intelligent hero with rather peculiar methods. However, he also possessed a well-documented weakness: a severe phobia of germs; a direct consequence of his "microscopic vision" ability, which forced him to perceive impurities invisible to the naked eye.

Upon hearing this, Mr. Grayson pulled another document from his folder, unfolding it calmly on the table. "The cases of Psycwave and Everseer are unique," he clarified with a firm voice. "They will first be administered a special drink designed to temporarily alter certain cognitive patterns." The document detailed its composition. It was a synthetic infusion known as Kalmeron Essence, a silvery-blue liquid with a faint, cool herbal aroma. In ordinary humans, it produced a mild drowsiness, similar to that of diluted opium, but in supers, it acted differently; it didn't induce sleep, but rather slowed down the overstimulation impulses in the cerebral cortex, thus reducing the intensity of their psychic powers.

"Depending on their mood," Grayson continued, "They will react differently to the effects of this drink. In Everseer's case, simply mentioning his obsessive-compulsive disorder related to cleanliness is enough to distract him and diminish his control”.

The explanation was received in attentive silence. The agents understood that they not only had to be present at all their team's interviews, but also maintain a high level of mental and physical discipline, in case any countermeasures became necessary. With those questions clarified, the meeting ended, and each agent returned to their respective posts.

As she left, the young woman looked around for her friend Mark, hoping his session was over. However, there was no sign of him. It didn't surprise her; the team he belonged to was one of the most unusual in the division. Besides Universal Man, his group had to monitor Blazestone, Psycwave, and the most narcissistic of the heroes, Gamma Jack. They were superhumans with extremely high levels of unpredictable behavior, whether consciously or unconsciously. In Universal Man's case, it was more due to his identity issues than a real threat, but the risk remained.

The young woman sighed. Hypershock, her personal assignment, was not very different. He wasn't outside that circle of risk, although he was more manageable under her supervision. For these two years, she had carried the burden of neutralizing him, and this was kept hidden from the public. In the rare cases when this Super's powers went out of control, she was always there to contain him, in the shadows. And that certainty, though invisible, had become her own form of responsibility.

(Y/n) needed a break. She had to return to her apartment and calmly review the documents for the interviews scheduled for the coming days. Above all, she hoped that Hypershock wouldn't cause any trouble prematurely. Keeping him under control was, after all, her most immediate duty. Although she didn't communicate directly with him, she had developed discreet methods to distract him from a distance. It was enough to direct his attention to news on the radio, television reports, or local broadcasts that would encourage him to act in his role as a hero. That was the advantage of living close to her assigned location. It wasn't 24-hour surveillance, but it was close enough to respond to any eventuality.

The streets she walked along to reach her home were a reflection of the city itself, albeit a more residential version, with modern buildings and shops that opened early for the morning rush. The streetlights still flickered, battling the last vestiges of night, while scattered pedestrians walked calmly to their destinations. She found comfort in this atmosphere; amidst so much secret duty, these everyday routines seemed almost a reminder of a life she could never have.

Once in her apartment, the young woman completed her daily hygiene routine and then sat down to review the submitted documents. She reread details such as the interview dates for the other superheroes, all in different offices on separate days. According to the schedule, Hypershock would be interviewed first. Two days later, Stormicide would follow, and finally, after another forty-eight hours, Everseer.

It would undoubtedly be an intense week, with each team dispersing to different locations to carry out the meticulously planned schedule devised by the IT department.

While reviewing the schedule, she thought about how different her life would have been if she had led an ordinary existence. Perhaps she would have liked to be an office worker, have a simple routine, dress up to go shopping with friends, or spend afternoons in casual conversation. Maybe even explore the possibility of romance. But since her youth, she had lived under a regime of constant training, shaped by her powers and the environment around her. Those luxuries were far beyond her reach. Even so, she allowed herself a small escape; under her disguise, she wore discreet clothing, like any ordinary civilian, in order to blend in with the crowd.

The following morning started early. Her alarm clock went off at five o'clock; it was Friday, a day she usually dedicated to preparing provisions that would last her several days. After freshening up quickly, she went to the kitchen and organized her snacks: canned goods, cut fruit, packaged bread, and some prepared dishes that were easy to reheat. She took advantage of these hours because Hypershock usually woke up later on weekends.

This extra time allowed her to get ready without interruption, clean her apartment, go shopping, and, from time to time, maintain friendly relations with the neighbors so they wouldn't suspect her true occupation. Maintaining a low profile in the neighborhood was vital; being visible was more useful than any other facade. Even so, there were days when she couldn't resist a small luxury, sleeping a few extra hours, allowing herself the rest she so desperately needed after the exhausting pace her job demanded.

The weekend passed without incident, something (h/c)-nette was immensely grateful for. This respite allowed her to resume her morning exercises with renewed discipline, exercises designed to increase her stamina and refine her control over her power. Meanwhile, Hypershock remained at home, mostly silent, finding solace in long movie marathons and the constant company of his bottles. There were no scandals, and that, in her world, was already a victory.

After the weekend break, the day of the interview arrived. The hero had been notified in advance through the official NSA channels, and the young woman prepared herself mentally for what she, deep down, sensed would not be an easy encounter.

Upon arriving at the facility, she found her colleagues already gathered. They greeted her with warm, yet formal, salutations, as usual, before focusing on waiting. To her relief, Hypershock arrived on time. His demeanor, at least outwardly, seemed composed.

Following protocol, the bracelet was placed on his wrist, with the false claim that it would monitor his heart rate and blood pressure. The hero accepted it with some reluctance, examining it as if assessing an unfamiliar object, though he eventually complied. The drink prepared by the agency was also placed on the table, presented as a natural supplement he could consume at his discretion.

The interview began with a moderate and respectful tone. (Y/n), trying not to upset the superhero, exchanged pleasantries and made some preliminary comments, even offering a few calculated compliments to ease the tension. Then she addressed the first questions on the list. For a while, everything went smoothly.

However, soon the effects of his recurring migraine set in. Hypershock began to complain vehemently about the treatment he was receiving, launching accusations about the incompetence of those assisting him. The atmosphere grew tense, but the bracelet reacted to the sudden increase in his heart rate, and a controlled dose of the tranquilizer was released into his system.

The change was almost immediate. The super-powered man's muscles relaxed, his voice lost its aggressive tone, and his gaze regained a certain composure. Everyone present watched this transformation with surprise and caution. The method seemed to be working. To the agents' bewilderment, Hypershock himself stated that he felt comfortable with the bracelet and asked if he could keep it. There were no objections; it was better to grant his request than risk another altercation.

Nevertheless, the young female agent remained intrigued. While the others maintained the formality of the session, she decided to risk a question outside protocol—a discreet question, barely disguised as a casual remark. "Tell me, why do you resort to alcohol so often? Is it just the headaches… or is there something else?”

The super, still under the influence of the painkiller, replied with unusual frankness "There are vibrations… I feel them in my head, like trapped waves. If I don't release those tremors, the pain intensifies. Drinking helps me to… relax them, to silence them, even if only for a while.”

The (h/c)-nette was surprised by the confession. She took notes quickly, jotting down every detail. Carefully, she suggested—"Have you considered a medical examination with the Agency's specialists? They might find another way to relieve that discomfort.”

Hypershock shook his head, decisively, though not aggressively “It's not necessary. I can manage it. I always have.”

She sensed the limit of his patience and didn't press the issue further. The tranquilizer had already had its effect; risking the super's stability would be unwise.

The interview concluded with the usual protocol. Thanks, farewell, and the hero's release. However, when alone with her supervisor, the young woman shared what had happened with seriousness. "Sir, I think a mandatory medical examination should be considered. If what he described is true, we might be looking at a pattern that explains his dependence, and perhaps an opportunity to intervene before his power overwhelms him. Research into this could reduce future risks without relying solely on my neutralization."

Mr. Grayson listened attentively, nodding slowly as he glanced through the notes she showed him. "An interesting point, Ms. (L/n). We'll take it into account. Perhaps there's more to this than meets the eye. You may leave."

The young woman nodded. "I'm just doing my job, sir." She said goodbye to her supervisor and left, but with a lingering sense of unease, though also with the satisfaction of having sown a seed. Perhaps, amidst that cold, bureaucratic system, there was still room for finding real solutions.

Days passed, and the next interview turned out to be more charismatic and engaging than worrisome. Stormicide presented herself with a light and approachable demeanor, spoke about her skills, her responsibilities, and even shared a couple of personal anecdotes that brought smiles to the team. She even showed a certain vulnerability when mentioning the burden of taking care of her uncle, which humanized her even further in everyone's eyes. There were no issues during the session; her committed and benevolent character made her an open collaborator, willing to provide any detail requested.

For the team, this was a relief; they didn't have to activate the contingency plans in case her gaseous powers got out of control.

At that point, only one interview remained, and it wasn't just any interview. Everseer was waiting, and everyone knew they had to be extremely careful. A single inappropriate gesture, a suspicious movement, or a lapse in hygiene could trigger his germ-phobia.

The final interview, indeed, was more overwhelming than rewarding. Everseer's obsession with cleanliness created a tense atmosphere; maintaining composure in front of him was uncomfortable, as if any mistake could trigger his relentless judgment. Even so, they managed to get through the session. Interestingly, tacitly, everyone present seemed to have deduced why this super didn't have any close relationships or a partner.

However, it was noted that he did maintain a professional relationship with Psycwave, so it was recommended that both of them share the same therapist, which could balance the psychological tension they projected during the interviews.

Once the work was finished, all the supers' data was duly updated, including their flaws, weaknesses, strengths, abilities, and character traits. It was an intense week, so busy that there was barely any time for the constant monitoring of each designated superpowered individual. And yet, (Y/n) couldn't help but feel something strange; throughout the entire week, she hadn't had any issues with Hypershock. The calming effect of the bracelet seemed to be working, although she knew its effect was limited. She trusted that, even though her monitoring visits had decreased, the NSA was already conducting tests with the vibrations that used to destabilize the superpowered individual.

A phone call pulled her from her thoughts. From her cubicle, she answered the phone and immediately recognized her supervisor, Mr. Grayson's voice. His tone was firm, as always, but it hinted at the urgency of the matter; he requested her immediate presence. She confirmed, hung up calmly, and stood up.

As she headed towards her boss's office, she surmised that the conversation would likely be about Hypershock—perhaps an update on his condition or a change in the monitoring strategy. She knocked on the door and, upon hearing the "come in" from inside, entered with her usual formality.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Grayson?" she asked in a clear voice.

The supervisor looked up from the document he was reviewing and gave her his full attention. He gestured to the seat across from his desk. "Miss (L/n), please, have a seat. I have an important matter to discuss with you," he said, his tone calm, yet conveying the seriousness of the situation.

She nodded and settled into the chair, aware that these words never meant anything trivial. On the table, she noticed several folders with labels for the different teams. The one Mr. Grayson held had the code of the group her friend Mark belonged to. Her heart tightened for a moment. Had something happened to her friend?

Before she could even formulate her questions, the answer came. "The reports from the other teams have already been submitted," Grayson continued, without looking away from the folder. "And due to certain incidents during the recent interviews, team BR013 has suggested a personnel change, or the addition of extra support for monitoring one of their supers."

The young woman straightened her posture, her gaze becoming firm and determined. If they had called her here, it was because she was considered the right person for this task. That could only mean a change in her assignment, something she had already anticipated from the initial reunion with the general supervisor, Mr. Dicker.

Mr. Grayson sensed this thought reflected in her expression. From the folder, he opened a specific page and spoke without further ado. "To get straight to the point, Miss (L/n), you have been assigned to monitor the super Gamma Jack."

The open document revealed the super's file, with the image of that narcissistic man whose fame and temper made him one of the most 'difficult' to handle.

The young woman couldn't help but show surprise upon hearing the name of the hero she would now be monitoring. For a moment, she thought it would be about supporting her friend Mark, considering the recent problems with Universal Man. But Gamma Jack? That made no sense. Why assign her to a superpowered individual who—at least according to previous reports—seemed to manage his impulses relatively effectively and fulfill his duties as a hero? It was true that he showed a certain preference for choosing missions that suited him, and that he cultivated a reputation based more on his attractiveness and the attention of numerous female admirers than on serious conflicts. But none of that, in (Y/n)'s opinion, justified such a drastic change in her assignment.

"I don't understand... why? Did something happen with Gamma Jack that warrants my neutralization?" she asked cautiously, unable to hide the suspicion in her voice.

Mr. Grayson, understanding her doubts, slid a document across the desk. "I think you need to review his file," he said calmly. She took the folder and, curiously, began to read. As she did so, her boss continued explaining, "His previous agent reported some inappropriate decisions during his missions. Although the collateral damage has been minor, enough to go unnoticed by the public, these incidents still compromise the superhero service's credibility."

The reading revealed a disturbing portrait: tyrannical tendencies, megalomaniacal impulses, and a dangerous belief that supers were a superior race. (Y/n) frowned. She knew that, deep down, many supers harbored that kind of ego or sense of superiority; some disguised it discreetly, others revealed it without shame. Gamma Jack clearly belonged to the latter group.

Grayson continued, "In the latest interview, some of these impulses were confirmed. Fortunately, he didn't reach an extreme. However, he recognized the 'journalist' observing him as an undercover agent. He even admitted that he almost killed him, mistaking him for a villain, but he stopped himself when he discovered he belonged to the NSA."

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow. That spoke of a sharp intelligence, perceptive down to the smallest detail. However, it also highlighted how volatile his character could be. “I understand the mission… but I still don’t understand why me,” she inquired, revealing her pent-up frustration.

The supervisor pointed to a section in the file. She glanced down and saw a note that made her purse her lips in discomfort “Favoritism towards women.”

Every agent knew that Gamma Jack usually prioritized rescuing women, even if it meant acting recklessly. But what the report added was even more absurd. He found it difficult to eliminate overly attractive female villains, delaying confrontation and sometimes jeopardizing the mission. Only after struggling with his own weakness did he finally fulfill his duty. For that reason, it was recommended that he be assigned tasks where the presence of female villains was minimal.

To the (h/c)-nette, this seemed almost absurd. That a weakness like attraction to women... Was it considered a tactical factor? She forced herself to suppress a grimace of disbelief.

"If what you want is for Gamma Jack to be monitored by a female agent... don't you think that could be, precisely, another distraction?" she questioned, calmly but with an obvious sense of unease.

Mr. Grayson interlaced his fingers on the desk, not taking his eyes off her. "That was the initial thought, which is why a male agent was assigned to monitor him. But we reached a point where we understood that we had to use his preferences to our advantage, instead of ignoring them." His words made her feel like a mere tactical resource, just another cog in a machine that didn't consider her humanity. She didn't like the idea at all. She understood her role as a neutralization agent; she accepted that her ability was a unique asset, but being reduced to "the female solution" to control a super-narcissist gave her an uncomfortable, almost bitter feeling.

"Why now?" she insisted, with a hint of vulnerability. "What's the difference between me and any of my female colleagues? If his 'weakness' is women, any of us could fill this role."

Grayson's silence lasted only an instant, long enough for her to feel that the answer was obvious. Finally, he replied calmly, "You already know the answer, Ms. (L/n). And I don't feel the need to state it aloud. But if you want it clarified, I will confirm it. You are the only optimal option for someone with unpredictable behavior like Gamma Jack."

The words weighed more heavily than she expected. (Y/n) took a deep breath, suppressing everything she wanted to say. There was nothing more to say; the decision had been made, and she knew it. With empathy for herself, she understood that her role wasn't just a resource, but a reflection of the trust they placed in her, even if the way they communicated it was rigid. But that was the nature of her job; emotions shouldn't interfere, so even with the discomfort burning in her chest, she accepted the challenge. "If that's what everyone decided, I can't refuse," she said with a controlled voice, accepting the order more out of duty than conviction.

The supervisor nodded and added, with the same seriousness that had characterized the entire conversation, "Please, keep this confidential. I don't want it to get out; it could generate unnecessary internal controversy among the staff, and right now, we don't want a scandal related to the Supers' actions."

The warning struck home. She understood the classified nature of the assignment and responded with the professional discretion required. "You have my word," she whispered coldly, but a practical question immediately came to mind. "And what happens with my current assignment? Who will take charge of Hypershock?"

Mr. Grayson placed an additional folder on the table and, with a calm, professional gaze, began, "Thanks to the observation you made during the interview," he explained, "Measures have already been taken to mitigate the Hypershock problem. Don't worry, its monitoring will remain in the hands of the previous Gamma Jack team for the time being."

At that moment, everything fell into place in her mind; the transfer allowed (Y/n) to focus on Gamma Jack, while simultaneously strengthening Hypershock's security with personnel familiar with that group. It was an administrative solution that prevented operational problems.

"Just focus on your new mission," the supervisor continued. "We don't want you to be recognized as an agent. Choose the disguise you prefer; inform the IT team so they can provide you with a fake ID and register you with the briefing room." He handed her the folder where she had to sign the relevant documents. "You can take this file with you. Collect the rest of the background information at the briefing room and arrange your move to be near Gamma Jack's residence."

He handed her a document to sign: instructions, an operational code, and a simple confidentiality agreement. She signed without hesitation, though each stroke of the pen reminded her of the irreversible nature of the change.

"You can take that folder," he said, pointing to the file on the desk, "and please, retrieve his background information from the computer room." She nodded, stood up, but before leaving, Mr. Grayson laid down the final instruction, firm but not without a certain pressure and gravity "I have high expectations that you will not fail in this mission, Miss (L/n)."

The oyung woman replied with the most sincere and formal determination she could muster "You have my word, Mr. Grayson." And she left, her mind buzzing with tasks, meticulously noting each practical detail: moving near Gamma Jack's residence, obtaining a convincing civilian identity, coordinating schedules with the technical team.

Even so, Mr. Grayson's mention of avoiding a "scandal" lingered in her mind like a strange, unsettling feeling. What exactly had he meant? The press? Public outrage? Something darker that they couldn't yet reveal? She decided not to dwell on it further... At that moment, there was immediate work to do, and she decided to leave that conjecture for later.

The computer room smelled of warm metal and stale coffee. Rows of monitors emitted a low hum; a distant server fan whirred steadily. She gathered the files she had been instructed to take, and as she left the secure hallway where the information was stored, she ran into someone she was glad to see Mark, taking a break in the small lounge area, his eyes still tired but happy to see her. "Hey, Mark," she greeted him, trying to make her voice sound light.

"Oh," he replied, sitting up. "Hey (Y/n). I saw you leave your boss's office a while ago. Everything okay? Any trouble with Hypershock?" He glanced in the direction of the office and then turned his attention back to her. She smiled with a hint of irony. "Nothing like that. I was more curious about how your interview with your supervisor went. According to the schedule, Universal Man was the last one on your team to be interviewed."

Mark let out a sigh, a mixture of exasperation and relief. "Dramatic. That sums it up." She gave a brief, gentle smile. "At least he didn't use his powers, right?" she asked, still worried about any possible incident. "No," he replied. "And I'm grateful for that."

She took the opportunity to broach another topic that concerned her. "And the other interviews? How was Gamma Jack?"

The brown-haired man considered what to say, aware of the discretion required. "Um... during the interview, he was basically the same guy: decent, arrogant, pleasant, and charming when it suits him," he began, with a hint of surprise. "He took the Kalmeron potion without hesitation; to be honest, it relaxed him quite a bit, and he let slip—let's say—some uncomfortable truths. Nothing explosive, but... revealing."

Mark relaxed as he added his next comment. "But you know how Gamma Jack is; even half 'high,' his behavior is always the same."

She frowned, trying to piece things together. If this was standard procedure, why was Mr. Grayson emphasizing her assignment so much? Before she could think further, Mark tilted his head, raised an eyebrow, and interrupted her with a teasing tone "Why are you asking? Are you a Gamma Jack fan?"

"No!" she replied quickly, surprised. "I was just assigned as his new monitor. I wanted to know any useful details or get some context."

His surprise was genuine. He sat up a little, leaning his back against the edge of the table "You are the replacement? Wow! I thought they'd transfer him to Mr. Dicker's team. That would have been the most logical thing..." He lowered his voice, realizing how obvious the decision was, so he changed his emphasis "But yes, Alex messed up by letting himself be discovered as an agent."

The news hit her with a mix of surprise and doubt, because the information her friend was giving was different from what her boss had told her "Alex?" she repeated, remembering the name of the previous assigned agent. "What exactly happened?"

Mark continued, crossing his arms "I don't have all the details, but he was making a call to the agency and didn't realize Gamma Jack was nearby and overheard the entire conversation."

The (h/c)-nette noticed that her friend was completely unaware of the other side of the story, and it was actually better that he didn't know. With a wry smile, feigning sarcasm, she commented—"Well, now I'll be his fan who follows him everywhere... I hope that doesn't get me in trouble."

The brown-haired boy could barely contain his laughter, covering his mouth with his fist. "A toxic and stalking fan?" he joked, teasingly. "Maybe, with your persistence, he'll try to avoid you."

The young woman burst into laughter and agreed with the idea "Haha, exactly! This stalking fan will give Gamma Jack chills."

They both laughed heartily at the exaggerated sarcasm, until the laughter gradually faded into a more comfortable silence. Mark spoke again, this time in a softer, almost empathetic voice. "You shouldn't worry so much about keeping an eye on him. For now, the friendship Gamma Jack has with Mr. Incredible, Frozone, and, I think, Gazerbeam, keeps him quite distracted. So you're bound to run into some of Mr. Dicker's agents." He leaned back in his chair, relaxed. "How lucky you are, your workload is a bit lighter."

(Y/n) shrugged with a certain resignation. "I wish the same for your team, which now has Hypershock in their hands." The brown-haired man let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah... well, that's not my problem anymore. I have enough with the super I'm assigned to."

Just then, his watch alarm interrupted the conversation, his break was over. Mark let out a heavy sigh, but immediately recovered with a smile for his friend. "You'll do well in your new assignment," he assured her, sincerely. "You're good at this, even if they sometimes treat you like just another resource." He rolled his eyes ironically, clearly referring to their rigid supervisors, and added with a hint of warning, "Just be careful not to fall for his charm. Gamma Jack can be... He can be very charming when he wants to be".

She shook her head, self-assured. "I don't think he'd be interested... not with my rather serious appearance."

Mark raised an eyebrow, incredulous, but didn't press the issue. "Good luck, then." He stood up and, after a brief, friendly gesture, left to attend to his own affairs. She, with a slight smile that couldn't quite hide a certain unease, replied with a simple "Thank you."

As he left, the young woman headed towards her desk. Now she had to focus on training herself for the role she had been assigned, that of a supposed superhero fan. Ironical, but practical.

A new challenge awaited her, moving from monitoring an unstable alcoholic to controlling a charming narcissist. At least the latter knew how to manage his powers better, but his attitude was another story. She knew it; her only weapon in this situation would be discipline, discretion, and prudence.

"What could be so difficult about that?" she thought.

Chapter Text

She had finished unpacking some belongings in the new apartment assigned to her, strategically located opposite the residence of the super's civilian identity, whom she was now assigned to monitor.

At first glance, the place where this super lived seemed surprisingly modest, revealing that, beyond his good looks, he also cultivated a simple lifestyle. Her own accommodation, in contrast, was neither humble nor luxurious; a functional, discreet, and suitable space, with the basic amenities provided by the government. Nothing more, but also nothing less; enough to fulfill her mission.

Before starting the monitoring, the young woman had already organized a schedule based on the previous reports she had received. With meticulous order, she arranged her time, striving to adapt to the routine she would have to follow. While reviewing her predecessor's log, she noticed that the super maintained an almost flawless schedule, with structured days and a discipline that spoke volumes about his personality. Furthermore, just as he controlled his powers and his schedule, he also seemed to control his environment and the people around him.

Gamma Jack—whose real name was Jackson Hands—held a degree in chemistry and physics and had recently started a new job at a nuclear power plant. A superhero with an education, a good salary, and, as an added bonus, the extravagance of working as a model. The (h/c)-nette was surprised that they shared the same age and an interest in the sciences, which now explained how he had developed that narcissistic attitude and that air of superiority that was so characteristic of him.

When she went to take her medication, she noticed that there was only one pill left in the blister pack. She had been so focused on sending the final Hypershock report that she forgot to ask her father to bring her more. He was currently out of state and wouldn't be back for a while.

She had maintained stable health throughout the week, so she calculated that a few weeks without medication shouldn't affect her too much, as long as she was careful not to overuse her powers. Even so, she sent a voice message to her father, knowing he would want to take care of things as soon as he received the news.

That medication wasn't produced by regular pharmaceutical laboratories; it had been specially formulated for her. Since childhood, doctors had diagnosed a particular neurological condition in her. Using her powers caused spasms that could destabilize her system, so she needed a regulating medication.

The specialists had always recommended that she maintain a balanced diet and a morning exercise routine to relax her brain cells. If she managed to maintain these habits, her body could develop enough resilience to use her abilities more efficiently, without depending so much on medication.

Today, then, she would test her discipline without the support of the treatment. She would be cautious, that was obvious, and she knew it; she wasn't so reckless as to risk her life with her own powers. But (Y/n) also understood that she couldn't depend on a pill forever to maintain control.

It was one of those sunny days that seemed to invite you to go out without rushing, although for her everything was part of a precise calculation. She had chosen a wide-brimmed hat and dark sunglasses, accessories that gave her a distinguished air and, at the same time, helped her to go unnoticed.

To anyone's eyes, she was nothing more than a writer looking for inspiration; that was the fictional identity that (h/c)-nette had to portray, even though she wasn't familiar with that profession. For that reason, in the previous days, she had reviewed certain literary concepts and techniques that she had taken from manuals, enough to hold a conversation if someone were to question her role.

As for her supposed obsession with Gamma Jack, that was just an excuse, a rehearsed alibi to justify any suspicious approach. During the journey, she had practiced different scenarios and responses, so that, if she found herself cornered, she could react naturally.

The superhero's itinerary was as predictable as a Swiss watch. In the early morning, she went to her job at the nuclear power plant; At noon, he would head to a restaurant with a simple yet elegant style; in the afternoon he usually had free time, although it varied from day to day. That particular day, (Y/n) was already waiting for him at that same restaurant.

The place exuded formality, neatly arranged tables, walls lined with light-colored wood, and a constant murmur of discreet conversations. She had chosen an outfit befitting the setting, a blouse made of a light fabric, with long sleeves that fell softly over her skin, and a pencil skirt that accentuated her figure with a balance of understated elegance. She didn't usually dress like that, but seeing herself in the reflection in the restaurant's mirrors, she couldn't help but feel a quiet pride in how well she projected that feminine side she rarely showed.

Then she saw him. Jackson Hands, without his mask or superhero hairstyle, entered with a naturalness that radiated confidence. He wore a light-colored, perfectly tailored suit that accentuated his impeccable bearing. This young blond man, with his practiced smile and composed walk, was even more attractive than the rumors suggested. She now understood why many called him Handsome Jack and why so many women ended up falling for his charm.

She pretended to read a magazine, a current issue she carried with her as a prop for her role as a writer. The section she was skimming focused on the sudden collapse of a financial company that, after years of growth, had begun to incur massive losses. The article speculated about possible internal fraud, lack of innovation, and an impending bankruptcy that would leave hundreds of employees without a livelihood. The dramatic tone of the article provided the perfect excuse to justify her focused attention on the pages, although in reality, her eyes were more focused on the movements of her target.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jackson naturally compliment the waitress, who, blushing, thanked him with a wide smile for each kind word. It was obvious that he knew how to use his charisma as a weapon, a tool as sharp as any of his superpowers.

The (h/c)-nette decided not to let herself be distracted by this flirtatious scene and returned her focus to the article, pretending to be interested in the financial crisis described. Shortly after, the dish she had ordered arrived at her table. She politely thanked the waiter and began to eat calmly, taking care to keep a low profile.

However, a feeling washed over her—someone was watching her. She discreetly raised her eyes, scanning the room with a natural gesture. And there he was, staring at her from his table, with those penetrating blue eyes, a thoughtful expression on his face as if trying to decipher something. She discreetly averted her gaze to her snack, hiding the tension that had suddenly gripped her. She had almost forgotten that, besides his impeccable appearance, the super was attentive to every detail of his surroundings. She couldn't let her behavior give her away.

With an imperceptible sigh, she resumed eating, reminding herself that this attention probably meant nothing. Perhaps he had simply noticed that she was a new face in a place where the customers were usually regulars. Yes, that must be it. There was no reason to be upset.

The (h/c)-nette planned that the following day she would eat at the coffe across the street, wear a different outfit, and observe from a distance—a routine designed to delay the time before her identity could be linked to her continued presence near the super. Even so, she felt uneasy about being watched as if she were an object; the blonde man's intense gaze was making her uncomfortable. Fortunately, the gentleman's meal arrived, brought by the same friendly waitress, so the tension she had felt on her shoulders relaxed.

But as the minutes passed, a commotion broke the calm; shouts, rattling glass, people leaping from their chairs and running in panic. She had no doubt about her theory; a villain was nearby. She glanced at where the super had been, but noticed he was already gone. She inferred that Gamma Jack would make his appearance very soon.

Following protocol, she left her meal unfinished and went outside to identify the source of the panic and report it to the NSA. From the sidewalk, the scene was grotesque, a thick, viscous mass advanced down the street as if it were a living thing, its sticky tendrils clinging to lampposts and car hoods. In the center of this substance floated a metallic capsule with a screen; on it was projected the face of the perpetrator. "Surrender to me!" the face on the screen roared. "I am Polybomen; anything that stands in my way will be subdued and broken!"

The substance left a crusty residue in its wake, as if it hardened into a shell that immobilized vehicles and furniture. (Y/n) recognized the chemical composition at a glance, a polymer with borax; the capsule must be the core where Polybomen synthesized the mixture.

She took out the specialized radio the NSA had provided and, in a measured voice, reported the threat code and the villain's identity: "Alpha-3 code, agent (L/n), Polybomen, polymer-borax, active on 50th Street. Gamma Jack will intervene. Requesting risk assessment and possible reinforcements." Within seconds, the command center's response was standard protocol; they acknowledged receipt and activated the strategic team.

The young woman limited her communications to factual information: locations, trajectories, and the approximate number of civilians affected. She knew she couldn't overload the network with speculation; her role was to observe and report, to observe and gather useful data to prevent collateral damage.

Gamma Jack soon appeared, bursting from the corner in a decisive stride, his suit impeccable, his smile calculated, and radiating the confidence of someone who knew how to blend appearance with power.

The crowd, upon seeing him, erupted in cheers and relief; many people shifted from panic to hope. He waved his hand and then stood before the crowd, assessing the situation with trained eyes. His first attempt was direct; he illuminated the substance with a beam of medium-intensity radiation. The effect was immediate and worrying; the polymer reacted, and the nearest car began to disintegrate into a thin, brittle layer. A woman who had remained too close screamed and stepped back.

Gamma Jack stopped abruptly. The confident expression on his face gave way to technical concentration. The (h/c)-nette watched him calculate; his power, designed to penetrate and erode, was causing unexpected chemical reactions. If he continued with sustained bursts, the surrounding area would shatter into fragments; if he stopped, the mass might regenerate. He then made the tactical decision: to concentrate all his energy into a single burst of radiation—a concentrated, high-intensity, very brief pulse—directed not at the dispersed mass, but at the capsule, the epicenter of the polymerization process.

The superhero prepared to unleash his final attack. With a gesture of his hand, he ordered the crowd to move away, aware of the magnitude of the impact he was about to release. The crowd began to disperse quickly; the young woman did the same, though without taking her eyes off the scene.

Meanwhile, the villain launched tendrils of the viscous substance at Gamma Jack. Many of these fragments veered towards buildings and vehicles, multiplying the chaos and panic among the civilians. One of the projectiles struck a bus full of passengers. In a matter of seconds, the substance began to cover it like a sticky shroud, threatening to trap them alive. The super was too focused on fighting Polybomen, and his radiation beams only worsened the chemical reaction. There would be no immediate reinforcements, although the signal sent by (Y/n) should already be in the hands of the NSA. The problem was that those people wouldn't survive that long.

She understood it instantly; she was the only option.

She looked at her hands, unsure. Her power had always been linked to homeostatic biological processes—neutralizing internal forces, regulating a living organism—never applying it to inanimate objects. Lifeless objects were opaque to her senses; they didn't have an "active function" to perceive. But perhaps she could trick her perception, focusing on the mass as if it were an organism, a pulsating system that she could stop.

With that idea in mind, she stood firmly in front of the bus. She took a deep breath, raised both hands, and projected her energy towards the substance. To her surprise, it worked; the viscous substance stopped in mid-spread, just before covering the bus. The effort, however, was brutal. A sharp pain pierced her temples, and every second of resistance drained her strength.

The passengers, realizing the unexpected respite, took the opportunity to escape one by one, pushing open the doors and running away from the slime. When the last one left, (Y/n) dropped her arms, and the weakened mass collapsed aimlessly onto the asphalt.

She exhaled raggedly. It had cost her more than she expected; her muscles were trembling, her vision blurred, and she ended up collapsing onto one knee. It was the first time she had experienced such severe side effects; the concentration required on inanimate matter had been like torture. And yet, it had worked. Pride mingled with fear; she had saved lives, yes, but she had also exposed herself. Had anyone seen her?

Looking around, she found the answer, no one was paying her any attention. The civilians were too busy helping each other or running away from the scene. Furthermore, her sunglasses were still in place, and her hat still covered part of her face. Her identity remained safe.

Then the explosion. In the distance, she made out the unmistakable figure of the hero with the golden cape and blue suit. Gamma Jack unleashed his concentrated energy blast against the metal capsule. The impact was precise. Sparks, toxic smoke, and the structure reduced to glowing fragments. Without the core, the mass lost its cohesion and began to dissolve into amorphous puddles that no longer posed a threat.

The audience, witnessing the victory, erupted into applause and cheers. Many were weeping, others embraced, and some shouted with devotion—"Oh, Handsome Jack, thank you for saving us!"

He, with only a few stains of that substance on his suit, responded with arrogant calm and a theatrical bow—"My pleasure, ladies. It is my duty to protect you whenever danger arises."
He was a very vain hero, that was for sure. The (h/c)-nette watched him receive the crowd adoration.

(Y/n) heard the wail of sirens; patrol cars and ambulances rushed to the scene, adding to the already chaotic situation. Gathering the last of her strength, she sat up and took a deep breath, releasing the pressure that had been weighing on her chest. However, the relief quickly dissolved into professional discipline. With a keen gaze, she examined the remnants of the polymer that still stained the streets, noting the urgent need for chemical containment, and then, via radio, she requested the NSA forensic lab to collect samples. This wasn't just a simple incident; they had to confirm Polybomen's location, because everything indicated that what they had witnessed was merely a prototype of his twisted experiments.

Still holding the radio, she outlined the protocol: cleanup, laboratory analysis, and continuous perimeter security. While the crowd celebrated the victory and Gamma Jack was dishing out charismatic smiles to the reporters' cameras, she remained silent, observing from afar, coordinating, assessing future risks. For the hero, this was routine; for her, each event meant consequences, a chain of actions and decisions that had to be sustained beyond the fleeting applause.

The afternoon slowly faded as the city began to recover. (Y/n) returned to the restaurant parking lot where she had started her day, grateful that she hadn't worn heels, but flat shoes—a small detail, but crucial amidst such chaos. She had lost sight of Gamma Jack as he left the scene, though she knew it wouldn't be for long; his vehicle was still in the same parking lot, and if she didn't find him there, the NSA network would track him down as soon as he made any further move.

As she walked, the young woman reviewed what she had witnessed; she had seen the effectiveness of a super individual in combat, but also his limitations. She, on the other hand, had provided analytical insight, composure, and logistical coordination. The pride of having saved lives mingled with the certainty that she still had much to learn about controlling her own abilities.

For a moment, her mind drifted to another assignment, Alex, the agent who was now tasked with monitoring Hypershock. She wished him success in his mission. She remembered leaving some recommendations in her report, guidelines for adjusting his schedule, advice on how to deal with such a volatile superpowered individual. Perhaps, just as she was learning from Gamma Jack, Alex would find his own lessons in that mission.

Already near her car, she thanked the guard who returned her keys and prepared to leave. She placed her hand on the door when, suddenly, she sensed a presence nearby. "I'm glad you're safe. After all, I didn't want my new agent to suffer serious harm."

(Y/n)'s heart skipped a beat. She immediately turned towards the voice, and there he was, the blond hair, the blue eyes, the same confident smile belonging to the only person she least wanted to see. Jackson Hands was no longer wearing his superhero suit, but the ordinary clothes he had worn before his dramatic intervention.

"Excuse me?" she replied, feigning confusion, though the surprise was genuine. How could he have found her so quickly? Then she understood. The smile on his lips was confirmation. With that spontaneous reaction, she had revealed what she most needed to protect, her identity as an NSA agent.

Jackson Hands knew it, and now he was looking at her with an expression that mixed satisfaction and danger. However, the young woman wasn't about to give in; at least not without first obscuring her identity with a plausible falsehood. "Do I know you?" she asked with feigned curiosity, carefully choosing each word, as any civilian surprised by a stranger would do.

His smile remained, unwavering, confident. Jackson had understood her attempts; he knew that this agent was trying to maneuver. And he wasn't about to give in so easily. His reputation for "favoring women" didn't mean he was naive. On the contrary, he enjoyed that kind of challenge; women who were impossible, difficult to win over.

"Excuse me, I think I've mistaken you for someone else, miss," he replied with a politeness tinged with irony. "Allow me to introduce myself, I'm Jackson Hands. What is your name?"

She wasn't impressed by the natural way he lied. She calculated her next move and, with measured composure, replied, "I am (fake name). Your apology is accepted, don't worry." (Y/n) accompanied the words with a farewell gesture, but he gently stepped in front of her, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you, Miss (fake name)."

She raised an eyebrow. Nevertheless, she cautiously took his hand. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Hands."

They both maintained a distance, like two duelists sizing each other up. She had already prepared herself mentally; if he made a wrong move, she could escape using combat techniques or, ultimately, using her own powers.

Releasing her hands, Jackson stepped back with an air of apparent chivalry, as if to give her some space. "I'd better be going; I have some matters to attend to. It was a pleasure to meet you," he said lightly, turning on his heels. However, before leaving, he made one last, thinly veiled compliment. "Oh, and you have incredible power... don't waste it on a simple job." He accompanied these words with a wink and his characteristic, smug smile, then headed towards his car.

The agent's calm expression paled for a fleeting moment, but she immediately regained her composure. Pretending confusion, she got into her car, started it, and drove away without looking back. The last thing she needed was to show him that his comment had struck a deeper chord than she would admit.

She needed to clear her mind. The day had been too intense for her first day of monitoring. She drove to a nearby park, parked, and slumped over the steering wheel.

A frustrated sigh escaped her lips as she replayed every moment. She had failed her mission on just the first day. But giving up wasn't an option. Mr. Grayson had been clear: she was the only one they could trust to watch Gamma Jack.

The (h/c)-nette had to improve, adapt, be more cunning than him. If she wanted to keep her job, she would have to find new strategies, maintain distance, change her appearance, and manipulate her schedule to become unpredictable. And even then, she knew Jack would think the same. It would be a mutual game.

With the plan outlined, her breathing began to calm. However, the memory of his words struck her with unexpected fury. How dare he call her job "simple"? The audacity of him! It was obvious that this super enjoyed psychological manipulation as much as physical combat.

Even so, the young woman couldn't deny something, he was attentive, too attentive. That complicated everything. How had Agent Alex managed to evade Gamma Jack's almost instinctive radar? That was an answer she urgently needed.

For now, she had to prepare her report. She knew she would receive a reprimand, but at least her honesty would be beyond question.

Looking up, the windshield reflected a sky already tinged with dusk. Night brought more activity, more risks, more superheroes and villains on the move. And she wasn't exempt from that silent work.

Meanwhile, the blond man drove back to his apartment with a half-smile, a mixture of mischief and triumph. After all, he remembered every question, every answer, and everyone present during that interview. Including that suspicious drink, and that interesting bracelet.

He found it amusing that the NSA had taken so seriously the words he had dropped during his interview; they seemed to have designed a contingency plan tailored to him, based on his 'weaknesses,' on what made him react.

It was almost ironic. The government, with all its resources, was still trying to control him. And although Jackson recognized the limits of his own actions, he resisted the idea of ​​being manipulated. That's why he cultivated that unpredictable image; better to be an enigma than an obedient pawn. In his mind, it was enough to be guided by the common good… although in his own way, with his own preferences and will.

Even so, he had to admit that the agency had made an interesting move. He hadn't expected them to send someone like her, a woman as striking as she was enigmatic, an agent who also seemed to possess superhuman abilities. He wasn't entirely sure of the nature of her power, but he sensed it was a peculiar variant of telekinesis. That deserved closer examination later.

He remembered the scene during the Polybomen attack well. The young woman, struggling to save civilians trapped in that grotesque goo, pushing her own limits, but never giving up. And when she finally succeeded, the triumphant expression on her face seemed curiously endearing. However, in just an instant, her demeanor had changed; the cool, professional, and methodical agent emerged, dispelling any doubt that she was merely a civilian.

This intrigued him more than any other detail. She wasn't a woman who was easily impressed or won over. On the contrary, everything about her screamed challenge, resistance—a wall that wouldn't crumble to flattery or charm. And that, to him, was irresistible.

Challenging her and earning her respect would be a long game, but also the most rewarding.

Of course, she mustn't know this. He had to maintain this air of mystery, let her believe she had the upper hand.

The truth was, he didn't mind at all that she was monitoring him; after all, amidst the chaos, he had seen her put the safety of others before her own. That kind of dedication moved him silently. And if her job of monitoring him put her in danger, he wouldn't hesitate to save her again and again, not out of duty, but as a personal pleasure.

It was, after all, a way to get closer. A subtle step in the game that had begun between them. A challenge that entertained him… and seduced him.

Her alarm went off early, and as always, she turned it off immediately. But this time (Y/n) didn't get up; she remained lying down, staring at the ceiling. She hadn't closed an eye all night. The events of the previous day still echoed in her mind, the adrenaline rush, the way she had managed to subdue that inert body, and, above all, the lingering sensation that remained within her. It was as if something inside her had been unlocked. Her perception had changed. Now she felt the energy, the pressure, and even the slightest friction of the matter around her, as if every nearby object exerted a latent influence on her body.

The dizziness was inevitable. She knew that as soon as she sat up, this connection with the objects around her would intensify; she would absorb pulses and stimuli she didn't seek, forcing her to expend concentration on unnecessary things, risking losing her sense of self or of her surroundings. The idea worried her. Perhaps what she had experienced was a consequence of not taking her medication. She wanted to convince herself that it wouldn't have serious effects, but part of her feared that her own brain would react with spasms, overload, or alterations that she couldn't control.

The previous night she had planned a new routine for her work assignment, but now she couldn't even take the first step out of bed. One option was to sleep until Jackson Hands' shift ended, and then resume monitoring him. However, every time she closed her eyes, the room became a whirlwind of stimuli; the furniture, the books, even the air itself seemed to project a vibration that prevented her from resting.

With frustration, she accepted that rest would have to wait. The urgent thing was to learn to manage this overwhelming sensitivity. She took a deep breath and, suddenly, stood up despite the dizziness that shook her head. She breathed calmly, forcing herself to find her rhythm again. She knew what she had to do, her morning exercises.

They were a combination of diaphragmatic breathing and slow movements, similar to tai chi postures. She moved her arms and legs in wide circles, feeling the energy she perceived from her surroundings dissipate, while refocusing her attention on herself as a living being, with her own internal balance.

The tension gradually dissipated. By focusing on her own body, her pulse and breathing, the external interference faded. She felt relief; she had managed to neutralize herself, to find that point of balance where her power didn't pull her outwards, but instead drew her inwards. Feeling lighter and less fatigued, she regained confidence in herself.

Even so, (Y/n) knew she shouldn't overuse this technique. If the neutralization became constant, her metabolism could be affected; her body would eventually show irregularities that she wasn't ready to face.

With that thought in mind, she set about organizing the rest of the morning. Jackson should already be at work, so it was the perfect time to go shopping without raising suspicion. With a bandana covering her head and sunglasses hiding her features, she went unnoticed among the crowd. She got what she needed, groceries, makeup, wigs. Everything she required to maintain her double life.

Back home, all that remained was to prepare a light lunch and eat early. Afterwards, it would be time to keep an eye on the restaurant from a distance, without having to accompany him. However, an uneasy premonition kept her restless. She couldn't describe it, a heaviness in her stomach, a tingling sensation at the back of her neck, the intuition that something was about to go off course.

And so it did. At lunchtime, Jackson didn't appear at the restaurant he always went to.

Her unease turned into certainty. He had done it on purpose. It was obvious that he had altered his routine just to test those watching him. Jackson enjoyed the unpredictability; he knew it forced the observers to expend energy trying to keep up with him.

(Y/n) sighed resignedly, put the book she had been pretending to read back into her bag, and left the café. The most logical assumption was that he had decided to meet up with his friends. She took out her radio and contacted the agents from Mr. Dicker's team. The response came quickly; indeed, Gamma Jack was with Mr. Incredible and Frozone.

After thanking them for the information, she headed to the address they had given her. The place turned out to be a bar-and-billiard hall, with flashing neon lights, background music, and the constant murmur of conversations interspersed with the metallic clinking of billiard balls and slot machine coins. The establishment offered a well-stocked bar, and... Poker rooms, billiards tables, and a cosmopolitan atmosphere where businessmen seeking discretion mingled with actors looking for anonymity, and even renowned figures disguised in simple suits and dark sunglasses. It was a meeting place where everyone could hide in plain sight.

After registering as a visitor, the agent walked calmly through the lounge, assessing the exits, blind spots, and any suspicious movements. Then, she spotted a familiar figure. It was one of the NSA agents, though dressed differently than usual. As she remembered, that agent was assigned to surveillance of Gazerbeam.

The (h/c)-haired woman didn't usually socialize with the agents from Dicker's team; they tended to keep to themselves, cultivating an air of exclusivity. She, however, belonged to another division. This, however, gave her the opportunity to talk to someone without raising suspicion, especially now that both of them had supers under surveillance in the same location. She approached quietly and in a low voice, introducing herself. "Hey, I'm (L/n), team BN035."

The redhead turned to face her. She wore an elegant two-piece suit in burgundy tones, a knee-length fitted skirt and a tailored jacket, with a subtle neckline barely covered by a sheer blouse. Her short, understated earrings gleamed under the artificial light, and she wore a muted lipstick. It was an outfit designed to blend into the casino atmosphere without drawing too much attention. After a moment of caution, she nodded cordially understanding her intentions. "Nice to meet you, I'm Rosney, BN073. Have a seat."

"Thank you," (Y/n) replied, gesturing briefly before settling into the adjacent chair. Discreetly, she scanned the room, and then she saw him, there he was, her target.

Jackson was laughing out loud, leaning against a billiards table with his friends: Bob Parr, Lucius Best, and Simon J. Paladino. They were all in their civilian identities, a secret known only to the agency, but at first glance they looked like a group of ordinary men enjoying a leisurely afternoon.

At that very moment, the young woman tried to spot the other agents assigned to monitor Mr. Dicker's team of supers. However, amidst the bustle of the tables, the bar's music, and the crowd coming and going, she couldn't make them out. She decided to drop the matter, but she felt like someone was watching her; however, she couldn't tell who. Her attention returned to Jackson, and with a hint of suspicion, she asked to her companion, "Has anything gone wrong with Gamma Jack while I was away?" She kept her voice low, but couldn't hide a certain self-criticism in her tone.

Rosney observed her carefully before answering. In her eyes, the young woman in front of her seemed to have lost track of her objective for a moment. Naturally, the redhead replied, "No, nothing out of the ordinary. They just came in, had lunch, and then went to play billiards."

(Y/n) nodded gratefully, though she noticed a certain unease in the air due to the brevity of the answer. Even so, she preferred not to make too much of it and continued the conversation, "Is it difficult to monitor Gazerbeam?"

The redhead pondered for a moment, and then spoke in a more open tone, "Not really. He's a civilized man; his routine is usually monotonous. The only thing that really relaxes him is being with his friends; on the other hand, he gets uncomfortable when he has to deal with uncooperative teams of supers. As for collateral damage... he tries to keep it to a minimum. In short, I'd say his life is quite peaceful."

"I understand..." (Y/n) replied, mentally noting the contrast between her colleague's super and her own.

Rosney, with a curious expression, tilted her head slightly. "And you? I heard there were some changes among the agents... aren't you one of the reassigned ones?"

The (h/c)-nette confirmed with a slight nod. "That's right." I'm currently adjusting to Gamma Jack's style. He's unpredictable in many of his attacks, but very intelligent when it comes to outmaneuvering the enemy.

The redhead crossed her arms and studied her intently. Her words weren't mere comments; she was reading between the lines, trying to discern the reasons behind her reassignment. Most agents were intrigued by the recent decisions of high command, and (L/n)'s case, being moved from Hypershock to Gamma Jack, was no exception. In Rosney's opinion, this suggested that her companion possessed a unique ability to handle unexpected situations, though she sensed there must be more to it.

"Do you know why you were assigned to monitor Gamma Jack?" she finally asked, with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

(Y/n) held her breath for a moment, unnoticed. Not all agents knew she possessed a power; only a few high-ranking officers, like Mr. Grayson, her friend Mark, and the members of her own team, were aware of this secret. No. She had to be careful. Revealing too much could cost her dearly.

"It's because I'm more flexible to their whims. Or at least, that's what I was told," she replied simply, without losing her composure.

"I see..." Rosney replied, though the lack of conviction in her tone made it clear she wasn't entirely satisfied with the explanation.

Both women knew there were limits of confidentiality that neither could cross. Even so, the conversation continued a little longer, just enough to maintain appearances while their eyes remained fixed on the pool table where their targets laughed carelessly.

After a few minutes, the need to maintain a natural demeanor prevailed. The social routine of the place demanded simple gestures, and when the time came, (Y/n) offered to order drinks. She calmly stood up, adjusting the bandana in her hair and the dark sunglasses she wore as part of her disguise, and headed towards the bar.

She reached the bar and waited patiently for a few seconds for one of the bartenders to become free. She was about to raise her hand to get one's attention when a male voice, all too familiar, surprised her from behind. "Oh, my... but look who we have here. If it isn't my persistent agent (Fake/n)."

The words were accompanied by a slight bow; he had moved his head close enough to invade her personal space.

The (h/c)-nette barely turned her face and found herself looking at Jackson Hands's smug smile. Surprise flashed in her eyes for a moment, though she quickly concealed it. Inside, she was tense. How had he recognized her so easily? She had taken precautions—different clothes, a bandana to cover her hair, dark sunglasses—but despite everything, that super had seen through her disguise with a single glance.

Suppressing her discomfort, she decided to maintain her composure and respond with professional seriousness. "Mr. Hands... what a coincidence to run into you again."

"Coincidence, of course," he replied, with a hint of humor in his tone. "Unless, of course, you're a fan following me everywhere. In that case... I wouldn't accept it as a coincidence."

The agent rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide it. A fan... never in a million years. The idea irritated her, but at the same time, she thought sarcastically that perhaps it would have been easier to pretend to be a fan from the beginning, instead of having to deal with his unpredictable character. However, she had already made her role clear in that first encounter; she couldn't back down.

The bartender approached at that moment, ready to take the lady's order, but Jackson intercepted him with blatant rudeness. "Two bottles of white wine, Lagarde brand, please."

The young man behind the bar hesitated for a moment, giving the young woman an inquisitive look, as if asking if he should give her priority. (Y/n) simply pursed her lips, restraining herself from replying. She couldn't risk causing a scene in a public place, much less in front of other agents undercover there. So she swallowed her frustration and remained silent, letting the bartender obey the gentleman's order.

Jackson didn't take his eyes off her for a second. His amused and perceptive eyes remained fixed on hers, as if he enjoyed the tension he was causing. The confident and arrogant smile on his face confirmed that he knew perfectly well how much she was trying to ignore him... and that, far from discouraging him, that only incited him even more to provoke her.

Jackson leaned a little closer to her, with that smug smile that seemed to never leave his face. "So, agent... what would you say if I offered you a drink?"

She held his gaze firmly, suppressing the annoyance he was causing her. "I already introduced myself by my name, and I would prefer that you call me that way. Besides, I would remind you that you have company waiting for you. It's not gentlemanly to neglect them."

Jackson let out a low, handsome and amused chuckle, as if her resistance was, more than an obstacle, a game he enjoyed prolonging. "I know they'd understand," he replied with brazen audacity.

At that moment, the bartender returned with the order. Jackson took the opportunity to lean slightly towards her and whisper, in a nearly confidential tone, "See you later."

He winked at her before laughing and walking back to his group, leaving her with a mixture of annoyance and relief that she preferred not to analyze too much.

The young woman shook off her discomfort, ordered two light drinks, and, with the tray in hand, went back to her companion. She just hoped that none of the agents in the room would notice her interaction with her assigned target, or at least that they wouldn't suspect anything amiss.

Meanwhile, the blond man was already approaching the pool table where his friends were waiting. Judging by Lucius's annoyed expression, the conversation hadn't been particularly pleasant.

"Did I miss anything?" Jackson asked, placing the bottles on the table. "Nothing serious, just anecdotes about Lucian and his partnership with Blazestone. Your turn," Simon replied, handing him the cue stick before pouring himself a glass of wine.

"And it's such a pain when she keeps unleashing fireballs at the enemy. Doesn't she understand that once they're defeated, there's no need to keep setting everything on fire?" exclaimed the dark-skinned super, visibly frustrated. "That's why, since the last reassignment, I prefer to work alone."

Jackson tried his shot, but the ball barely grazed the edge without going in. Lucius took his turn, while Bob, the tallest one in the group, added with good humor, "Come on, but you're excellent as support. When we're assigned together, we make a good team."

Lucius laughed ironically, shaking his head as if denying that statement, although his smile betrayed him.

"Speaking of reassignments..." Simon intervened, adjusting his glasses calmly, "Didn't you find the last NSA interview a little strange?"

Bob raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "They're just following protocol. They always do it to check resources and physical condition."

"Yes, but some of the questions were too personal," Lucius replied, recalling that session with discomfort.

Jackson smiled with interest, glancing in another direction, where a certain (h/c) girl was talking to the redhead from before. Then he turned his gaze towards a dance floor, where couples were dancing to the soft music. "I think I have an idea... You can skip my turn, I'll take a while."

"Don't tell me," Bob teased. "Have you already found someone to charm, Prince Charming?"

"Charming is my middle name," Jackson replied with a wink and a gun-slinging gesture with his hands.

Everyone rolled their eyes in unison, already used to the blonde's antics, though they couldn't help but laugh.

With a slow, confident step, Jackson moved away from the table. His smile didn't fade for a moment as he walked towards the two ladies who were there. The young woman with the bandana noticed him immediately, masking her unease at his approach, while the redhead watched him with obvious confusion, noticing this seemingly friendly man approaching them.

He suspected that the young woman's companion was also an agent, though he decided to ignore that for now. He had something more important in mind, a proposition he couldn't let slip. He extended his hand towards her, his smile full of confidence. "My dear, may I have this dance?"

The redhead agent, who until then had remained in the background, immediately tensed. (Y/n) noticed that silent warning, she shouldn't reveal anything. However, the (h/c)-nette understood that the blonde wasn't seeking an innocent dance, but to provoke her, to draw her into revealing something she had vowed to keep a secret.

"Excuse me, sir, but I don't usually dance when I'm with someone," she replied with distant politeness.

Jackson gave a shrewd gesture, as if he had anticipated her refusal, and leaned slightly towards her. "What a pity, miss. I wouldn't want to embarrass you by saying your iden—"

She knew what he would say and interrupted him with a strained smile, standing up before he could finish. "You know what? You've convinced me. Let's try it. Come on."

She placed her hand on his. Inside, she felt a shiver of anger, an urge to grip his hand until it hurt, but her smile remained firm. She wouldn't let anyone there suspect the inner fire she was suppressing.

The dance floor welcomed them just as the music changed to a slow rhythm, much to the agent's dismay. Jazz had never been her strong suit, and the mere thought of following that beat with Jackson made her uncomfortable. Even so, she decided to hide it, carefully taking the steps, hoping her partner wouldn't notice.

Jackson, on the other hand, seemed in his element. With fluid movements, he led her effortlessly, and with each turn, he drew closer. His hand on her waist slid down just a few centimeters lower than necessary, applying a light pressure that she couldn't ignore. The warmth of his palm seemed to penetrate the fabric of her skirt, as if it were a calculated provocation.

"You know? My colleagues were discussing how strange the latest NSA interviews were," he murmured, leaning towards her ear. His breath brushed against the skin of her neck with an unsettling warmth. "But I'm even more curious than they are. Don't you happen to have any answers, dear agent?"

She suppressed a shudder, forcing herself to maintain her composure. "I don't understand what you mean. And as I already told you, my name is (Fake/n). Not 'agent.'"

With a subtle movement, he drew her even closer, so that a mere breath would have been enough for their faces to touch. His gaze, brazen, shifted to the redhead who was watching them. "I imagine that the lady accompanying you is also an agent, isn't she?"

(Y/n) frowned slightly, her discomfort mingling with the rapid pulse caused by being so close to him. His instincts seemed to confirm her suspicions. Yes, but she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of confirming it. "Why this obsession with our identities?"

Jackson tilted his head, his handsome smile becoming playfully mischievous, as if he enjoyed each reaction he elicited from her. "Because I'm intrigued to know why a super pretends to be an agent."

"I think you should mind your own business, Mr. Hands," she replied firmly, though her voice sounded somewhat lower than usual, almost muffled by their closeness. But she realized her mistake too late, and her partner noticed.

He moved his face slightly closer, without stopping guiding her in the dance, his triumphant smile never fading. "So you no longer deny it... I knew you were one."

She felt her patience wearing thin. She had already made a mistake. She wasn't used to dealing with men like him, so persistent, so determined to tear down walls she considered necessary. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to speak firmly and calmly. "That's right. I'm an agent. But I would prefer that you have the decency not to announce it in public. Otherwise, they'll assign someone else, and I... would end up disappointed with my performance."

For the first time all evening, Jackson remained silent. His lips still showed a half-smile, but his eyes revealed something else; he didn't want a change of assignment, to lose her. He liked teasing her, yes, but not at the cost of seeing her replaced. On some level, he was comfortable with her presence. And once he was interested in something, it was difficult to change his mind.

The jazz piece came to an end, but before the (h/c)-nette could move away, the next song filled the air, a soft bolero with a slow, rhythmic beat, inviting closeness rather than distance. She tensed, calculating the best excuse to leave gracefully.

Jackson, however, didn't give her a choice. He gently squeezed her hand and, with a fluid movement, pulled her closer. “Oh, don't tell me you're leaving just now, when things are about to get interesting,” he murmured, with a smile that bordered on mischief.

She suppressed the urge to move away, settling into position with elegant poise and professional demeanor. “One song was enough, Mr. Hands. There's no need to prolong this unnecessarily.”

The blond man tilted his head, the playful glint in his eyes accentuated by the sensual rhythm of the music. “Hmm… what a disappointment. I thought it was chemistry and a little bit of flirtation.”

The bolero required him to lead her with closer steps, his hand on her lower back, the movements punctuated by slow turns. (Y/n) felt the constant touch of his fingers, increasingly difficult to ignore, but she maintained her professional composure. Although his words irritated her more than she showed, she tried to keep time, mimicking his steps firmly, though she felt the weight of his proximity. Her body remained stiff, but her movements were graceful, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her uncomfortable.

“Tell me, my dear,” he whispered in a voice laden with false calm, “why does a woman like you, with so much to offer, insist on playing the mysterious agent?”

That question again; apparently, he thought she would give in, but she didn't. The (h/c)-nette held his gaze, unwavering, though the closeness of the dance was testing her. “Because someone has to.”

He smiled, pleased that she remained the same. “That's what I expected to hear.”

The bolero became their ally; each chord allowed him to prolong the contact, each pause the perfect excuse to draw closer. With an elegant turn, he brought her back to his chest and murmured with provocative calm,
“How about we make a deal?” Jackson proposed, his deep voice contrasting with the music that still enveloped them. “I keep your secret and I'll try not to be so exasperating or unpredictable, so you can do your job without any problems. But..."—his lips curved into a half-smile—"on the condition that you don't ignore me when I want to talk to you. What do you think?"

That didn't sound unreasonable, although she sensed a suspicious undertone in his words. She sighed softly, weighing his intentions. "Why?" (Y/n) asked cautiously, their gazes lingering longer than necessary.

"Let's just say that the description the NSA have of me isn't entirely inaccurate," he replied, with a spark of irony in his eyes that didn't diminish the intensity of their closeness.

She considered it silently. Accepting that deal meant she could maintain some personal space and avoid unnecessary frustration. Of course, she would set clear boundaries. "Okay... but you must meet some of my conditions" she finally agreed.

"Deal," he replied without hesitation, subtly increasing the pace of the dance, prolonging it deliberately, as if each move were an excuse to hold her close for just one more moment. His voice lowered slightly, almost conspiratorially. "But, at least... would you grant me the pleasure of knowing your real name? After all, you already know mine."

She hesitated. He knew her true identity, and hiding it further might seem unfair… but it was her duty to protect that part of herself. The decision weighed heavily on her. “No,” she replied firmly, though a hint of doubt crept into her voice. “I prefer that my anonymity remain intact. I don’t want to risk anything further.”

He nodded slightly, a gesture of acceptance, yet his smile remained unwavering. “Very well. I will keep my word and respect your privacy… as any lady deserves.”

She barely managed a “Thank you…?” which sounded more cautious than sincere, as if his own words hadn't quite convinced her. Now, doubt gnawed at her, would Jackson keep his promise, or was all of this just another of his irresistible seduction tactics?

Chapter Text

The room was closed, with no windows or trace of sunlight. Only a single hanging spotlight cast a cold glow in the center of the room, where a seven-year-old girl sat on a metal chair. She wore a simple white dress, stained with traces of ash and mud. Her bare feet were covered in dust, the soles cracked as if she had walked for long hours on scorched earth. Her hair, matted and sticky with sweat, fell over her reddened face. Her eyes, glassy and irritated, revealed that she had cried until she was exhausted, leaving a trail of pain that still weighed on her eyelids.

The door creaked open, and a man strode in. He was dressed in an impeccable militia uniform, his boots thumping on the floor as a reminder of his authority. He sat opposite the girl, arranged a sheaf of documents on the table, and observed her in silence for a moment. She, however, kept her gaze lost in nothingness, oblivious to everything around her.

The man's expression softened slightly, and after a deep breath, he spoke in a deep but measured voice. "I'm General (F/n) (L/n). Tell me... what is your name?"

The girl raised her eyes to his. There was no light in them, only a shuddering emptiness. Before she answered, her silence was invaded by the pain in her head.

A man, disturbed and obsessed with fireworks, had thrown improvised explosives near a small border town. Officially, the militia was looking for him as an illegal refugee, someone who had entered prohibited territory in defiance of current immigration laws. Unofficially, they knew the truth: he wasn't a simple fugitive, but a foreign super, a veteran of the Great War who fought on European soil.

That man had been a warrior in his time, but he returned from the war with deep, invisible wounds. Reports spoke of violent episodes, delusions, and post-traumatic stress disorder that drove him ever further from sanity. His gift—the power of deflagration, capable of causing spontaneous combustion—made him especially dangerous. The fact that he always sought to surround himself with explosives or grenades turned his every outburst into a catastrophic threat.

Authorities had received reports that he had fled to North America, perhaps trying to escape his past or himself. But the truth is, he became a living threat to anyone who crossed his path.

The result was devastating. The small town was reduced to rubble and ash, and almost all its inhabitants perished in the fire and explosions. Only one survivor was found, the little girl who now stood before the general. Miraculously, her body was unburned; it was as if an invisible force had protected her amidst the chaos.

The general studied her carefully, noting the trembling of her body, the stiffness of her lips, as if she were holding back her memory. After a prolonged silence, he insisted in a lower voice. "Do you remember what happened?"

The girl frowned, a look of agony distorting her features for a moment, as if unbearable pain were trying to surface. However, when she finally answered, it was in a broken whisper that contradicted that grimace of suffering. "No..."

A necklace. That was the only thing she kept as a vestige of her past. According to what her adoptive father had told her, she had been wearing it the day they found her. Inside, she kept a black and white photograph of a woman and a girl. But the passage of time, dust, and cracks in the paper had blurred their faces until they were unrecognizable. Despite this, the young woman with (h/c) hair clung to that image as if it contained a truth she couldn't yet decipher.

She remembered nothing of those figures, not a voice, not a gesture; yet, she preferred to keep it with her, as an act of respect for those who had perished in the incident that marked her fate. For her, carrying that memory—even if it was incomplete—was also the responsibility to live in honor of those who didn't make it.

Carefully, (Y/n) placed the necklace inside her chest. In a month, the annual ceremony of veneration for that disaster would be held. As always, she would be present, fulfilling the ritual that her own conscience imposed on her each year, even if no one knew that she was a survivor of that tragedy.

The ceremony was solemn, simple, but dignified. In it, a chosen super would say a few words in memory of the victims and, after a brief silence, everything would end.

This year, however, the designated representative was Gamma Jack. And that thought alone was enough to unsettle her. She feared that the media and the crowd of fanatics would disrupt the solemnity of the ceremony; she feared that what was meant to be an intimate and reverent tribute would end up becoming a banal spectacle, with uncalled-for applause.

However, she understood the organizers' decision. Like Mr. Incredible, Hypershock, Universal Man, and so many others, Gamma Jack had fought in the war from a very young age. That generation of supers, marked by the blood and fire of the conflict, had earned an almost automatic respect, an unwavering gratitude for the victory they secured.

But that justification didn't dispel her doubts. Deep down, she was still wary of what the blond man might do or say in such a delicate setting. She didn't want to exaggerate, but she suspected the super would slip in narcissistic, witty comments capable of diverting attention to his own end.

Then she remembered Mark's words. And she had to admit that Gamma Jack could be charming when he wanted to be. His charisma was more than a natural virtue; it was a weapon, refined and sharp. He could use it to seduce, to persuade, to drag anyone into an agreement that seemed fair, but that ultimately always ended up benefiting him.

She compared her experience when she accepted that deal. But her attention turned to the true purpose behind the deal they had reached. The blond had mentioned that he only wanted her to be willing to talk to him. But was that really all it was?

She reviewed their recent conversations. Jackson had shown particular curiosity about the NSA interviews, those evaluations that, lately, had taken on an overly personal tone. Perhaps what he was seeking was to extract classified information from her. She sensed it, suspected it, and yet… part of her doubted it. Did he really want official answers? Or was he looking for something personal rather than political?

Either way, (Y/n) was clear that she wouldn't give in. Not even under the ambiguity of that deal. Her loyalty to the NSA was unwavering; it was the reason she had gone from soldier to agent. She was aware that she was part of a larger system; the systems were designed to monitor each other, and the military jealously monitored the NSA's actions. It wasn't a secret, but a fragile balance between institutions that could never fully trust each other. She was a piece on that chessboard, an informant, a witness forced to maintain those margins of control.

Did it bother her to be used in this way? In theory, no. In practice, she had no choice either. She had been trained to accept this dynamic as a natural part of her life. Without that structure, without that mission, what was left of her?

A quiet, normal life had never been in her plans, and deep down, she knew it. She dreamed, yes... sometimes she allowed herself to imagine another destiny. But the dreams always ended there, in fleeting images that faded with routine. Her identity was molded by discipline and duty; to take that away from her would be to rob her of herself.

She sighed. Looking back calmly, that night on the dance floor with Jackson had been strange in many ways. Beyond the blond's seemingly endless advances, she allowed herself to enjoy the movement, the rhythm, even if it came in the form of a veiled confrontation between the two. It was a fleeting, almost intimate moment, but she quickly cut short the interaction, aware that if it continued, it could fuel suspicion in the watchful eyes of the other agents. She couldn't risk sparking rumors; her duty was to keep the facade intact. In front of Gamma Jack, she had to remain firm, distant, without the slightest hint of interest. Absolute professionalism. Nothing more.

What was curious, however, was what came next. Mr. Grayson, her superior, made no comment, nor did she receive any report about that "closeness" with the super. No warnings, no awkward questions. That somewhat reassured her. Part of her appreciated this tacit trust, but another, more suspicious part couldn't help but think that her true role in the mission was more limited than what it seemed to be—distracting Gamma Jack and keeping him under control. And although she accepted this possibility as just another cog in the machine, the idea left a bitter taste in her gut that she disliked.

Which led her to maintain a certain distance when monitoring the super. But suddenly, the following days passed with surprising calm. Four days in which, despite the fact that (Y/n) hadn't yet clearly defined the terms of that ambiguous deal with the super, Gamma Jack carried out his routine without any surprises. There were no attempts to provoke her, no comments that tested her patience. He seemed to respect the unwritten boundaries they had drawn between them.

Even so, she continued to observe him. Whether it was when Gamma Jack was out on patrol and receiving praise from those he helped, or when he was acting under his other identity. A sort of silent truce had been woven between them. He respected the idea of ​​not revealing her identity to those close to him, and she always maintained due discretion; her job was to keep an eye out, not invade his private life.

She had to admit she was grateful for it, but that gratitude didn't dispel the constant suspicion the super's actions inspired in her. His overly measured, almost disciplined demeanor was as reassuring as it was unsettling.

The doorbell to the apartment broke the silence. (Y/n) looked up, somewhat confused; she hadn't expected any visitors. She approached the door and, peering through the keyhole, was surprised to recognize the figure on the other side. Without hesitation, she opened it immediately.

"Father... you arrived earlier than expected," she greeted with some surprise, stepping aside to let him in.

The general strode in, scanning the small space with the analytical gaze of someone assessing every detail. "I received your message," he said in a deep voice, "and decided to come as soon as possible. It's worrying that you've stopped taking your medication. Have you felt any discomfort?"

She motioned for him to take a seat on the couch before answering. "Not much, actually. I haven't used my powers at work lately."

It was true... in part. She hadn't used them on the super she was monitoring, but she had been experimenting on her own.

Over the past few weeks, (Y/n) had noticed a change in her energy. Her telekinesis and neutralization abilities were becoming more precise, more stable. Instead of dispersing across multiple stimuli, she could focus them on a single object. She tested this with something as mundane as boiling water; she managed to reduce the temperature to lukewarm, without damaging the container or feeling the usual exhaustion. That small advance had led her to stop taking the medication.

"At first, I did feel some discomfort," she admitted, "but thanks to the concentration exercises, I learned to stabilize my power. I can control the neutralization with simple things."

Without waiting any longer, she got up and went to the kitchen. She prepared a glass of boiling water and returned to him.

"Look," she said with initiative. She concentrated, and slowly the steam began to dissipate; the water warmed without spilling. She pretended not to feel the slight stabbing pain that crossed her temple.

The general frowned, worried. She noticed his reaction and tried to justify her action. "I think if I stop taking the pills, I could advance faster with my powers. I'd be more efficient at my job—"

"Agent," he interrupted in an authoritative voice. Every time he used that tone, he was no longer speaking as her father, but as her superior. "You know what your job is within the NSA, to neutralize the supers and keep the military informed. Nothing more. Is that clear?"

(Y/n) lowered her gaze slightly. "Yes... Sir."

The general stood up, took a small case from his coat, and placed it on the table. "Remember to take your medication. Don't risk breaking your routine." If you lose control, it can affect your mind, and at that point… There will be no way to help you."

She also stood up, maintaining her composure. Her father observed her for a few more seconds, then added in the dry tone of a commander issuing an order, "Remember your mantra, soldier. Don't get carried away by emotions. Obey. Comply. Continue. Understand?"

Almost automatically, (Y/n) brought her hand to her temple in a precise salute. "Yes, sir."

Only then did the general seem to relax. "It was a pleasure visiting you, my daughter. We'll see you in a month, at the ceremony."

Recovering her normal tone, she replied. "Thank you for taking the time to come, Father."

She walked him to the door. Before he crossed the threshold, she gave him a small smile, brief but sincere. The general held it for a moment and, without saying anything else, nodded and left.

Silence returned to the apartment, heavy, disciplined... like an order fulfilled.

The young woman looked at those pills, a little hesitant to take them. Partly, she was happy to make slow, steady progress, and that small advance inevitably led her to compare herself to other supers registered with the NSA. It wasn't the same as Universal Man, Downburst, or Stormicide, whose abilities were rooted in the more direct manipulation of molecules and atoms.

Universal Man, for example, could alter the density of his own body with such precision that, according to theories, he was capable of generating a black hole by increasing that density to unimaginable levels. A feat that, however, would be tantamount to suicide; his own mass would collapse in the process, creating an uncontrollable gravitational center. That was why its use was never recommended, not even on the most desperate missions. The sacrifice involved made that power more of a threat than a resource.

Downburst, on the other hand, worked by reshaping matter from an even deeper level, the atoms. His ability made him an exceptional candidate, but he was far from mastering it. For now, the NSA kept him in practical training programs, and his greatest achievement had been building relatively simple objects, like bicycles. Even so, he was already recognized as a healer, could recompose human tissue to a degree, and was frequently called upon to assist injured supers.

Stormicide represented a different approach. Her gift was limited to manipulating the gases present in various bodies/environments, inert or living. But thanks to her training in chemistry, she had turned that apparent limitation into an advantage, applying her scientific knowledge to utilize her power with great precision.

(Y/n) understood that her own case was closer to Stormicide's, with the difference that her field of action seemed restricted, until now, almost exclusively to living matter. However, this recent discovery—her ability to alter water and mixed polymers—opened a new path. Could she specialize in manipulating more complex compounds? Could she expand her neutralization beyond the tactical use to which it was confined?

The doubt, however, haunted her. Even more so with the short visit with her father. Delving too deeply into her powers meant straying from the role she'd been assigned. She'd been told countless times, her role was to neutralize supers when the situation demanded it, nothing more. That was the condition her father had agreed to with Mr. Grayson and her superiors at the NSA.

That was why she would never be recognized as a super. For the organization, she was, in essence, just another agent of the military and the government. Her job was to secretly maintain order, whether among civilians or supers, and ensure that every action was recorded for later analysis.

However, something remained embedded like an invisible thorn. It wasn't rebellion, nor envy, nor even a desire for fame like the one others pursued. It was something else. A bitter feeling that appeared in the silences, in the moments when she watched Gamma Jack laugh, surrounded by admirers, or Hypershock receive honors as a symbol of strength, behind their real personalities.

She didn't want to be in that place; she knew it for sure. And yet, that inner pang bothered her, as if a piece she'd never seen before was missing, yet she recognized its absence. Was it injustice? Was it sadness? It had no name. And perhaps the most frustrating thing was that, not being able to figure out what was truly bothering her. Still, she forced herself to put that thought in the background. Her duty came before her doubts. It always had. Or so she thinks.

It was the weekend, and the blond man had spent much of the morning in his study, reviewing the reports for the project he was developing at the nuclear plant. He had been collaborating with a group of engineers and physicists to optimize the reactor's cooling systems, a tedious but crucial task; small variations in the pressure of the heavy water or the composition of the compounds could mean enormous differences in safety and efficiency. As a chemist by training and with his particular talent for energy, Jackson allowed himself to experiment with calculations and models that his colleagues barely dared to consider.

In those days, his schedule had been packed with work. He'd barely been out on patrol as a hero, and he'd even neglected his workout routines at the gym. The sound of his watch rang, snapping him out of his concentration; the alarm indicated lunchtime. And the truth was, he needed a break.

He thought about changing his routine, trying a new restaurant. But in that instant, he remembered the deal he'd made: not to be so inconsiderate with the agent monitoring him.

A funny idea then crossed his mind. Why not surprise her? He could head to that cafeteria where he'd seen her after their first meeting. That way, he'd still technically be within their perimeter, and at the same time, he could enjoy a moment with her.

The possibility invigorated him. He could turn lunch into something resembling an impromptu date, court her a little, gauge her reactions, and, in the process, pursue what intrigued him most, the agent's powers and the NSA's true purpose in having her under its wing. There was something behind all of that, something he was determined to uncover.

Determined, he got ready, turned off his studio monitor, and grabbed his car keys. He left as if he were going to continue with his usual routine, but he got sidetracked along the way. The maneuver gave him a certain pleasure, fooling those watching him, giving the impression of normalcy, and then moving around as he pleased.

However, upon entering the cafeteria, he found himself in a scene he hadn't expected. Universal Man was there, accompanied by his partner. Jackson was in his civilian identity, which guaranteed that the super-masked man wouldn't recognize him. They weren't close, either, and the blonde was grateful for that; he didn't want any awkward witnesses on his date.

His eyes scanned the place until they settled on what he was looking for. The (h/c)-nette was there, sitting at a table.

But not alone. She was accompanied by a brunette-haired man, of ordinary appearance, without the slightest striking feature. Jackson immediately identified him as another agent, surely someone linked to Universal Man's activities, as he had also been at that casino. However, what truly unsettled him was her expression. A slight smile had appeared on her lips while she was talking to the man. A different smile, full of confidence.

That simple sight was enough to make him feel an annoying sting inside. He didn't show it, of course. He smiled with that studied arrogance, the same one with which he knew how to mask any emotion. But inside, he took note, he had to take the cards in his favor.

She saw him and was surprised; her eyes betrayed a moment of bewilderment. The brown-haired man, noticing where she was looking, turned around as well, frowning in obvious confusion, but his eyes showed that he recognized who he was. Jackson responded with a pretentious smile, a rehearsed gesture to mark territory without words.

He was pleased that she immediately understood the intention behind that smile. She knew it was the same tactic he'd used in the casino, a reminder that, according to their unspoken agreement, whenever he wanted to talk, she should be ready. And yet, the gesture with which she responded was a silent challenge, a curl of her lips, a trace of annoyance she refused to hide.

It didn't take long for her to politely excuse herself from the brunette's company, normal enough not to arouse suspicion. Jackson, satisfied, settled into a free table for two, with the confidence of someone who always gets what he wants.

The agent settled into the seat opposite him and, with a polite nod, greeted him. "Mr. Hands, how are you feeling? I see you've changed your routine very quickly." Her tone was neutral, trying not to let the lingering annoyance from a few seconds ago be show.

Jackson maintained his smile and leaned back slightly in his chair, relaxed by her presence. "Well," he replied with a slight exhalation, "Doing the same thing over and over again gets monotonous. And even more so when I've been busy with other jobs."

His frustration barely registered in his voice, enough for the (h/c)-nette to nod with almost automatic understanding, instantly grasping the weight of the work routine. "I see... and that's why you sought out a conversation with me to relax a little?" she concluded calmly, before adding with a hint of rebuke. "Although I must say, interrupting my conversation is a curious gesture for someone who calls himself a gentleman. Hadn't we agreed to keep our distance?"

The blond man let out a slight laugh, delighted by her audacity to contradict him without losing her composure. Perhaps that was what drew him so much to her, what kept him magnetized. "Perhaps you're right," he said lightly, tilting his head. "I'm just looking for a change of routine. But I suppose you were engaged in something important... I apologize if I interrupted." His smile remained on his face, though more serene than haughty.

She raised an eyebrow, considering whether to accept his apology. Finally, with an air of indulgence, she nodded. "Apology accepted. But I think we should be clear about certain boundaries, don't you think?"

Jackson tilted his head, still amused. "Really? Now that I have some free time to have lunch and chat with such an interesting lady?"

His playful tone drew the inevitable gesture from the agent, a surreptitious roll of her eyes. "Well... better sooner rather than later. But I'll consider your 'break time'. Besides, I haven't chosen what to have for lunch either, so we can talk about that later," she said, taking the carton of the menu.

Jackson immediately imitated her. "And what do you recommend?" he asked inquisitively. "I notice you come here quite often."

The agent frowned slightly as she noticed that he was also observing her routines, attentive to her movements, but she put that annoyance aside to dismiss it as irrelevant.

She looked over the menu and, with a slight gesture, pointed out, "If you really want to try something different," she said, running a fingertip over the printed options, "you should order the spiced beef stew. It's simple, but it's cooked so slowly that the flavor permeates better than any other dish. And if you want something lighter, the goat cheese salad is the freshest you'll find in the city."

As she said this, she glanced at him almost knowingly, as if sharing a secret about the place. Jackson raised his eyebrows, amused to see her so intent on recommending something in such detail. "Well, it seems I'm talking to a food critic in disguise."

She laughed faintly, a brief but genuine sound that eased the tension at the table "Don't exaggerate. I just appreciate what works well, even in small things like a good lunch."

That simple comment was enough for him to observe her with more interest. She wasn't the usual stiff and distant agent; there was a certain warmth in her tone, a naturalness that seemed to escape her without meaning to.

After exchanging comments about some dishes and questioning some comparisons, the atmosphere became more comfortable, lighter.

The waitress arrived to take their orders. They both chose simple dishes and soft drinks. Jackson didn't waste the opportunity to throw in a few compliments to the waitress, to which the agent responded with an indifferent look, simply ordering her dish without giving him any room for flirting.

As soon as the waitress left, Jack let his gaze slide toward the brunette accompanying Universal Man. The man was now observing the place with a certain discretion, although when the blonde noticed him immediately and exchanged glances with him before the man surreptitiously looked away.

"And who were you talking to a little while ago?" he asked, with a spark of curiosity, although his tone feigned neutrality; deep down, the intrigue was real.

Meanwhile, (Y/n) calmly adjusted the sleeve of her blouse, oblivious to the tension. But she perfectly understood the intention of his question. She followed his gaze and answered simply, "A friend, why?"

"So it's another agent, isn't it?" he insisted, raising an eyebrow and maintaining his smile.

The agent gave a slight sigh. "My life doesn't revolve solely around agents, you know?" she replied, firmly projecting that she did have a social life outside of work, even if her circle was small.

Jackson rested his chin on his hand, leaning in toward her inquisitively. "Oh? So it's a coincidence that Universal Man is here... and no agent is accompanying him?"

She watched him intently, sensing where he was trying to lead the conversation, into NSA intelligence territory. She subtly interrupted him. "Exactly, it's a coincidence, Mr. Hands."

The blond man mumbled at her response, though he noticed she still insisted on maintaining the formality. It was flattering, but not what he wanted. "You can call me Jack, you know," he suggested with a smile. "Mr. Hands doesn't sound appealing at all."

"Then all the more reason I'll keep calling you that," she replied, though this time she couldn't help but combine a slight smile.

That smile made her look even more charming. "Oh, so you're in the mood, how funny..." he laughed, pointing out her boldness. His playful expression then softened, turning curious and sincere. "Tell me something about yourself. Anything you like, an anecdote... nothing that compromises your identity," he suddenly suggested.

She looked at him curiously. "And why would you want to know about me?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he replied in an almost obvious tone. "If you're keeping an eye on me, I don't want it to be awkward for you to talk to me."

(Y/n) narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "I don't think you asked the same of your previous agent," she replied, diverting her concerns.

Jack shrugged. "Why would I be interested in a man's life? That's hardly entertaining."

At that, the young woman's initially distant demeanor returned. "So... should I feel privileged to be your 'entertainment'?" she retorted ironically, raising a mocking eyebrow.

The blond man noticed that change, so he added, "No, it's not that..." He frowned, aware of his error and awkwardness. "What I meant was that with you, I prefer a more... normal or light relationship, if you can call it that."

At that moment, the waitress returned with the dishes, interrupting the conversation with discreet ease. They both thanked each other for the service, and the woman returned a cordial smile before leaving. It was a small gesture, but enough to lighten the atmosphere at the table for a moment.

Meanwhile, (Y/n) mentally reviewed Jackson's words. Maybe, after all, she could maintain a relationship with him on a friendly level. After all, as a person, Jackson had a sociable nature, brimming with energy and, in some ways, contagious. Maintaining an absolute distance would be impossible.

Besides, perhaps some kind of light conversation with him would be unexpectedly pleasant and also useful. A space to exchange words and not just silent surveillance.

She then recalled the previous conversation with her friend Mark, who hadn't hidden his surprise at learning how she was handling her role with this new identity. He'd questioned her about the exposure of dealing directly with Gamma Jack, even though the super didn't know her real name. The fact that he'd detected her presence as an NSA agent so quickly was no small detail.

"It was predictable," Mark had told her sincerely. "If that man pays more attention to a woman than to his own safety, sooner or later he was going to find out."

Although the situation didn't reassure her, he advised her to maintain the nascent cooperation they had implicitly established. If she managed to channel the blond's attention, she could better regulate his activities... and, in the process, perhaps also influence him, both in his attitude and in his work as a super.

And he was partly right, becoming that channel. But she didn't rule out the idea that he would surely expect something from her in return.

With those thoughts in mind, (Y/n) looked up at him.

"I think I should be honest," her voice, breaking the silence that had settled in, immediately drew his full attention away from him. "I don't usually deal with people of your character... your open personality, I mean. That's why I keep my distance, so as not to compromise my work."

She paused briefly, calmly placing the napkin on her lap before continuing. "But I agree that we could have a more normal relationship. That way, we'd stop looking at each other with suspicion... well, more me toward you than the other way around," she coaxed.

The words surprised him. For a moment, Jackson watched her silently before his smile widened even further, as if he'd just received an unexpected gift.

Seeing his reaction, she added, "While I appreciate that you've kept your distance these days, I prefer this... friendship to build slowly. Less suggestive, more genuine. What do you say?"

The blond man nodded, pleased though a little disappointed that she dismissed his attempts at flirtation. "Well, I'm glad to hear it," he replied charmingly, bowing slightly toward her. "But if we're going to start over, then it's only fair that we introduce ourselves properly."

He extended his hand toward her, formal yet playful. "I'm Jackson Hands. Nice to meet you..."

That gesture was enough to make the agent hesitate for a few seconds. Revealing her true identity was against the rules, but she also knew that gaining his trust meant accepting certain risks. Finally, she took the offered hand with a cordial gesture. "I'm (Y/n) (L/n). The pleasure is mine."

Jackson mentally repeated the name, savoring it like a secret that now belonged to him. It suited her perfectly, with her reserved nature and, at the same time, with that unexpected charm that emerged in the most subtle moments. He promised himself never to forget it.

With the introduction over, the two proceeded. Turning his attention to lunch. Amid the sound of cutlery and the aroma of freshly served dishes, the conversation began to flow again, with the (h/c)-nette commenting lightly, "I hope at least the food lives up to all this hype. If not, I reserve the right to complain to the kitchen."

Jackson raised an eyebrow, surprised by her less rigid tone, and gave a brief smile. "Then I'll do the same. Although, to be honest, I doubt anyone would have the nerve to deny your complaint."

She gave a slight laugh, barely a murmur, and pointed to her plate. "It's not that hard to please me. As long as the rice is cooked well and the meat isn't dry, you've got me on your side."

That everyday confession disarmed him a little; she didn't seem like the reserved, distant woman he'd met on the dance floor, but rather someone with small quirks and simple tastes. That image, however small, intrigued him.

Determined to take advantage of that opening, he picked up his cutlery and calmly asked the question, "Since you know my profession... what would you say yours really is?"

She considered, carefully choosing her words. She could generalize without lying too much or revealing her private life. "It's not very different from yours. Just as supers sign up with the NSA to work legally, in my case, my duty is to supervise you. Report damage, evacuate civilians, recommend countermeasures, investigate... be the eyes that assess what's happening on the ground."

Jackson nodded as he took his first bite. It wasn't a surprise; he'd seen her work in the field before, dealing with everything he couldn't cover in the thick of things. But that led him to ask another question. "If you're saying it's almost the same... why work undercover and not as a super?" he asked, looking at her over his plate.

The agent didn't hesitate for long, though she chose her words carefully. "Let's just say it has to do with the environment I grew up in. I prefer consistency over spontaneity," she said calmly, taking a small bite of her food.

Jackson tilted his head, intrigued. He'd heard her value humility and assertiveness over boasting before, but that answer raised another, more pointed question. "It's funny," he said, putting his fork down for a moment. "I'm monitored because I'm a super. But you... They know what you are, too, don't they? Have you ever considered that they see you the same way? Like a weapon that should be held"

She stopped mid-gesture. She hadn't expected the question to come so suddenly and directly, although she sensed it would at some point. No matter how silently she accepted the fact that she was part of that machinery, there was always a bitter taste in acknowledging it. Nevertheless, she took a deep breath and rebuilt her inner wall. She shouldn't let her emotions get the better of her.

"What do you think, Jack?" she replied in a controlled tone, turning the question on him. "You yourself have shown your annoyance with NSA surveillance. But don't you think ordinary people need that contingency plan? What would happen if one of you lost control? Wouldn't you want a mechanism to protect them... and yourselves?"

Jackson was silent for a moment, absorbing her words. And he acknowledged that she was right. But it was inevitable. The use of one's powers, no matter how well-intentioned, always left a trace. Collateral damage, collapsed buildings, devastated streets… and people in danger. The need for contingency plans that the NSA implemented and designed was logical. But it also hurt his pride.

"I understand what you're saying," he murmured, with a bitter half-smile. "Although it still feels like a way of telling me that I'm not capable of controlling what I have."

He shifted his gaze elsewhere for a moment before adding in a lower, calmer voice. "That's why I avoid using them and only draw attention to others in a different way."

Gamma Jack had learned to restrain himself, to use his powers only in extreme cases, and when he did, to always maintain a security perimeter so as not to drag innocent people into the shockwaves of his power. That iron self-control had made him a meticulous man… but also someone marked by the distrust of others.

(Y/n) watched him silently, discovering for the first time that behind his relaxed tone lay a man aware of his limits... and of the image in which he wished to be perceived by the world, without relinquishing that superiority.

In the end, what was clear was that they both shared the same sentence. Useful pieces, disguised under the rhetoric of protection and order. Necessary weapons... always under surveillance and regulation.

As they stared at each other, a loud crash shattered the calm. From outside, screams, shattering glass, and chaos spilled into the streets. They both turned their gaze toward the windows, another incident as sudden as the one at the restaurant where they had first met.

In the crowd, Mark—who was also distracted by the commotion—exchanged a quick glance with (Y/n). They didn't need words; they both understood what it meant. A villain was near. It was time to act.

Universal Man, noticing the danger, immediately stood up and left determinedly, discreetly followed by Mark.

For her part, the (h/c)-nette looked down at her lunch, resigned. Another meal interrupted by duty. She sighed with barely contained frustration… until she noticed something disconcerting, Jackson was still eating calmly, as if nothing were happening. “Why don’t you get ready?” she asked, unable to hide her surprise.

The blond looked up, serene, without putting down his cutlery. “Universal Man is there,” he replied calmly. “He can handle the situation.” He allowed himself a small smile before adding, “I, for one, will finish enjoying my lunch.”

His aplomb was both irritating and disconcerting. (Y/n) watched him silently, torn between her sense of duty and her obligation to keep an eye on him. Her training told her to stay there, monitoring the super. But her operational instinct demanded she go assess the scene, gather data, and prepare a report.

She knew that if the threat escalated, she would need to convince Gamma Jack to intervene. It wouldn't be the first time she'd done it. With other supers—like Hypershock—it was enough to awaken their pride or a desire to demonstrate strength. But with Jack… it was different. He wasn't driven by duty, but by curiosity or by whoever caught his attention.

Resolutely, she put down her empty glass and pushed away her plate. "You'll have to excuse me," she finally said, rising from her seat. "I must go."

The young man looked up, stopping her with a tone more interested than concerned. "Where are you going?"

She turned to him, maintaining her composure despite the troubled she felt. "To do my job," she replied firmly. "I'm not just monitoring you. I also have to report on what's happening on the ground, assess damage, and coordinate with the agency if necessary."

Her voice softened slightly as she added, "And besides… I'm not one to wait for others to do what I can do."

With that determination that characterized her, she grabbed her coat and headed for the exit. Jackson followed her with his gaze, thoughtful, without moving from his seat. There was something about that agent—her mixture of control and courage—that kept him even more enraptured.

Upon exiting, (Y/n) found herself faced with the unleashed chaos. People running, screams, and a viscous substance spreading across the pavement, trapping those who failed to dodge it. That dull, almost oily sheen seemed familiar. She recognized it instantly, the machinery of the villain Polibomen.

But this time, his creation had changed. Instead of the slimy tentacles she remembered, the central capsule was surrounded by five large cannons that fired pools of that slime. A more aggressive and dangerous version.

In the distance, she spotted Mark, already reporting the situation on his radio. The (h/c)-nette's radio vibrated almost at the same time, and a voice from headquarters relayed the summary report: active threat, possible presence of a villain she had previously encountered, high priority. The intervention of the assigned hero was required.

She exhaled regretfully. She didn't know if Gamma Jack would deign to participate, but she replied firmly that she would do her best to attract his attention if the situation worsened.

She sought cover in a side hallway, where she could watch without being seen. In the distance, Universal Man dodged gunfire, alternating between protecting civilians and attacking the machine. But it was clear he couldn't get close enough without putting others at risk.

"Well? How's the situation?" The sudden voice startled her. She jumped slightly and turned immediately, finding the unmistakable figure of the super, standing behind her with his signature confident smile.

"You came..." she murmured, letting out a sigh of relief. "Please, Gamma Jack, avoid doing that. It nearly gave me a heart attack."

He gave a soft laugh, amused by her reaction. "I didn't mean to scare you. But it seems Polibomen is up to his old tricks, again."

"Yes," she nodded, regaining her composure. "Only this time, his machine changed tactics. It no longer uses tentacles, but cannons that fire that viscous substance to immobilize anyone affected by the shock. Look," she indicated the civilians trapped by the hardened substance. "They can't move."

The blond man frowned as he took in the scene. "I remember. But last time I only destroyed his experiment, not the real villain."

"Exactly," she replied, relieved that he'd deduced so quickly. "And if you're right, then this is just another one of his devices where again he is absent." Then she added, "And it seems Universal Man isn't having it easy."

Gamma Jack watched closely, seeing how Universal Man changed his density to avoid being caught as he tried to get closer to the main capsule.

"Very well," he said with a determined smile. "I'll have to intervene before things get any more complicated."

His eyes shone with that competitive spark that characterized him. "I was the first to face Polibomen... and I'll be the one to finish what he started."

He was about to launch into combat when (Y/n), almost without thinking, reached out and lightly grabbed his arm. The gesture stopped him in his tracks. He looked at her in surprise, not because of the touch, but because of the tone of her expression.

"Be careful," she said calmly, though her voice betrayed genuine concern. "We don't want casualties from an excess of power."

Jack raised an eyebrow and smiled confidently. "Don't worry. I'm Gamma Jack, I know what I'm doing."

That almost rehearsed arrogance drew a pent-up sigh from the agent. She knew arguing with him in the middle of an emergency was useless, so she chose to let him go.

However, before moving, the blond added mockingly, "And you, try not to put yourself at risk. I wouldn't want my agent to end up hurt by butting in where she's not called."

She frowned at the insinuation, returning her firm gaze. "Don't worry. I won't intervene," she replied with cutting calm.

He laughed softly before launching into action, surrounded by a flash of energy.

(Y/n) watched him disappear into the chaos. They had begun a kind of competition of purpose. She wasn't going to let that get the better of him. However, she would heed his words because she didn't want to be collateral damage either.

Gamma Jack launched himself from behind the enemy pod, unleashing a swathe of radiation directly into the core. The machine began to disintegrate, its casing vanishing in sections until one of the guns quickly repositioned itself and aimed at him.

He dodged the jets skillfully, but one of the shots struck him in the side and knocked him away from the target. The viscosity held him firmly to the ground, and part of his leg was stuck, immobilizing him.

The pod, far from remaining inert, transformed. Long telescopic antennas emerged from its surface; a screen in the center came to life and projected the image of the man behind it all.

"Varon Von Ruthless?" Gamma Jack exclaimed, recognizing the face on the monitor and quickly deducing the intentions behind that cover. "I thought you'd still be hiding behind the alias of Polibomen. Is this a change of identity or a change of pride?"

The man on the screen smirked. "My name has always been a credit," he replied in a metallic voice. "And now I will experiment with a new way to defeat the supers!"

Before he could continue, Universal Man, already close, solidified and destroyed one of the cannons with a blow.

"Not so far, Varon Von Ruthless!" he roared.

The villain counterattacked by pressing a button. The antennae emitted a series of almost "magnetic" pulses.

Within seconds, Universal Man's body began to respond abnormally; his solid form became even more rigid, his muscles stiffened, and instead of freeing themselves, each attempted movement generated more fixation. "What have you done to me, bastard?" he snarled, as the force gradually turned him into an immobile statue.

The Varon laughed sarcastically. "You won't be able to beat my amplifiers!"

Gamma Jack watched in annoyance. That scientist, Metaman's longtime rival, was ruining his moment. If it weren't for the intrusion, he would have taken the opportunity to get closer to (Y/n) and consolidate that budding trust. Now he had to put an end to this. "I'd ignore you, but to ruin something special... I'll have to destroy this right now."

The Varon, amused, responded with disdain, "Try it if you can, Gamma Jack. If you use your full power against my device, the amplification will cause massive damage. Do you really want to turn this plaza into a field of corpses?"

Jack activated his wave with the sole intention of disintegrating the viscosity. Suddenly, he felt the power growing out of control; his power expanding in directions he hadn't chosen. The substance in front of him began to melt, and simultaneously, nearby objects began to disintegrate indiscriminately. It was the signal; the amplification field not only impeded action but also forced the supers' energy to overflow.

He stopped his wave discharge before causing a catastrophe, but the viscosity remained attached to his torso. Frustration consumed him; the Varon was right—the antennas were amplifiers designed to couple with bioelectric and energy fields. The only thing that could counterattack it was a power to reverse that amplifier.

From her position, the agent instantly understood the magnitude of the problem. The antennas emitted a resonant field that coupled the frequency of the superpowered emissions with that of the machine. In doing so, they converted the superpower's energy into an unstable charge capable of affecting the environment as well as the wearer.

It was a perfect trap. Neither hero could safely use their power; any attempt at full power would be captured and re-emitted by the amplifier, multiplying the damage.

(Y/n) viewed it all with the cunning calm of someone evaluating alternatives when the risk was too high. How could this situation be resolved? All the powers of the supers present were counterproductive. And they couldn't waste time waiting for other supers that could counterattack it, like Psycwave with her mind control, or Plasmabolt with her ability to absorb energy from anything.

There had to be a way to decongest the villain or retain that amplifier, thus freeing the supers. A bold idea crossed her mind. Why focus on destroying the amplifier… when you could use it as you wished?

The agent pointed to herself. If she could match her power to the field's frequency, she could neutralize the resonance. But she had never attempted anything like this; her experience only covered simple materials—water or polymers. That artifact, on the other hand, was a technological monster designed to amplify energy on a massive scale.

Besides, now that she had ingested her medicine, her power was going to be limited, and concentrating again was going to be more complicated. Still, she knew it was her only option; she had to be that change to take the advantage.

However, she was worried; this was the second time she would apply her power to things other than her work objective. That responsibility ate at her, knowing that she would once again disobey her father's orders and her mission.

The Varon continued to laugh in his makeshift tower, Universal Man was almost petrified, and Gamma Jack was beginning to lose control of his waves. Time was running out. And there was no room for doubt.

The villain had to be defeated, and the people still fleeing for their lives kept safe; and if she was a means of help, then she would do it for the sake of others.

The agent turned her gaze towards Gamma Jack; he was astute, so he would notice the change quickly. She only hoped he would take advantage of her timing, as there was a chance her neutralization would be amplified and would work against them by also retaining the powers of those supers.

Straightaway, she extended her hand, pointing it at the core of the amplifier. The air around her vibrated. An invisible current ran through the plaza, like an echo of pent-up energy. Her body responded to the effort with a tingling sensation in her arms.

Little by little, she felt the contact, the frequency. It was like a taut string that could snap if she applied too much pressure. She adjusted the rhythm of her breathing and pushed her power into the field.
The impact was immediate. The waves from the device began to fluctuate; the intensity of their emission decreased.

In the distance, Gamma Jack noticed. His energy, previously out of control, stabilized. He could feel an external force neutralizing the field's interference.

"What... is happening?" the Baron bellowed, confused by the readings flashing on his screen. "The energy is dissipating!"

Then the blond saw her. (Y/n), motionless amid the chaos, her gaze fixed on the machine, concentrating a power that the super didn't understand how it worked. However, he also noticed that she was having difficulty holding her ground.

Without further ado, he understood what he had to do. He concluded that if she continued like this, the resonance could reverse against them.

"Universal Man!" he shouted. "Alter your density and destroy the antennas before it's too late!"

"Are you crazy?! I can't move!" the masked hero replied.

"Do it!" Gamma Jack roared at his companion's delay in reading the situation. "Just listen to me!"

Something in his tone convinced him. Universal Man altered his density, and he realized there were no repercussions from that amplifying field.

The phase shift gave him the momentum he needed, and he launched himself toward the capsule, hitting with all his might. The antennas exploded one after another, releasing sparks and fragments of molten metal.

The echo of the collapse resonated throughout the plaza. The machine fell. The viscosity lost its strength and melted on the ground like a common puddle.

Varon Von Ruthless screamed in disbelief. "It can't be possible! What have you done?!"

Universal Man shattered the last containment guns and finished off the device's core, causing a blast of blue energy that dissipated without causing further damage. The villain's machinery was neutralized.

Gamma Jack freed himself from the viscous remains and took a deep breath. They had won, but this time not with his victory. However, that didn't matter to him at the moment. His gaze immediately went to where his agent was.

The (h/c)-nette remained standing, trembling. Her breathing was shallow, her skin pale. The overexertion of using her power had exhausted her too much. But the Varon had been defeated. And the collateral damage was minimal; many people were unaffected. She felt relaxed, having avoided anything serious.

Despite the success, her body couldn't handle the overload. She took a wobbly step... then another, before her legs gave way. She fell, but didn't touch the ground. Firm arms caught her before her body collapsed completely. She recognized that warmth. That energy vibrated like a contained fire.

"I told you not to put yourself at risk..." Gamma Jack whispered, his voice deep but steady.

The young woman barely managed a sigh. In another circumstance, she would have rebuked him for the irony. But in that instant, she just closed her eyes, exhausted, resting her head against his chest. Her body was trembling, but he held her carefully, more gently than she would have imagined.

She didn't care if she was lying in his arms like another lady rescued by the narcissistic super; she just wanted to trust that he would see to it that she received medical attention.

The super let out a short, almost inaudible laugh. "You can rest... You did a good job, (Y/n)." His tone, for the first time, lacked arrogance. It was warm, human.

She heard it amid the distant hum of her own pulse before drifting off to sleep, feeling that, for a moment, the world had ceased to be a battlefield. And that she only fell under the arms of Morpheus.

Chapter Text

The room was enveloped in a dense silence. Only the slow hum of the medical machines barely broke the stillness with her artificial pulse. The patient lay motionless in the comfortable bed, enveloped in the bluish darkness of the monitor. Her breathing was calm, rhythmic... as if she were sleeping too deeply.

Jackson stood beside her, observing with a mixture of calm and unease every slight movement of her chest, every shadow the light cast on her face.

There was something about that scene—the fragility of an inert body, the forced serenity of the environment—that drew him back to a memory he had never been able to fully bury.

That day, there was also silence. Not the silence of rest... but the silence of the end. The air smelled of withered flowers and wax, and the silence was so profound that even sighs seemed disrespectful. In front of him, a woman rested in her last bed.

Her skin, white and serene like marble, seemed to retain an impossible glimmer, as if life refused to leave completely. Preserving that calm grace that distinguished her. It was his mother. Around her, the sunflowers—his favorite flowers—pointed uselessly toward the cloudy sky, searching for a light that once filled their days with joy, but which had been extinguished, leaving the world colder and the boy lonelier.

The boy, with golden hair and a tense face, held a white rose in his hands. That innocent offering, that flower between his fingers, was his way of saying goodbye. He placed it awkwardly in the woman's lifeless hands, hoping that purity would guide her to a new beginning... where pain wouldn't reach her.

There were no tears yet, only a sadness so suppressed it was painful to breathe.

A tall man leaned down beside him. He shared the boy's features, the same clear gaze, although in his eyes—a dull green like a field after a storm—an ancient weariness, the weight of loss, was evident.

"Be proud, nephew," he murmured in a calm, grave voice. "Your mother changed history. She succeeded in enacting the safety and labor justice laws that so many who suffered from such abuse endured."

Jackson looked up at his uncle, understanding more than he could express. His mother had been one of those women who didn't give up, even when no one took her seriously.

He knew his mother had fought to protect those like her, who worked exposed to substances that slowly robbed them of their health. Against those factories that poisoned the workers with that glittering dust. She had demanded justice, even when the sparkle that decorated their wrists and smiles turned to ash on their bodies. She endured mockery and contempt for being a woman, but she never gave in. She fought to the bitter end, but the price was high, and that illness consumed her. However, she had already fulfilled her cause, which had become law.

"However," the man continued, with a firm air, "remember this, Jackson, don't let naivety or misinformation dominate you. Those are the roots of the tragedies that the powerful prefer to ignore... and that destroys more than an enemy."

The boy lowered his head, blinking back tears. "Yes, Uncle William," he murmured.

William sighed and knelt down to his level. He placed a hand on his shoulder and, sensing the boy's suppressed trembling, pulled him closer, and finally, tears streamed down his face.

"Don't be afraid, boy," he said with a tenderness that belied his bearing. "You are not alone. I will teach you to be strong, I will help you take care of yourself and fend for yourself, to make your own decisions… I will let you follow the path your mother laid out for you, with pride and wisdom.”

The boy looked at him, his eyes clouded but steady. His uncle took his face in his hands, his expression grave, a gesture that would remain etched in his memory. "But you must do your part. Strength is not inherited; it is built. Understood?"

Jackson took a deep breath, trying to hold back his tears. His voice trembled as he answered, but his gaze shone with a dawning conviction. "Yes… I promise, Uncle."

And in that instant, as the sunflowers swayed in the gray wind, without fully understanding it, the boy silently sealed a promise. A determination that would not allow that fire he had sown to be extinguished.

The memory faded, as if the sound of the hospital monitor replaced the distant echo of the wind through the sunflowers. Jackson blinked, and the image of that motionless woman—the one from his childhood—dissolved into the figure now before him.

(Y/n) was still asleep, breathing slowly, her face bathed in the dim light of the room. There was something about that apparent calm that unsettled him. It was the same stillness, the same fragility he had once seen in his mother. In her, he saw the kind of people who carried the weight of duty to the limits of their bodies, those who didn't know how to stop even when their souls cried out for rest.

He leaned slightly toward her, observing the faint movement of her breathing. "You too..." he murmured softly, his voice low, barely audible. "You give too much. Too much for others."

However, there was something different about her. Her will stemmed not only from duty, but from a deep loyalty to her ideals. She owed loyalty to the NSA, yes, but that obedience was not blind. When morality stood between orders and conscience, (Y/n) chose the most humane path, even if it meant breaking the rules. He saw it when she interfered in the previous fight.

He leaned back in his chair, letting the weight of his thoughts slowly dissipate. His gaze never left the silhouette of the (h/c)-nette. Her calm breathing, the serenity on her face... everything about her radiated a silent strength. She sought neither glory nor redemption. She only fulfilled her duty, even at the cost of herself.

And Jackson wanted to break that pattern. Because he wanted to believe that within her, there was that pure and stubborn independence that wanted to be released.

Darkness. A warm silence enveloped her, as if the world had been suspended between nothingness and memory. What had happened?

Only a flicker of memory lingered in her mind, a warm, firm embrace that still rested on her body, which faded just before loneliness completely claimed her consciousness.

Distant voices, muffled murmurs, echoes of a world she wasn't yet a part of and couldn't distinguish until they died away.

She didn't feel her body moving, or at least not completely. Her limbs seemed asleep, suspended, floating in a space where only warmth kept her conscious. And the warmth of nearby presences, bodies in motion, life.
Fatigue still weighed on her, but her restless mind was beginning to awaken.

Through the confusion, she made out footsteps, the shadow of someone moving away, and another figure standing beside her. That presence wasn't light like a child's, nor firm like a man's. It was a delicate weight, which felt... like that of an unknown woman.

Little by little, her eyelids trembled. The haze in her vision began to dissipate until reality took shape. The white light of the ceiling, the antiseptic smell, the rhythmic beeping of a monitor. The blurred image began to define itself, and with it, the control of her own body.

In front of her, a middle-aged woman, dressed in an immaculate nursing uniform, stood beside the bed, reviewing a record sheet on a medical chart, with a professional composure that contrasted with the confusion of the moment.

(Y/n) tried to sit up, but the slight movement was enough to catch the nurse's attention. "Oh, calm down, don't rush it," she said with professional kindness, approaching to help her settle into the chair. "You’re been unconscious for a few hours."

She nodded, her voice a little hoarse. "Thank you..."

"You're dehydrated. Let me get you some water," the woman added, heading to a small side table nearby, where she took a plastic cup and filled it from a sterile pitcher.

While she waited, (Y/n) observed her surroundings with increasing clarity. The room was spacious, quiet, with ivory-toned walls and a large window at the far end that let in light from the night reflection outside. From there, part of the city skyline could be seen, its reflections flickering in the glass buildings. It was a setting too neat, too elegant for a public hospital.

A private medical center, no doubt... or something more reserved, unlike the NSA centers.

The nurse returned with the glass and handed it to her gently. "Here you go. Drink slowly," she said with a professional smile and waited for her to take a sip before continuing. "How are you feeling? You must be a little confused. Do you remember what happened?"

(Y/n) shifted her gaze toward the window. She remembered the attack... the villain, the amplification device... the moment she pushed her powers beyond her limits, and then the stabbing pain in her head before she collapsed. But that wasn't information she could share.

"I'm fine," she lied with feigned serenity. "Just a little disoriented. I don't remember much, actually."

The nurse nodded understandingly. "It's normal. According to the report, you were involved in an incident with a villain who was passing by. Luckily, you didn't have any serious injuries, just a fainting spell," she explained in a calm voice before adding with a certain warmth. "Besides, your partner was with you the whole time, ensuring you received the best care."

The glass almost slipped from her hands. "My... partner?" —she repeated in disbelief.

The nurse smiled and nodded, oblivious to the confusion. "Yes, he was here the whole time. He made sure she was treated immediately and didn't allow her to be left alone."

"A partner..." The word echoed in her mind with confusion. Did she mean the person who had brought her there?

It could have been Mark... but no, even though he was close to the scene, he should have been prioritizing his monitoring of Universal Man, in addition to overseeing the evacuation of that incident. The only one who remained nearby when she lost consciousness was... Was it Gamma Jack?

The nurse hadn't mentioned any hero, which implied that, if it had been him, he presented himself under another identity. She had to be sure, so she asked cautiously. "Excuse me... could you tell me who?"

Before she could finish the question, the door opened softly. A silhouette stood out against the light in the hallway, tall, confident, unmistakable. The golden glow of his hair contrasted with the dimness of the room and instantly caught the young woman's attention, and she needed no more to recognize him.

That bearing, that gaze... There was only one person with those characteristics.

"Oh, Mr. Hands, you've arrived just at the right time," the nurse commented with a kind, professional smile, tinged with a hint of relief. He strode calmly toward the bed, his usual poise impeccable even in the dim light.

"Thank you for keeping her company while I was unavailable," he said in that courteous, confident tone that seemed innate to him. His voice radiated the kind of kindness that comes with a blend of natural charm and polished manner, making it impossible to ignore.

The woman smiled, visibly pleased by his gesture. "You do not need to thank me, young man. You haven't had a rest since you arrived. It's clear how much you care about her well-being."

Jackson nodded and, without much thought, took (Y/n)'s hand in his own. His gaze descended upon hers, warm and restrained, and the gesture—as spontaneous as it was theatrical—left her momentarily speechless. She didn't have the strength to pull away, so she simply watched him, incredulous. "That's right," he murmured, almost with a satisfied smile. "All for her."

The nurse looked at them with a tender expression, as if witnessing the outcome of a romantic story. "I'll leave you for a moment. I'll notify the doctor about the patient's condition," she said before quietly withdrawing, closing the door behind her.

Silence fell between them as soon as the door closed, the air suspended. (Y/n) turned her gaze to him, with a mixture of suspicion and bewilderment. "We're not a couple," she clarified, her voice raspy, but with her usual firmness. She tried to free her hand, but he didn't allow it. On the contrary, he intertwined his fingers with hers with a calculated ease and spoke in a tone as calm as it was insolent.

"We're not," Jackson admitted, with a slightly tilted smile. "But I needed an excuse to get in here without raising suspicion so I could make sure you're okay." His tone was calm, almost amused, as if he enjoyed watching her waver between discomfort and curiosity.

She frowned, exhaling with suppressed annoyance. "You could have used any other argument but... that."

"And miss the chance to see your reaction?" he retorted, leaning a little closer to her.

The agent glared at him. She was unsure whether to take his explanation seriously. Being chivalrous in taking her to the hospital was one thing; staying by her side the entire time was another. Why had he really done it?

The (h/c)-nette sighed with obvious annoyance. "How long have I been here? And how did you manage to bring me here without anyone connecting your identity?" she asked, trying to change the subject.

The blond man gave a slight, slurred laugh. "Calm down." His fingers continued to play absentmindedly with hers, with no intention of letting go. "You're the one in charge of monitoring me; it would be a problem if I disappeared from your sight, right?"

The agent watched him out of the corner of her eye. His expression seemed genuinely amused, almost satisfied, as if the situation was entertaining him more than it should have been.

She sighed again. She couldn't tell if he was serious or if he was just enjoying provoking her. "You didn't respond," she insisted, trying to concentrate despite the distracting touch of his hand.

"Okay, okay," he finally relented, with a theatrical gesture. "I called in a favor with some contacts to have you transferred to a discreet hospital. I changed to my civilian identity before reporters arrived at the scene." His tone softened, flirtatious. "I wasn't going to leave you in the hands of others."

The young woman blinked, processing his words. A part of her felt strangely relieved, although something inside her kept questioning what had happened. "And Baron Von Ruthless? Was everything resolved?" she finally asked, trying to return to the professional topic.

Jackson shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "That's not essential right now." His voice lowered, becoming closer. "What matters to me is how you feel. You pushed yourself too hard with your powers in that last confrontation."

He sat down next to the bed without letting go of the contact and took the glass of water she was holding and placed it on a small table nearby.

She looked at him wearily, knowing the blonde wouldn't respond with what she wanted to hear. Later, she should write to her friend to find out how his report went.

"I'm better... I just overdid it a bit," she finally replied, bringing her other hand to her forehead. "I'm not used to using my powers like this, that's all."

For a moment, she remained silent. Strangely, she didn't feel the side effects that usually followed each use of her ability on something she wasn't used to handling. Could it be her body was adapting? Or had the medicine worn off? She made a mental note to analyze it later.

Jackson watched her closely, his eyes curious and appraising with interest. "I saw what you did out there. Telekinesis, right? But with a peculiar control... as if you could limit the impact at will. I don't fully understand it, but I must admit it was impressive."

(Y/n) bit her lower lip. She knew he was perceptive and impressively analytical, and that only increased her insecurities about him digging deeper than he should have.

He smiled sideways, noticing her hesitation in her distrust, so he lightly squeezed her hand in an unexpectedly sincere gesture. "You were key to stopping the Baron. If you hadn't acted, neither Universal Man nor I would have escaped unscathed." The feeling in her hand was warm and firm. "Thank you for that."

The sincerity in his voice unsettled her. No one had ever thanked her for using her powers before. Usually, no one thanked her. It was always "mission accomplished" or "good work," nothing more. For the first time, someone saw her effort... and said so. A slight smile appeared on her lips before she tried to hide it. "I only did my job," she replied in a humble and honest tone. "I couldn't allow the Baron to continue causing more damage."

Jackson looked at her for a moment longer, silent. Although his smile remained, for her, there was no arrogance or irony in his expression. Only an unusual calm, a mixture of relief and respect. "And yet," he said softly, "you did more than your fair share."

The agent lowered her gaze. For a moment, the world seemed to stop between them, the buzzing of the monitor, the steady breathing, the warm touch of his hands. (Y/n) didn't know if what was fluttering in her chest was gratitude... or a restless satisfaction she couldn't quite place.

Then, the door opened. The noise was enough to break that suspended moment. Instinctively, and without thinking much, she withdrew her hand from Jackson's grasp. A faint blush spread across her cheeks.

He noticed the gesture, but didn't have time to say anything before the doctor's deep voice interrupted him as he entered. "Excuse me," the doctor greeted calmly as he checked the chart in his hands. "I see the young lady is awake now. How are you feeling?"

The agent composed herself, immediately adopting her usual, more controlled posture. "Better, Doctor. A little tired, but fine."

The doctor nodded, checking some indicators on the monitor and carefully palpating her wrist. "Your pulse is stable, although I'd like to ask you a question, are you currently taking any medication?"

She hesitated for a second, but answered, feigning casualness. "Only medication for headaches at work, nothing else."

"Good," the man noted something on the chart and continued, "Then there's no cause for alarm. Your body just needed rest. You can leave when you feel up to it, but avoid exertion for the next 24 hours," he replied with a slight, professional smile.

She nodded gratefully, and after a few additional recommendations, the doctor discreetly withdrew.

With the awkward silence restored, the (h/c)-nette settled herself on the edge of the bed. She stretched her muscles carefully; her body was already responding normally. She noticed with relief that she was still wearing the same clothes, clean and tidy. Only a few hours had passed, but in her mind, the battle seemed far away.

Jackson, still standing, watched her with that inquisitive expression mixed with curiosity. "Medication for headaches?" he commented, raising an eyebrow as he offered his hand to help her up. "Does it have something to do with your powers?"

The young woman looked at him out of the corner of her eye, assessing how far she could go in answering. By protocol, she shouldn't reveal anything about her abilities beyond what was strictly necessary. But after what she had experienced and given the agreement they had reached, she decided to give her a measured answer.

She took his hand and sat up slowly. "Let's just say... the medicine helps stabilize certain effects after using my abilities," she said in a calm voice, omitting, of course, the why and where they came from.

The blond man raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “So there are side effects,” he murmured. “Interesting.” He leaned in slightly, his scientific curiosity mixed with his usual charisma. “What exactly is your ability?”

The agent looked at him thoughtfully for a few seconds. Then she shifted her gaze to the ceiling lamp. "I could show you." She delicately raised her hand, and with almost imperceptible concentration, in a small gesture, the light in the room began to dim into a soft glow.

"My power focuses on neutralizing energies," she explained calmly. "I don't destroy them, I just stabilize them. I can regulate the intensity of a source, contain it if necessary."

The super raised his eyebrows, genuinely impressed. "Telekinesis with a neutralization focus..." he murmured thoughtfully. "A very different ability from any I'm familiar with, and it requires a lot of balance."

She gave a faint smile, still looking at the faint glow and a hint of interest. "That's a good conclusion," she confirmed with a faint smile, lowering her hand. The light returned to its normal brightness. "I can regulate the frequencies and homeostatic or recently generated energy pressure of the matter around me. It keeps bodies stable and prevents power waves from causing harm."

His blue eyes followed her every movement until they settled on her face. She certainly had a special power, one the NSA wouldn't have let go unnoticed, and they had harnessed it for their control and contingency plans. A valuable resource. A neutralizer. He had seen her power in action twice already, and he understood. (Y/n) was someone capable of manipulating matter-energy at will, albeit in a different way than the supers he knew. But he had also noticed the limits—the pain, the exhaustion, that tension that coursed through her after using her abilities.

Jackson crossed his arms, regarding her with a serenity that wasn't cold, but analytical. "I'd like to think that's why the NSA assigned you to monitor me," he said quietly. "To use your abilities on me when necessary, in case I... get out of control. Because of how threatening my powers can seem. And my ‘impulsive’ attitude. Am I wrong?"

(Y/n) remained silent. There was no need to confirm anything; her gaze was enough as an answer.

Jackson understood instantly. His expression softened, although something lingered in his gaze that wasn't simple understanding, curiosity, perhaps respect… or a fascination he couldn't hide. However, he understood that for her, with the attitude she'd displayed, each mission was a tightrope walk between ethics and obedience, between what she wanted to do and what she was ordered to do—a friction between her ideals.

The blond saw the opportunity in that, so he broke the silence with a crooked smile, the one he always used to disarm any tension. "Even so," he continued with a slight, more relaxed smile, "I think we could make a good team." He took a slow step forward and, with a gentle gesture, gently took both of her wrists, guiding them toward him. "You have an ability that few understand. You know when to intervene, how to restrain... You analyze, you calculate. You don't just do your duty, (Y/n)... you would help maintain that balance where it's needed."

His voice was low, controlled, but charged with intent. "You're more than an agent," he added, almost in a whisper without looking away. "I saw it in the field. Your instinct, your judgment, your control... you know you could go further if you wanted to."

The agent looked at him cautiously, weighing each word, trying to decipher whether he meant it or if it was all part of his usual charm. His voice, his bearing... seemed too confident to be mere flattery. Besides, it didn't seem that her mission as an agent bothered him; quite the opposite, he wanted to seduce her by offering her a tempting idea, a purpose she denied.

Then she understood that persuasive tone, so natural to him. It was the same confidence radiated by a super accustomed to convincing, to making the world adapt to their will. But, despite everything, something in his words resonated within her. Part of (Y/n) knew he was right. However, the other part—the one that had been shaped by the discipline and voice of her father—reminded her of the disciplined echo of the mantra that had formed her: obey, comply, continue.

She couldn't allow herself to doubt. She couldn't let that pride—that human spark that Jackson awakened—deflect her from her purpose.

With a sigh, she slowly removed her wrists from contact, although her gesture was more grateful than defensive. "I understand what you're suggesting, but no..." she replied in a low but firm voice. "I can't be a super. Not when I swore a commitment. My duty is to maintain order, not disrupt it."

Jackson watched her for a few seconds, silent. There was no irony on his face, only a mixture of frustration, albeit with a spark of respect. He finally smiled, tired but sincere. "I guess that makes you more heroic than me," he said at last, smiling with a hint of sincerity.

The (h/c)-nette let out a slight laugh, tired and inaudible but real. “Don’t exaggerate, Mr. Hands.”

He raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. "Jack," he corrected again, "Just Jack."

She looked at him skeptically. She didn't understand where the trust he seemed to place so quickly came from when she only proved otherwise. "I still don't understand where you get such confidence."

He shrugged, amused. "Let's just say I trust my instincts... and my instincts say I can continue to earn a little more of your friendship."

"Oh, really?" she replied with restrained irony. "So, Jack..." she murmured with a half-smile. "I suppose I owe you a thank you for going to all this trouble. Although... there are more pressing priorities than my well-being."

The blond cocked his head boldly. "You're a priority too," he replied in a warm whisper, taking a step closer, leaning slightly toward her. "In fact, I'll accept thanks... or coffee. Although a date would sound much better."

(Y/n) shook her head gently, rolling her eyes at his brazenness. But this time, her smile was genuine. For the first time in a long time, it didn't sound like a duty, or a tactic, but like something human. "Okay, a date will do," she said, with a serenity that masked mild amusement.

Jackson smiled triumphantly, but without breaking his composure. "Perfect. Then it's a deal." He slowly pulled away, still staring at her. "And I promise... to behave."

The agent just nodded, skeptical that he would keep his word. However, she couldn't deny that she was silently grateful that Jackson had taken the situation so lightly. His carefree, though sometimes exasperating, attitude made everything seem less serious. Between them, the tension had given way to an unexpected calm; something resembling friendship… or at least a mutual understanding. That ease was a relief amidst so many missions and formalities.

Still, in the back of her mind, (Y/n) knew she shouldn't allow that bond to cross personal boundaries. His words—"You're more than an agent"—continued to echo inside her head. And although she didn't want to admit it, part of her knew it was true. She just wasn't ready to accept what it meant yet.

Pushing those thoughts aside, she returned to the present. If she was feeling better now, she should return to her duties. She had to report on what had happened during the previous attack. She imagined Mark had handled the evacuation and the preliminary reports; even so, she still had to send him an apology for her absence, in addition to the corresponding report to Mr. Grayson.

"Well, if you'll excuse me," she finally said, picking up his wallet from the shelf next to the bed. "Now that I'm feeling better, I'll go to my apartment to finish my responsibilities."

"So soon?" the blonde questioned with a raised eyebrow. "I thought you'd wait a little longer. You've only been awake for a few minutes."

The (h/c)-nette checked that her shoes were also on the shelf, so she began to put them away. "I appreciate your concern, but I'll consider my unconscious time my rest, so I must continue with my obligations."

Jackson, noticing her obstinacy, offered with his usual mix of seriousness and charm, "Then let me accompany you."

She looked at him sideways, gently, and was concerned that she had taken up his time. "You did quite a bit by helping me," she replied politely. "I wouldn't want to bother you any further."

"You would never be a bother," he replied persuasively. "It's just... concern between friends."

His insistence made her sigh, but she didn't want to argue with his persistence. "Okay..." she finally gave in. "But only as far as the entrance of the building, okay?"

The blond man nodded in satisfaction, and shortly after, the young woman officially reported her discharge from the hospital. She signed the corresponding documents, and when everything was ready, they both walked through the doors into the warm night.

It was to be expected that Jackson would insist on the expected manners—a gesture of courtesy as natural to him as his smile. He opened the door for the lady in the car with that gentlemanly air that seemed instinctive. These were gestures that, in her military childhood, (Y/n) had rarely received; the world of uniform had taught her to be tough and self-sufficient. But now, as an agent, such small gestures were more frequent and somewhat less strange. So she accepted it with only slight discomfort.

"So... which address should I take you to?" Jackson asked, starting the engine, looking at her out of the corner of his eye with a half-smile.

She hesitated. For a moment, she considered giving him the exact address of her apartment, but remembered that her official quarters were right across the street from his actual residence. She didn't want to pique anyone's curiosity, especially that of a super whose attentiveness could become an inconvenience. It was better to be a bit reserved, just to be safe.

As she told him the "alternate" address, she noticed the blond's amused smile, which didn't go unnoticed. "Are you embarrassed to tell me where you live?" he joked.

"It's not that," she replied, trying to maintain a professional tone. "I just prefer not to get used to a super knowing my every move."

He laughed softly, enjoying her ego-inflating hesitation. "That distrust almost flatters me."

For a brief silence, the engine and the distant murmur of traffic filled the air. It was Jackson who broke it with a seemingly casual, yet well-planned, question. "What are your plans for this weekend?"

"Filing out a report and doing the week's shopping, the usual," she replied matter-of-factly, looking out the window. "Why do you ask?"

She thought it might be some activity he was going to do, like one of his unpredictable modeling assignments. In her mind, she was already preparing to get organized.

"Because I thought we could keep our promised date," he said with his usual flirtatious grin, stopping at a traffic light.

She turned to face him, surprised by his straightforward proposal. She hadn't imagined he would ask for the date so soon, although on reflection, maybe it was better to get the matter over with as soon as possible. "Oh... right." She put a thoughtful hand to her hair. "I'll try to get organized. What time do you suggest?"

"How about... all day?" Jackson suggested, his tone as matter-of-fact as if it were the most sensible option in the world.

She raised an eyebrow. "All day?" she repeated, with slight disbelief. "I thought a date was just lunch or dinner. What are you planning on doing during that time?"

"You know," he said, without taking his eyes off the road. "Walk around, have some fun, try something different than your usual days off."

The (h/c)-nette looked at him with a mixture of intrigue and curiosity. "But that date is supposed to be for you, not me."

Jackson let out a light laugh. "I'll only be happy if you enjoy the day," he replied, this time without his playful tone, with a sincerity that took her by surprise.

The agent watched him out of the corner of her eye, somewhere between intrigued and skeptical. (Y/n)'s breaks were usually simple: recovery, silence, and routine. She rested just enough, reviewed reports, and kept her mind occupied. It wasn't customary for her to indulge in days of leisure, but the offer sounded... different. Not like a distraction, but like an opportunity to disconnect, even if it was for a few hours.

"Okay," she finally agreed, seeing that she was nearing her destination. "But I'd like you to make a proposal as well. To make it fair. I wouldn't want it to be awkward."

The blond man gave a short laugh, delighted with the deal. "Fair deal," he said. "Then I'll pick you up on Sunday at ten in the morning. Is that okay?"

"Perfect," she replied, just as the car stopped in front of a park. "I'll be ready promptly."

She opened the door, but before getting out, she turned to him with a slight smile. "Have a good rest, Jack."

"You too, (Y/n)," he replied matter-of-factly.

He watched her leave as she walked into the park. The intonation with which she said his name sounded clear and unaffected; for some reason, it reassured him, as if it were so warm, like a distant memory. As the echo of her footsteps faded, he pointed a restrained smile in the rearview mirror, and the cold night air seemed to become more serene.

As he drove, Jackson's mind wasn't focused on the promised date or the calm of the night. He was thinking about something deeper, about the discipline she carried with her, which he recognized as familiar.

There was in (Y/n) the same stubbornness he'd observed in his mother—that dedication to a cause to the point of exhaustion—and that affinity stirred something inside him. It wasn't just professional curiosity; he wanted to understand if her steadfastness stemmed from her own conviction or the external demands of the agency. Was it an instilled doctrine or a personal choice? Knowing this would allow him to approach her differently, not just with feigned charm.

Perhaps, he told himself, this obsession with understanding her stemmed from the promise he himself had made as a child, not to repeat the absences that had marked him.

Seeing her gave him back a chance to be different, to not let those who give everything for others end up consumed by the demands of others. Or perhaps, that mere fascination, without realizing it, was what attracted him.

The city passed by him in a trail of lights. Despite everything—the risk, the secrecy, the unspoken agreements—the thought of Sunday brought him a new calm. And that, he silently admitted, pleased him more than he had expected.

Now that he thought about it, he had a planned get-together with his friends that night, as they usually did every week at the usual tavern. But this time it was a special occasion, so he couldn't afford to miss it. For a moment, he wondered if (Y/n) had been ordered to continue monitoring him. Perhaps the NSA had decided to give her a break after the brief incident at the hospital. If not, he himself would make sure she got a break. He had promised to behave, and while that didn't mean abstaining from fun, he would at least try to keep things decent.

He drove through the brightly lit streets to the bar. Upon arrival, the atmosphere greeted him with a familiarity: warm lights, soft music, the murmur of conversation, and the carefree laughter of the clientele. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he knew his friends were already in the reserved room—the metallic sound of darts hitting the board confirmed his suspicion; they were already competing, accompanied by a couple of pitchers of beer.

However, before entering, he noticed the presence of a peculiar woman. A redhead. He recognized her from the previous time he'd been at the pool hall with his friends, and she was his agent's tablemate at the time. He hadn't noticed it during previous reunions with his friends, presumably because she was good at camouflaging herself, but now that he was aware of it thanks to (Y/n), he deduced that she was also an agent supervising one of his friends. But which one was the question.

However, he'd find out later; for now, he just had to relax with his friends.

"I'm here!" he announced in his characteristically confident voice. "Late, but alive. How's the game going?"

The laughter stopped for just a second before the tallest of the group, Bob, turned to him with a sly smile. He patted him on the shoulder, making Jackson frown. "So why the delay this time?" he joked. "Another mystery date?"

"Nothing like that," Jackson replied, trying to ignore the pain of the slap. "Just had a minor inconvenience... let's say, a work-related incident."

"Oh, yeah, I saw it on the news," said Simon, the bespectacled man, aiming with the dart in his hand. "Baron Von Ruthless, disguised as another villain and defeated by Universal Man, huh? It's not often you hear that when you were there."

Lucius, who was sitting in the armchair, added with a mocking smile, "Yeah, funny... Gamma Jack is present in the chaos and not as the protagonist. You don't see that every day."

Bob burst out laughing, and the aforementioned just rolled his eyes, but not without a sly smile, settling into one of the sofas.

Simon threw his dart, scoring a good score, and continued, "The strange thing is that you disappeared before the press arrived. That's not like you."

"Wow," Bob chimed in theatrically, "what could be more important than the spotlight?" He slumped down in his seat, looking mischievously at the blond. "I'm curious what you were doing in the meantime."

Lucius let out a low laugh as he took his turn. "It must have been another one of his 'emotional training dates.'"

Jackson slumped down on the couch with a half-smile. "What's happening," he faked the dramatic, "is that one of my best friends decided to get married and leave me without a weekend companion."

The aforementioned man's grimace widened. "I thought you'd gotten over that little crush on Helen, Jack," Bob added, pouring himself another beer.

"Low blow," Simon chimed in with a modest laugh, plopping down next to the blond.

Lucius whistled, hitting the target with a dart. "And with style, Bob! A direct blow to the ego."

Bob sipped from his glass, still smiling. "And so, I assume you won't be attending my wedding."

The blond man raised an eyebrow. "I have a commitment that day," Jack explained with an ambiguous grimace.

"'Commitment,'" Lucius repeated as he threw his last dart, deliberately missing just to add to the joke. "It's your favorite excuse whenever you miss something important."

Jackson took the dart when it was his turn, stood up, and stood in front of the board. "What can I say?" he said with a smile as he took careful aim. "I'm a man who draws too much attention to myself."

The three friends laughed in unison, shaking their heads at his usual arrogance.

"At least promise me you'll come to the party," Bob requested, pouring another round. "You can't let us celebrate without you."

The blond man threw his dart. It was a perfect target. "I'm not promising anything," he said in a relaxed tone, leaving the next dart between his fingers, "but I'll make an effort... unless you accept someone else on your guest list."

The silence that followed was immediate.

Simon raised an eyebrow at him, curious. "You know it'll be a private meeting. We can't bring strangers to our circle."

Jackson smiled without immediately responding, took another dart, and threw it with pinpoint accuracy. Second target. "I don't think there'll be a problem," he replied, amused. "After all, it's someone from the NSA."

Lucius stepped back, surprised. "Wait! Weren't you dating a journalist a month ago? Now it turns out your new 'friend' is from the government."

He had remembered that female journalist; he had seduced her just by finding out who the male journalist was who was following him very cautiously, only to find out later that he was an NSA agent.

The blonde took a sip before answering, with that calmness that irritated and fascinated in equal measure. "You know... my interests change over time."

Bob let out a mock sigh. "Oh, Jack... someday karma's going to catch up with you," he murmured, shaking his head.

Lucius wasted no time regaining his relaxed tone with his drink in hand. "Imagine that. Jackson Hands, the impossible-to-tame man, finally finds a woman who leaves him speechless."

A collective laugh filled the air.

"Oh come on," Jackson replied, holding back his laughter and preventing his drink from spilling. "That's never going to happen."

Simon smiled wryly. "We can only hope, can't we?"

"Sure," Bob added as he prepared for his turn. "Who knows, maybe this last one is the one to let your guard down."

Jackson watched him just as his dart grazed the rim of the center. "That remains to be seen."

He sipped from his glass, letting the conversation continue, but his mind was no longer on the tavern. The image of (Y/n) crossing the park was still present, as clear as if he saw her right in front of him. He didn't know what to expect from that date... but for some reason, the idea calmed him. And, deep down, it intrigued him even more than he wanted to admit.

Chapter Text

The clock read 7:45 a.m. when a tall young woman entered the file room. The constant hum of the servers filled the air, mingling with the monotonous blinking of the panel's cold lights, which cast bluish glimmers on her auburn hair.

Although it was Saturday, the NSA facilities remained active; the work of the supers knew no rest, and their monitoring had to be uninterrupted.

The agent, known by the pseudonym Rosney, stopped in front of one of the main terminals and went inside to perform her routine. Reviewing reports wasn't an obligation for her, but a habit. Each file represented an opportunity to anticipate patterns, evaluate behaviors, and design intervention strategies. She was meticulous in this task; for her, the information was essential.

In addition to that work, he maintained frequent communication with other agents, exchanging information about the activities of the supes linked to Gazerbeam, one of the agency's most competent supers to whom she was assigned.

His routine, rigorous as a lawyer, wasn't stressful for her. Simon J. Paladino—the super's civilian name—was a reserved, composed individual with very predictable habits and only a handful of eccentricities. This facilitated his monitoring and kept the reports under control.

The agency was well aware of Gazerbeam's availability and the high success rate of his missions, an achievement partly attributed to Mr. Incredible, who had convinced him to formally join the NSA some time ago.

For this reason, the board of directors considered it prudent to integrate him into different teams to assess his adaptability to teamwork and monitor his development. However, that attempt ended in failure. The cooperation with the large-scale Phantasmics team crumbled due to differences in opinion and leadership, exacerbated by Gazerbeam's independent nature.

The split was inevitable, and since then, Rosney had reduced her network of collaborators with those international agents. She still maintained contact, though not directly. Another of the few teams she still kept in touch with was BM04I, under the direction of manager Rick Dicker, where superheroes like Mr. Incredible, Dynaguy, Metaman, and Plasmabolt operated.

Although they were considered the agency's most prominent group, the agent knew that behind their prestige were egos as arrogant as the supers they monitored. Earning their trust required patience, tact, and sometimes a dose of professional manipulation.

Even so, the young woman regularly corresponded with other groups, including BR013, the team responsible for overseeing Gamma Jack and other superheroes of questionable morals. It was then that she noticed the sudden change; the supervision of that super had been transferred to group BN035.

Recent files didn't officially detail the reassignments between agents. But during the last monthly meeting, the implementation of a series of interviews and evaluations for the supers had been mentioned, which likely implied adjustments to personnel and supervisory strategies.

However, the confidentiality surrounding these changes suggested a clear intention, to avoid leaks or internal conflicts between agents and superiors. Nevertheless, it was inevitable that questions would arise regarding those decisions made by the higher-ups.

She discovered, during one of the informal meetings of the group Simon was involved with, that the blond super was accompanied by a new agent. It was no longer Alex, his usual supervisor, but a woman she had seen before with another super.

It was (L/n), formerly assigned to Hypershock.

The redhead remembered that agent's file clearly; the daughter of a general, trained in the military from a young age, with an impeccable record of discipline and operational control. Furthermore, her connection to the armed forces suggested a dual purpose: to supervise and, at the same time, act as an information liaison between the NSA and the military.

It was logical that someone with that profile would be chosen to monitor a war veteran like Gamma Jack.

But why assign an agent with a military background to a super with such volatile power? Was it a tactical maneuver between agencies or a covert operation to control the blond man's potentially erratic behavior?

Internal reports described him as charismatic, egocentric, narcissistic, and notoriously vulnerable to feminine charm. Therefore, in theory, assigning a woman to supervise him was a drawback; a single moment of weakness or flirtation could compromise the objectivity of the agent's monitoring.

After all, what would happen if an agent fell under the spell or the influence of the superintendent? It would be an easily exploitable vulnerability. Although, on the other hand, it could also be an advantage, becoming a method of manipulation if the agent knew how to maintain emotional control, neutralizing or influencing the subject when necessary. A tool as effective as it is dangerous.

However, (L/n)'s record showed no tendency to succumb to that kind of influence. She was a focused professional, with firm values ​​and an almost inflexible adherence to discipline and regulations. And, paradoxically, that was what worried Rosney the most. Just another competitor.

The (h/c)-nette had no flaws in her reports, and her supervision and execution were meticulously evaluated in every confrontation with a villain from the super she was assigned to.

It surprised her. No one maintained such a spotless service record. Not even Rick Dicker's own agents could boast such perfection.

But as she observed and interacted with her, the redheaded agent began to notice certain nuances. (L/n)'s strategy seemed too controlled, but the blond super had started reacting differently. His attention to her was constant; his gestures, his gaze, his body language... something was changing. And that kind of interest, in her experience, only meant one thing, the subject had noticed something amiss.

Therefore, the Rosney had to stay out of it. Any direct contact between them would jeopardize her cover. If Gamma Jack suspected there was more than one agent undercover, the entire operation would collapse.

Up until now, the agent had managed to maintain her impeccable facade, alternating between male and female identities as the mission demanded. Her face, along with precise makeup, allowed her to move through the shadows with ease, invisible even to the most observant supers.

The night before, however, something had been bothering her.

During the supers' private meeting in the bar's private room, (L/n) failed to appear for her monitoring. It was an unusual absence. The redhead knew that Gamma Jack had been involved that afternoon in a confrontation with Varon Von Ruthless alongside Universal Man, but the attack had occurred in broad daylight. By now, the agent should have resumed her duties.

The absence was too long. Either an emergency had arisen, or the agent had been called to an off-protocol meeting.

Despite this, Rosney hadn't found any recent reports from the (h/c)-nette for the night they shared a mission, nor about the confrontation the previous day. She also found no updates from the week since the agent had been assigned to Gamma Jack. The only available file was the summary report from the agent, Mark Slater, who had reported on the incident from his own assigned super's perspective.

This sparked a disquiet that was difficult to ignore. Had that super's reports been classified? If so, why hadn't the previous reports been?

Rosney then remembered another detail. The reports from Alex, her colleague and former supervisor of Gamma Jack, hadn't been shared since his transfer either.

She and Alex had known each other since their early years at the agency; they had both been assigned to their respective supervisors at the same time. He had replaced Gamma Jack's former supervisor—who had retired due to health issues—while the redhead was assigned to watch Gazerbeam.

By then, their supers were friends, and that coincidence had brought the rookie agents closer together. They often exchanged ideas, strategies, observations, or compared protocols when they ran into each other at the facility or at informal meetings, always maintaining and respecting the confidentiality limits imposed by the agency.

That's why the lack of information from Gamma Jack's department hadn't seemed suspicious to her at first. But now that Alex was no longer in charge, and a new agent was handling the super-gamma, the lack of reports took on a different meaning.

The new administrative silences weren't mere omissions; they were a pattern. And Rosney knew how to recognize that pattern when she saw it.

However, the agent wondered whether she should investigate further, establish direct contact with the new agent, or seek unofficial means to access the restricted files. She didn't want to be left wondering; however, she decided to put it on hold. She needed to consider certain aspects if she needed to take a step in her decision. She didn't like to get herself into trouble if something wasn't in her best interest.

The clock struck noon. Lunchtime. That meant Simon would probably leave his office for a break... unless he was still engrossed in one of his court cases.

Following her intuition, Rosney decided to go ahead and wait for him at his usual restaurant.

The place was half full when she arrived. The aroma of freshly roasted food filled the air as the agent settled at a side table with a direct view of the entrance.

While she waited, her attention was drawn to the voices at the next table. A couple of teenagers, no more than seventeen years old, were chatting excitedly. One had white hair; the other, dark hair, both dressed with an air of 'maturity'.

"Have you heard about Universal Man's triumph in yesterday's incident?" the white-haired girl asked, curious.

"Yes, although they say Gamma Jack was there too," her friend replied, sounding disappointed. "It's a shame he didn't get the credit."

With a surprised tone, her companion asked, "Really? Why?"

“I don’t know,” the teenager shrugged. “Some say he was injured and decided to get medical attention, others that he disappeared right after the fight.”

“That’s a shame,” the first girl added. “He’s hardly ever seen lately. They say his rescues are so quick the media barely manages to catch a glimpse of him. There are photos, yes, but not a single interview.”

With a heartbroken sigh, the other girl replied, “I hope nothing serious happened to him… that would be awful. I don’t want him to disappear.”

“Exactly! I couldn’t bear it if our favorite superhero got into trouble…”

Rosney listened to the conversation in silence, hiding a wry smile with her hand. Sometimes she forgot that, to the public, supers were idols, not potential risks under constant surveillance that needed to be monitored. These trivial conversations reminded her how little ordinary people knew about what really went on behind the scenes of public heroism.

She wondered how Alex endured the constant media attention surrounding Gamma Jack... or if, perhaps, he enjoyed the idea of ​​being part of the spotlight that followed the super.

The restaurant began to fill up, and her patience started to waver. For a moment, she doubted her hunch had been wrong. But then she saw him. Simon walked through the door with his measured stride, his briefcase in one hand, a focused expression on his face. He looked around for a seat, and by chance, the only free spot was right next to her.

Perfect.

Rosney settled in, lowering her gaze slightly, trying to hide her diligent expression. She was grateful she'd worn a different wig and contact lenses that altered her eye color. No one, not even him, would recognize the woman watching him from the next table.

While Simon placed his order with the waitress he usually chatted with, the agent pretended to look at the menu, listening as the blonde woman tried to flatter him politely. However, he treated it with the same discretion as everything else, a mere courtesy without further significance.

It was one of the super's many peculiar traits. Apparently, Simon couldn't maintain eye contact with the person he was looking at for too long; if he did, his power would activate involuntarily, and he could harm the person in front of him. This complicated his life as a civilian, as it prevented him from forming relationships without any risk.

Even so, Simon had admirable emotional resilience. He rarely became agitated or reacted to provocations, which made the agent monitoring him's job easier. She didn't need to intervene or repair the damage to his social life often.

A pity, she thought, because all this time observing him, she noticed that the waitress seemed to have other intentions toward the man. But he, true to his composure, avoided going beyond a cordial exchange. However, with his superhero friends, it was different. In them, he found a space where he didn't have to pretend or hold back.

Just then, a familiar face appeared in the restaurant's entrance. It was Lucius Best, known as Frozone.

The agent noticed that the man assigned to watch the ice-super preferred to stay outside, perhaps because of the number of customers filling the place.

From her seat, she watched as the two friends greeted each other with the ease of those who shared years of camaraderie. Lucius sat down across from the lawyer, who welcomed him with a knowing smile.

It was impossible not to overhear snippets of their conversation, banalities about the day, everyday anecdotes, and inconsequential opinions. Until one topic in particular caught the agent's attention, Mr. Incredible's wedding.

"Do you think Dicker will attend Bob's wedding?" Simon asked, raising his drink to his lips.

Lucius cut a piece of meat before answering. "It's very likely. Dicker and Bob have known each other for years, I think since his mentor introduced them at the NSA."

Simon raised an eyebrow, curious about his comment. "Now that you mention it, when did Bob sign up with the NSA?"

Lucius thought for a moment. "Very early on. I think, even before it was entirely legal. If I'm not mistaken, he joined along with Everseer."

"Interesting..." Simon murmured. "I thought you joined at the same time, being so close to him."

Lucius shook his head gently. "No, it was later, thanks to him. You know how it was back then... racial differences still created barriers. But Bob insisted. And I suppose, since I was 'the new hope,' I served as an inclusive image. The NSA accepted my application." There was a brief pause, but he continued. "Just imagine, I might be carrying out my hero activities as a vigilante if it weren't for that."

That strategy was typical of the government, the agent thought. A representative face to keep the most critical sectors satisfied and avoid unrest.

Simon simply listened calmly and, to ease the tension of the conversation, commented with a smile. "So we're the group of friends recruited by Bob."

Lucius burst out laughing. "Exactly. Now we're his best man. Who knows what will happen next?"

Amid jokes and laughter, the two supers continued their lunch. Rosney, from her table, remained discreet, focused on her own plate while following the conversation out of the corner of her eye.

The waitress returned to collect the empty plates, smiling awkwardly as she glanced in the lawyer's direction. Frozone noticed it quickly and waited until she left before adding, "Hey," he said with a sly grin, "I see you haven't made a move on your favorite waitress yet."

Simon looked at him, surprised for a moment, and then sighed in resignation. "I have a pretty busy life. Besides, having two identities doesn't help much when it comes to relationships."

Lucius rolled his eyes, amused, but nodded. He understood the dilemma perfectly. It wasn't easy getting involved with a civilian when part of your life had to remain secret.

"And what about Plasmabolt?" he asked jokingly. I've seen you talking to her a lot lately at meetings. She seems pretty decent by your standards."

For a moment, Simon looked embarrassed, though he hid it well by concentrating on his drink. "We only talk occasionally. It's nice to have someone who understands my sense of humor."

Lucius chuckled and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

The conversation continued with laughter and lighthearted comments about the relationships between different supers. They talked about Thunderhead and his roommate; the possible closeness between Dynaguy and Apogee; and the younger ones—Macroburst and Stratogale—who seemed to enjoy the veterans' banter and boundless energy.

The agent, from her position, didn't miss a thing. She pretended to be distracted by her drink, but then a word reached her ears clearly. That's when a casual question broke the flow of jokes and caught her attention.

“Do you think what Jack said is true?” Lucius asked, raising an eyebrow. “That his new girlfriend is an agent.”

Simon looked away, lost in thought. For a moment, he seemed to weigh his words, as if trying to find a middle ground between doubt and loyalty. “I’ve noticed he’s been a bit distant lately,” he finally replied. “It’s not very obvious, but I want to believe it’s because his attention is on someone else. So, yes, he may have a girlfriend, but... that she’s an agent sounds unlikely. Neither Dicker nor the NSA would allow that kind of closeness.”

Lucius nodded slowly, setting his glass aside. “I thought about it too. But, honestly, I doubt he’s completely over Helen. Maybe he’s still making excuses to maintain his pride.”

They both nodded knowingly, dropping the subject. Simon, always reserved, avoided going any further. They both knew that Jackson had learned not to interfere in Bob and Helen’s romantic affairs; The loyalty between them remained intact, even with the years and shared wounds.

But for Rosney, this wasn't a mere detail. The supers' words resonated with professional weight. In the reports she had shared with Alex, Gamma Jack's civilian activities maintained a history of varied romantic relationships, brief encounters, convenient meetings, and in every case, a pattern—he gained something from each relationship. Sometimes information, other times influence or cover.

This had been confirmed months earlier when Jackson had gone out with a journalist solely to track down the undercover agent who was watching him. That's when Alex had witnessed firsthand the threat a super possessed.

That tactic had worked. And now, hearing what Lucius and Simon had said, everything fit together too well.

Rosney mentally pieced things together. If Jackson's supposed partner was an agent... and if the rumor came from within the super circle itself... then the agent closest to him had to be (L/n).

Her expression remained serene, but her mind tensed. If that was true, (L/n)'s position was compromised. Gamma Jack knew who she was. He knew her role. The question was; Did (L/n) know he had discovered her? Or perhaps she did, but was playing along to buy time and keep him under control?

The redhead pondered this for a few more seconds; however, the movement of the men brought her back to the present. Lucius and Simon got up from the table, paid, and said goodbye as casually as they had arrived.

The agent waited a minute before doing the same. As she left, the distant sound of sirens broke the stillness of the sunset. A chase was underway a few blocks away. The supers were already preparing to act. And she, without missing a beat, knew it was also time to do her job.

The hours slipped by. When night fell over the city, Simon had already returned to his office. After the brief confrontation with the criminals, he said goodbye to Lucius with the nonchalance of someone who had been hiding a double life for some time, and went back to his work as a lawyer, as if nothing had happened.

For her part, the redhead finished her monitoring shift. The fieldwork was done; now all that remained was to write her daily report in the tranquility of her apartment. Even so, the conversation from that afternoon wouldn't leave her mind. It remained there, persistent, like an invisible splinter under her skin, irritating every thought that tried to ignore it.

Should she get involved beyond the call of duty? Report that conversation to her superior, or let the matter die as a mere rumor?

The doubt weighed more heavily than she wanted to admit. The last time she had acted according to protocol, she had reported her own friend Alex, after Gamma Jack had discovered his identity. That had left a mark on her. Loyalty and duty could rarely coexist in the same line of report.

And now... it was the same super involved. The same shadow was looming over a new case. The difference was that this time she wasn't close to the replaced agent.

Rosney rested her elbows on the table, covering her face with her hands.

Was the evidence enough? What if her supervisor didn't believe her? What if they suspected her of being too insistent on a matter that, officially, wasn't under her jurisdiction? In just two weeks, the super had already changed monitors. If this were a pattern, maybe Gamma Jack wanted to play games with the agency. So, what was the point of reporting something that would only cause spirals and complications?

"It's not my responsibility," she repeated to herself. "I'm just monitoring his friend, nothing more."

But even so, something inside her wouldn't let her rest. It wasn't guilt, not even empathy. It was intuition—that silent voice telling her she should do something about it, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

She needed to clear her head. A bath seemed like the best way to calm her mind and erase, even if just for a few minutes, the pressure surrounding her.

As she headed to her room, she opened a drawer in her closet, searching for her loungewear, and something metallic gleamed in the shadows. A Rolex watch, her name engraved on the back, rested there like an echo of the past. It was a gift from her father—his way of reminding her who she was, and above all, where she belonged.

The redhead held it for a few seconds between her fingers. The cold texture of the steel contrasted with the warmth of memory. It had been more than two months since she'd called home. Between missions, reports, and institutional silences, she'd let duty consume everything else.

Perhaps it was time to make that call. To hear a familiar voice, even if only to remember that there was still something beyond the walls of the NSA.

Rosney picked up the phone in her apartment and dialed the family home. The buzz on the line lasted for almost a minute, that expectant silence that often feels longer when you fear being questioned.

"Hello?" Good evening,” a firm, serene female voice finally answered. It was her mother’s voice, that blend of warmth and authority she had never lost.

“Mother… hello. It’s me, Gwen,” the redhead replied, softening her tone. “How are you?”

A soft sigh came from the other end, followed by a tone that, while warm, didn’t quite conceal a subtle reprimand. “Oh, my Gwen… I haven’t heard from you in ages. You promised you’d call at least once a month.”

The young woman let out a short, almost nervous laugh. “Yes, I know… I’ve been very busy with work. You know how it is being a secretary, the hours are a mess, and there’s barely enough time to sleep.”

What she said was a lie, a disguised profession to keep her true identity as an agent from being revealed to the public.

“Mhm…” was all her mother replied. Then, a tired sigh filtered through the line. "You chose that path, my dear. I hope that year away from the family business was worth it."

The silence that followed was heavy, as if both were weighing the weight of those words. She understood perfectly what her mother meant to say. It wasn't a direct reproach, but a veiled warning.

She remembered the day she announced she was leaving the family business to "have a different experience." Her mother's expression was a mixture of disappointment and calculated coldness. The Calloway name didn't abandon its legacy so easily, especially not to companies that were its competitors.

But she insisted. She convinced both her parents that this independence would be part of her training, a way to learn to lead on her own. No one, not even them, should know that this "work experience" was actually her covert entry into the NSA.

And yet, it wasn't entirely a lie. Being an agent was also a way to understand power... to study it, to use it, to make it her own. Just as her older brother had done by leading the media in news and entertainment channels, she wouldn't be left behind.

A faint smile appeared on her lips. Her intuition aligned with a clear idea: "Seize the opportunity simply by changing roles."

“Don’t worry, Mother,” the agent finally said, her tone firmer, more confident. “I won’t let the family name down.”

“I hope so, dear,” the voice on the other end replied with measured calm. “You know the Calloways don’t tolerate mediocrity.”

The daughter nodded. As her mother had mentioned, bearing that surname was a burden, one forged in power, discipline, and ambition. Being a Calloway didn’t allow for defeats, only results. And she knew it well; that heritage ran through her veins, throbbing like a constant reminder of what was expected of her.

As she opened the refrigerator in search of a simple snack, she changed the subject. “Rather… how’s Buddy?” she asked with apparent lightness. “Is he still dreaming of being Mr. Incredible’s assistant?”

A short, almost ironic laugh came from the other end. “You know how he is when he gets obsessed with something,” her mother replied with a hint of restrained tenderness. “At least it keeps him busy building gadgets and inventions… he says they’re to show Mr. Incredible his commitment and talent.” There was a brief pause followed by a heavier sigh. “I’m just worried all this will get him into serious trouble someday.”

Silent, Rosney let out an almost disdainful murmur. She didn’t understand how anyone could idolize these “supers,” when in reality they were nothing more than government-managed products, heroes designed to maintain the order of a convenient illusion.

Even so, she had to admit the system worked. As long as the public’s attention remained focused on their exploits, the real movements—the ones shaping the spheres of power—went unnoticed. And that was the terrain she planned to explore.

“Give him my regards… and Dad’s too,” she added softly, knowing perfectly well what response she would get.

“I’ll send him your regards,” the mother replied with measured politeness.

The call ended shortly after. The final click echoed in the room like a metallic clang. The agent placed the phone on the table and stood still, observing her reflection in the clock she had brought with her. Each ticking second was a reminder of the time she had gathered during her time at the agency, and along with it, their weaknesses.

There was no time to waste.

She walked to the window. The city lights twinkled like thousands of electrical pulses, and in her reflection, the figure looking back at her was not that of an obedient daughter, but a calculating woman with a plan that would shake things up.

She crossed the room, turned on her personal device, and the screen illuminated the room with a bluish glow.

She accessed her anonymous email and opened the list of contacts she kept private. Rosney slid her fingers across the keyboard with a cool familiarity, typing the message she wanted to send to her receiver.

Once finished, the cursor blinked, awaiting her decision.

The redhead stared at the monitor, her cold gaze focused on the screen. "It's your decision, Gwen," she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.

She rested her elbow on the table, letting the clock fall directly into the monitor's light; its ticking once again set the rhythm of her thoughts.

One. Two. Three. Her finger pressed Enter.

The screen blinked, and the message was sent. The first step of her game had begun.

_

(Y/n) had gotten up early. On the bed, a parade of clothes lay as if each one represented a different version of herself. Dresses, blouses, formal and casual outfits seemed to be arguing amongst themselves about which would be most appropriate for the day.

It was absurd—she knew it—but choosing what to wear for that supposed date with the eccentric super she was supposed to be monitoring had become a small mission in itself.

Dressing too formally would make her seem stiff, almost professional. But if she went too casual, she feared clashing with Jackson's natural elegance.

Why was she even thinking about it? Since when did it matter to match with someone you should be thanking, not impressing?

She sighed, shaking her head. This was a distraction, and she didn't allow herself distractions.

She opted for the sensible choice, a lightweight, white blouse and formal trousers that gently accentuated her waist before falling loosely to her ankles. The heels, of a reasonable height, gave her presence without compromising mobility. If an emergency arose—and with Jackson, that could never be ruled out—she wouldn't have any trouble reacting.

Even so, as she adjusted her watch on her wrist, a small grimace escaped unbidden. She couldn't stop wondering why the date had to be so early.

Ten o'clock on a Sunday morning wasn't a romantic hour; it was an hour for running errands or walking dogs, not for a "date" between... agent and super?

Perhaps it was just a misunderstanding. Maybe they were going to see a movie or visit a museum. However, something in her gut told her that Jack never did anything without intention.

The walk to the park was peaceful, almost poetic. The city was waking up under a warm light that seemed to gild the edges of the buildings and leaves. Families with children strolled along the paths, young friends laughed over coffee, and a group of teenagers practiced tricks on their skateboards.

The air smelled of freshly damp earth, a mixture that made her feel off-duty for a brief moment.

She stopped under a tree with pink blossoms, watching the petals fall slowly like paper snowflakes on an invisible stage. For a moment, she allowed herself to look at the sky—so clear, so serene—until a faint shadow fell across her.

Someone, from behind, had caught a petal before it landed on her hair. She turned, surprised. And there he was, as charming as ever.

Jackson watched her with a half-smile, the kind he seemed to rehearse just to disarm any defense, holding between his fingers the petal he had saved from falling.

His voice was as soft as the wind rustling through the branches. "It seems nature wanted to greet you first, too."

For a moment, time seemed to stand still as they gazed at each other. And for some reason, that gesture brought a faint, unexpected blush to the maiden's cheeks.

"I see you're punctual when it comes to dates," the (h/c)-nette remarked, with a slight smile she tried to conceal by crossing her arms. Her voice sounded firmer than she actually felt.

The blond man studied her intently, as if it were impossible for him not to. A playful, almost imperceptible spark ignited in his eyes before he let the petal fall. The movement was gentle, almost symbolic. The petal twirled in the air before disappearing with the breeze, and for some reason, she felt an eerie calm.

"Knowing I had a date with a partner like yourself," Jackson said in that serene, flattering voice that seemed impossible to break, "I wouldn't allow myself to be irresponsible with my punctuality."

His words, though formal, held a warmth that clashed with his usual tone. It wasn't mere politeness. There was something more. (Y/n) noticed, and it unsettled her for a moment.

He looked away toward the path, where the sun's rays filtered through the trees, bathing the park in a warm light. Families, laughter, distant conversations... everything seemed oblivious to the silent tension building between them.

She took a deep breath, trying to focus. She shouldn't let herself be swept away by his charm, not with someone like him. And yet, the way he looked at her, so relaxed but so precise. But then she remembered that this outing was simply an act of gratitude for what he had done for her by helping her.

That helped her focus on the situation. She decided to change the course of the moment. “So,” she said, trying to sound casual, “what do you suggest for today? I’ll let you take the lead, so you can choose whatever you’d like to do.”

Jackson looked at her with a lopsided smile that seemed to hold a thousand thoughts behind it. “We can start with something simple,” he replied. “A walk in this park. There’s no rush. My car is on the other side, so we have time to talk… if that doesn’t bother you.”

The tone of his voice, soft but full of intention, made her look away. “It doesn’t bother me,” she murmured after a few seconds, more to convince herself than him.

She was grateful for his intention, though. It gave her a little breathing room to help her get a little more comfortable with the situation. Not as an agent, nor as an observer... but as a person on a date.

They walked together, their steps synchronized by pure chance... or perhaps not so much. The sound of dry leaves beneath their feet accompanied every word they spoke.

She walked among them. Along the sides of the path, flowering trees swayed gently in the breeze, scattering ivory petals that seemed to float before touching the ground. Beyond, the murmur of a fountain mingled with the scattered birdsong and the distant voices of people enjoying the tranquility of that Sunday.

"What do you think of this park?" Jackson asked with his typical smile, though this time there was genuine curiosity behind his tone. "Do you like it?"

The agent nodded, keeping to her stride. "Yes," she replied with quiet serenity. "It's a peaceful place to think."

"I think so too. It's one of the reasons I decided to stay near here," he replied, in that soft, carefree voice he knew how to use to ease the atmosphere. "A coincidence that you know it too, don't you think?"

The comment made her pause for a moment. She glanced at him, trying to decipher whether he was speaking out of mere curiosity or with a deeper meaning. He had already deduced, without a doubt, that she lived nearby. Therefore, the young woman chose not to play along. "It has an exceptional view," she finally replied. "It's beautiful at sunset. Do you see it often?"

Unexpectedly, a light brush of their hands passed by as they walked, and an involuntary shiver ran through her, though she was inclined to attribute it to the wind. Jackson, on the other hand, noticed it clearly. He said nothing about it; he only smiled with that practiced calm that mixed mischief and study, observing how she tried to keep her emotions in check.

"Only when I know I'll have good company that understands it," he replied without hesitation, his eyes gleaming slightly in the filtered sunlight.

The (h/c)-nette didn't know whether to smile or take it as a compliment. But it caused her cheeks to flush again. What was he trying to say with that provocation?

However, silence settled between them for a few seconds. Then, without taking his eyes off the road, he spoke in a lower, almost reflective voice. "(Y/n)... have you ever felt that, when you have power, the eyes of others judge what and how you should use it?"

She paused briefly, surprised by the change in tone. There was something different about his voice, something that wasn't irony or flippancy. She felt a knot in her chest. Not because of the question, but because of the way he phrased it. It was a disguised confession. One that they both understood all too well.

"Sometimes," she finally answered, keeping her gaze straight ahead. "But I've learned that the trick is not to let it affect you."

Jackson nodded slowly, the smile that had been his shield fading for a moment. "Wise advice," he murmured, a shadow of melancholy in his eyes. "But if we become too accustomed to that naive indifference, we stop noticing when we begin to be analyzed and stripped of our freedom."

His words hung in the air. The wind blew softly, lifting the petals from the ground, and for a moment, they were both silent, as if the surroundings themselves were inviting them not to break the silence.

And she allowed it, because those words reached her subconscious. The young woman didn't know what had happened to make him say that. But she noticed he was suffering from a criticism that was perhaps hidden inside him, and he needed someone to listen.

Then, the blond man sighed deeply, releasing the tension in a lighter tone. "I was thinking we could visit a friend of mine today. There's something I'd prefer your opinion on."

The young woman looked at him, somewhat disconcerted by the sudden change of subject, but understood that he didn't want to maintain that serious tone for long. "A friend?" she asked, trying to keep up with him.

He nodded. "Yes. Although it's nothing personal, I trust your judgment. Will you come with me?"

(Y/n) watched him cautiously, trying to decipher if this favor had a hidden purpose. However, her instinct told her that the proposal didn't conceal any questionable intentions. "I have no problem with that," she replied kindly. "If I can help, I wouldn't mind giving my opinion."

"Perfect," he said with a smile that was warm again, almost human. And for her, somehow, it was a relief to see that smile return.

They arrived together at the park exit, where the sun was beginning to rise strongly, bathing the pavement in golden reflections. Jackson took a few steps ahead and, without overthinking, held the car door for her.

The gesture was so natural, so simple, that it disarmed her more than she would have liked to admit. The (h/c)-nette disguised it with a restrained smile and a slight nod.

But as she sat down, a feeling lingered in her chest. That subtle, unsettling, and sweet intuition that this outing would be anything... but a simple date.

Chapter Text

A wrought-iron gate stood before them, imposing and elegant. Beyond it, a stone path flanked by tall, perfectly trimmed hedges and modern lampposts still held glimmers of the morning mist.

The house, visible in the distance, was a curious mix of classic and futuristic. Large circular windows, white walls with metallic details, and a garden that seemed more like a work of art than a private residence.

(Y/n) observed the surroundings carefully, the structure, the sensors discreetly hidden within the walls, the security angles. Everything about that place screamed exclusivity… and surveillance. “Where are we?” she finally asked, with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, her gaze still scanning the perimeter.

Jackson smiled with that irritatingly natural tranquility. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said simply, as he turned off the engine. “But I assure you, you’ll recognize her. She’s… quite distinctive in the heroes sector.”

She frowned, intrigued. There were many "distinctive" people in that sector, and only a few matched the playful tone of his voice. Her mind raced through names, dismissing them one after another. Until, almost like a premonition, a possibility flashed through her mind, Elastigirl? But she dismissed it instantly. It didn't make sense. Jackson and she barely shared a mutual professional respect, nothing more. Besides, the most popular woman in the heroes sector didn't seem to have any interest in the arrogant blond for her own reasons.

The sound of the doorbell pulled her from her thoughts. A small screen lit up on the gate pillar, displaying the face of a guard in a dark uniform and sunglasses, concealing his full identity. "Good morning, this is Edna Mode's residence. Do you have an appointment scheduled with the designer?"

The (h/c)-nette blinked in surprise. Edna Mode? That explained the eccentric architecture and the meticulous privacy. The most renowned designer in the superhero world… and, apparently, a personal friend of Gamma Jack.

Jackson rested his arm on the window with the ease of someone who had done it more than once. “Good morning, Edson,” he greeted in a friendly tone. “Of course, I have an appointment scheduled under my name, and I’ve brought a guest. Oh, and tell your colleagues to make some roast coffee in the visiting room, as usual.”

The agent glanced at him, somewhere between confused and surprised. 'As usual?' That implied frequent visits. And the fact that he knew the guard by name… that told her a lot about how familiar the super was with the residence.

“Of course, Mr. Hands,” the guard replied without changing his tone. “Go ahead and leave your car in the usual garage.”

The gate opened with a soft hum, allowing the vehicle to slowly advance along the driveway lined with gardens and abstract sculptures.

(Y/n) observed everything with a mixture of awe and caution. It was the first time she had seen the famous designer's residence so closely, and the luxury was undeniable, though not ostentatious. There was something about the design of the place—that blend of artistry, precision, and control—that made her feel strangely watched.

"Jack," she broke the silence as he parked the car, "why did you bring me here? What does Edna Mode have to do with your request?"

The blond man hummed a soft tune absentmindedly as he cut the engine. Then, without looking at her, he replied with that mixture of humor and calm that seemed to provoke her on purpose.

"Well, Edna is the best designer I know. She creates suits that not only look good but also adapt to the body, to the combat conditions for people like us." He turned his face toward her with a barely perceptible smile. “So, since you also belong to that small minority, I thought it's only fair that you have a wardrobe that accommodates your abilities.”

She stared at him incredulously for a moment, trying to process whether he was serious. “Are you saying you brought me here… so I could get a suit made?” she finally asked, with a mixture of surprise and suspicion.

Jackson shrugged with that disarming nonchalance that was so characteristic of him. “Why not?” he replied calmly. “A little style never hurt an agent or a super.” Then his tone softened, almost imperceptibly. “Besides, I think you deserve something that’s truly yours, not just part of the uniform.”

The words hung between them. For a moment, the (h/c)-nette was silent, unable to decide whether to be grateful or suspicious. The thought—that he would think about something so personal to her—worried her. Jackson Hands was many things: arrogant, perceptive, provocative… but he also knew, with dangerous precision, when to strike an emotional chord without it seeming like a trick. And that, precisely, was what unsettled her most.

"Oh, no, no, no," she said, waving her hands in a sincere gesture. "I appreciate the gesture, I really do, but it's not necessary. My skills don't damage my clothes, so I'm perfectly fine as I am."

He raised an eyebrow, amused, as a stubborn smile returned to his face. "No, Agent. You can't refuse this offer."

She frowned, somewhat confused. "Why is that?"

"Because you're my agent," he replied in a more serious tone, though not without warmth. "And I want to make sure that, if another attack occurs, you're protected. A sturdy suit can make all the difference."

The emphasis on 'my agent' didn't go unnoticed. (Y/N) made a mental note of it. Besides being persuasive, he was possessive. She sighed in resignation. She wanted to believe his intentions were sincere, but knowing his history, she knew Jackson was capable of moving between altruism and manipulation far too easily.

"Jack…" she began cautiously, lowering her voice slightly. "I know you're doing this for my own good, and I appreciate it. But I haven't revealed my abilities to anyone else. And I prefer to keep it that way. I don't want to risk that secrecy being broken."

He listened without interrupting. Then, his smile softened, and in an unexpectedly gentle gesture, he took her hand in his. His touch was firm, warm, almost reassuring. "Don't worry. Edna knows how to keep secrets." His fingers caressed the back of her hand with a persuasive ease. "Many supers trust her precisely for that reason. If she weren't discreet, her reputation wouldn't be what it is."

(Y/N) hesitated. She knew the designer was eccentric, even unpredictable, but she'd never heard of anyone revealing confidential information through her. Jackson's logic made sense, though something inside her still urged caution, because she still worried that what she was doing could send a different message if the military found out.

"Are you sure?" she finally asked, more to convince herself than him.

Jackson responded with a serene smile. He raised her hand and gently touched hers with his lips, an almost involuntary but effective gesture. “We can talk to her first. If you don’t feel comfortable, it won’t go beyond a conversation. That way, little by little, you can build trust.” His gaze met hers. “I promise.”

For a moment, that trust seemed to be contagious. She shook her head, loosening her grip on the blond man’s hands. “Okay,” she murmured. “But let me be the one to make the first move.”

“Alright,” he replied with a touch of humor that eased the tension.

The passenger door opened with a soft click. Jackson leaned toward her with that harmless smile he knew exactly when to use. “Well, Agent. You don’t want to keep Edna Mode herself waiting. Trust me, you wouldn’t want to see her impatient.”

(Y/n) nodded with a restrained gesture, picked up her bag, and got out of the car.

The marble walkway greeted them with a subtle gleam in the midday light. A scent of jasmine mingled with a hint of ozone hung in the air, as if the house itself were breathing creative energy.

Jackson guided her from the garage to the front door with the confidence of someone who had walked this path many times before. The young woman couldn't help but notice that the blond man entered a code into the access panel without a second thought, as if the house belonged to him. This led her to wonder how close his relationship with the designer to have such access?

The sound of the automated gate accompanied her as she walked behind him. With each step, her mind wandered. Sometimes—though she rarely admitted it—she found herself longing for a simpler life, one where she could walk without the shadow of surveillance or the burden of duty. But that illusion always crashed against reality. She couldn't stop being who she was, an agent.

And with that, mistrust was part of the price. She not only feared being discovered… but also being analyzed. Observed. Questioned about her decisions, even by those who claimed to trust her.

For a moment, she recalled Jackson's words in the park, about how others judged what one did with their power.

Was he right? If she continued to ignore that part of herself, would she end up losing the ability to trust her own judgment?

She shook her head, rejecting that idea. She had chosen this path. No somewhere else. And if duty demanded sacrifices, she would make them without hesitation.

The corridor they were walking down opened into a central room. The interior of the residence was as unusual as its owner, a blend of futuristic elegance and avant-garde art. The white walls were interrupted by glass panels that revealed interior gardens with suspended steel structures.

In one corner, a group of workers were still busy with tools and blueprints; part of the place was under renovation, which contrasted sharply with the pristine cleanliness of the rest.

The aroma of freshly polished metal and roasted coffee filled the air. And then, an energetic voice broke the silence.

“Oh, my dear Jack!” exclaimed a petite figure striding purposefully toward them. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, darling.”

Edna Mode, dressed in a geometric black and burgundy ensemble, stopped in front of the supermarket with her characteristic elegance. Jackson bent down slightly, returning her embrace with a genuinely pleased gesture. “It is for me too, Edna.”

However, the designer immediately pulled away upon noticing another presence behind him. Her large glasses reflected the silhouette of the (h/c)-nette as she squinted. “And… you brought company,” she said in a neutral tone, but with an almost imperceptible hint of disdain.

The young woman immediately understood the implicit warning. If she didn’t want to make the hostess uncomfortable, she had to be formal. “I’m (Y/n) (L/n),” she said, with a slight bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, madam.”

The designer watched the woman's outstretched hand with a raised eyebrow, sizing it up as if examining a garment in progress.

Jackson, sensing the tension, intervened with his usual smile and gently placed his hands on the agent's shoulders. "Edna, this is the guest I mentioned on the call," he clarified.

The reaction was immediate. The designer's face transformed from cold to effusive in a matter of seconds. "Ah, I see! Then, welcome, my dear. I'm Edna Mode," she said, placing a hand theatrically on her chest. "But please, call me Edna."

(Y/n) returned the gesture with a modest smile. "The pleasure is all mine," she replied politely. Though inwardly, she couldn't stop casting questioning glances at Jackson, silently demanding an explanation for the description she'd given on that call.

The blond man, of course, feigned complete innocence.

“So, Edna,” he interjected immediately, skillfully changing the subject, “How’s the remodeling of your property coming along?”

The dark-haired woman let out a dramatic sigh, raising a hand as if the entire world depended on her answer. “Oh, you have no idea, darling! These builders are a nightmare. They don’t understand vision, the balance between aesthetics and function.” She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Sometimes I think I should do it all myself.”

Jackson chuckled softly, amused. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he remarked with a wry smile. “After all, no one could ever improve on your sense of design.”

Edna gave him a look that was both smug and calculating. “And you’re always so charming, Jack.” Then she turned to (Y/n) with renewed interest. “But I’d like to speak with your guest.” Her expression softened, though her gaze remained inquisitive. "Tell me, darling, did you come here to have a suit designed for you?

The question took the agent by surprise. Her throat went dry, and she cleared it softly before answering. “Ah… well, I’m still reconsidering Jack’s suggestion. I haven’t decided if I really want a suit or not.”

Edna’s slight blink was enough to show her bewilderment. Her gaze traveled to the blond man, who only raised an eyebrow and shook his head in a brief, almost imperceptible gesture, which the designer understood instantly.

“Hmm… I see,” Edna murmured, adjusting her glasses. “In that case, darling, let me explain what I do.” With an elegant gesture, she indicated a larger section of the room. “Come with me.”

They both followed her to a set of modern sofas in the small room, far removed from the covered renovations.

“I can design any type of clothing, darling. With a unique, unmistakable style.” —As she spoke, she gestured expansively, her voice sounding as if she were giving an art lecture. “But I can also make clothes that are functional. Pieces with special materials, capable of withstanding pressure, friction, heat… even radiation, in some cases.”

Her eyes flicked briefly toward Jackson, then returned to (Y/n) with a sly smile. "Elegance should never be at odds with utility, darling."

The agent maintained her composure, though inwardly she analyzed every word. That last sentence wasn't a coincidence. Edna was talking about more than just fabric; she knew perfectly well what she meant when she mentioned radiation. Did that mean Jackson had already told her she ‘worked for him'? Or worse… that the designer knew about the skills she possessed?

Even with her doubts, (Y/n) preferred to maintain her composure and not let herself be carried away by her conjectures, but that didn't stop her from subtly offering answers. “It’s an interesting concept,” she replied, trying to sound natural. “I didn’t know those kinds of fabrics were also available to civilians.”

Edna let out a small, elegant, and sarcastic laugh. “Oh, my dear, technically yes, but not for just anyone.” She leaned slightly forward, resting an elbow on the table. “These materials aren’t easy to obtain or cheap to produce. Only the elite, some members of the military, and certain government contacts can afford them. My clients, shall we say, are… select.” Her voice softened into a knowing murmur. “Exclusivity is part of the charm, don’t you think?”

The agent nodded with a restrained smile, feigning curiosity. “I understand. Perhaps I could see some models or catalogs. I’d like to get an idea of ​​how it could be adapted to a more… functional style.”

As she spoke those words, she realized she was unwittingly becoming convinced of the idea. An outfit like that would not only be useful but also a way to bolster her civilian facade. Although she recognized it would be expensive, she could afford it; the agency paid her well. But part of her salary went toward the medications she took.

“Of course, I have a special room for that,” Edna replied enthusiastically, rising with a swift movement. “Follow me, I assure you, you’ll love seeing some of my latest designs.”

They both stood, but before Jackson could join them, the designer raised an imperious hand. “Ah, ah. You, young man, will remain here.” Her eyes sparkled behind her glasses. “I wish to have a private conversation with my client.”

Jackson raised an eyebrow, amused, and looked at her questioningly, seeking the (h/c)-nette’s approval. She simply smiled and nodded calmly, indicating that there was no inconvenience.

“As you wish, madam,” the blonde replied with a slight bow, his smile unwavering.

“Ah, as courteous as ever,” Edna remarked, satisfied, before turning to her new guest. “Come on, darling. Inspiration doesn’t wait.”

Before leaving, Jackson approached her and added, “I’ll see you later, (Y/n),” he said with his usual smile, reaching out to take her hand and place a brief kiss upon it.

The agent, aware of the hostess’s watchful gaze, discreetly withdrew her hand. “I won’t be long,” she murmured calmly, so as not to sound too suggestive.

She followed the designer down a wide, immaculate hallway. The echo of her footsteps resonated on the marble floor, accompanied by the soft hum of concealed fans and the indirect lighting that bathed the walls.

As they walked, (Y/n) couldn’t help but notice the familiarity between them. Edna spoke of Jack with the authority of someone who had watched him grow up, and he treated her with the lightness and respect reserved for someone admired, yet also familiar.

It wasn’t a working relationship. It was something closer… a mixture of kinship and patience. And although the agent didn’t usually envy anyone, a part of her wondered what it would be like to have such a bond.

Her thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected question. “So tell me, my dear,” Edna said casually, without even looking at her as she walked, “Are you in a romantic relationship with my boy, Jack?”

The (h/c)-nette almost choked on her own saliva, but managed to disguise it with a soft, fake cough. “No, no, nothing like that,” she replied immediately, trying hard to sound relaxed. “We’re just on a formal date, nothing more.”

“Formal?” Edna repeated, briefly turning her face with a suppressed smile. “You mean that on this date… you’re making it official?”

The agent shook her head with both hands, somewhat embarrassed. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. It’s just… a thank-you date. Jackson helped me with an incident, and I… wanted to return the favor, that’s all.”

Edna glanced at her over the top of her glasses. Her expression wasn’t mocking, but rather inquisitive. “Hmm. I see,” she murmured, opening a door with a digital code.

Upon entering, the young woman was surprised by the interior of the studio. It was a design room, mannequins draped in iridescent fabrics, sketches spread across glass tables, a space where garments were tried on behind a sturdy glass partition. And, in one corner, a robotic device—a kind of articulated arm with precision grippers—sat idle next to a table where two cups of tea steamed.

The air smelled of graphite, new fabric, and expensive perfume.

“You know,” Edna continued in a relaxed voice as she approached her console, “this is the first time I’ve had a visit from Jack’s supposed partners. When he called me saying he was bringing a ‘special guest,’ I wanted to be sure whether the relationship was serious or not.” She pressed a button on her remote, and a wall slid open, revealing a collection of fabric swatches. “Unless, of course, you have some other kind of relationship.”

The remark was so direct that (Y/n) took a second to respond. “We’re just colleagues,” she finally declared, with a diplomatic smile. “There’s nothing more to it than that.”

That was right. There was nothing serious between them; their relationship was simply about keeping a watchful eye on each other’s actions, between super and agent. It couldn’t be considered a genuine romantic relationship.

Edna raised an eyebrow, visibly intrigued. “Colleagues? And what do you do, dear? Are you a super too?”

The question landed with the subtlety of a surgical needle. The agent hesitated for a moment, weighing her options. If Edna currently believed she was one of Jackson's partners, that was, in a way, useful. Maintaining that illusion gave her leeway.

It also meant she could still maintain her trust in the super, and that, in a way, was a relief.

"No…" she said cautiously. "I work for the NSA."

The designer crossed her arms, studying her. Her face remained impassive, but her eyes gleamed with calculated interest.

"Interesting, very interesting…" she murmured. "Jack mentioned he was bringing a client interested in my work, but I see you've also fallen under his spell." She let out a short, elegant, and slightly ironic laugh. "Although I must admit he wasn't exaggerating. He said you were special, and I can confirm it."

The (h/c)-nette frowned, puzzled. "Excuse me?" she asked, trying to maintain her composure.

Edna stopped. She turned firmly toward her and observed her from head to toe, with the analytical gaze of someone measuring an invisible silhouette. Her tone became lower, more precise, almost clinical.

“You don’t walk like a civilian. Your steps are measured, calculated, like those of someone trained to leave no trace. Your shoulders tense only when you lie, and your voice… softens when you’re trying to hide something.” She took a step closer, her gaze fixed behind thick glasses. “You don’t need to say it, dear. But I know.”

(Y/n) felt a slight shiver as she realized that the woman in front of her had read her with a precision few could achieve.

“You’re an agent, an agent with something peculiar,” Edna concluded, her voice calm, almost maternal, but with the weight of someone who already knew the answer.

The young woman remained motionless, surprised. She didn't know what bothered her more, that Edna had reached that conclusion with so little information… or that she stated it with such certainty, without the slightest hint of doubt.

It was then that she understood why Jackson had claimed that so many supers trusted her. It wasn't a matter of charisma, but of observation. Edna Mode didn't win people's trust; she discovered them, dissected them with her eyes, and in doing so, made it impossible to hide the truth from her.

Even so, she was discreet. And that—(Y/n) thought—made her even more unpredictable.

The young woman sighed softly, aware that she had no escape. If Edna had arrived there with simple deductions, the best thing to do was offer a controlled response, something that sounded convincing without revealing too much.

"That's right," she finally admitted, in a calm tone, straightening up again. "I'm an NSA agent, assigned to super supervision. Especially… Gamma Jack."

The designer nodded slowly, crossing her arms. The monitor's light reflected the glint of her glasses. "I figured," she replied with a hint of satisfaction. "Not from what you said, but from what you didn't say." A nearly proud smile played on her lips. "And I must admit, you handled it very well."

The tension seemed to dissolve with that acknowledgment, sparking curiosity about the agent. But the designer immediately changed her tone, resuming her characteristic enthusiasm.

"Alright, now that that's cleared up, let's talk about what really matters." She clapped her hands softly, and the room's automated system activated. "Aesthetics, my dear! If you're going to be around Jack, you'll need more than just a uniform."

A variety of clothing options unfolded on a panoramic screen. The designs ranged from understated field suits to elegantly tailored formal ensembles and lightweight tactical gear.

Some looked simple at first glance, but each one concealed technology in its construction: temperature-changing fibers, self-healing materials, impact-absorbing fabrics, and other more experimental features.

"These," Edna said, pointing with her holographic pointer, "are reinforced with a layer of polymers that can withstand up to a certain level of radiation. I don't want to be dramatic, but if Jack runs into another explosion, at least you won't end up with your hair on fire."

(Y/n) couldn't help but smile at the comment. The designer was as eccentric as she was brilliant. She moved closer to the screen, swiping her fingers to examine the models closely.

The combat suits were impressive, even beautiful, but too flashy for someone who needed to keep a low profile. So she focused her attention on the more understated designs: clean-cut blouses with reinforced seams, lightweight jackets with minimalist lines, and flexible trousers that moved with her. Something functional, yet elegant.

“These look… appropriate,” she finally remarked.

“Elegant and functional,” Edna repeated with an approving smile. “Two virtues that rarely coincide in this world, darling.”

The conversation flowed smoothly, amidst details of fabrics and brief technical comments, until a sharp sound interrupted the ambiance.

A metallic beep. It echoed from the hallway, followed by a red light that flashed on the ceiling.

Edna frowned. “No way… they’ve activated the security system again,” she muttered, exasperated. “That’s why I hate leaving those builders unsupervised. They’re about as careful as a cat in a physics lab.”

She hurried to the door. “Stay here, honey, or go back to Jack if you prefer. I just need to fix this little mess. As soon as I’m done, we’ll sort out the payment.”

“Okay, I’ll go with Jack,” the agent replied, smiling kindly. “But I’d like to come with you and make sure everything’s alright.”

They’d barely taken a few steps when a deafening buzzing stopped them in their tracks. A beam of blue light streaked across the hallway, grazing a wall. Edna gasped and ran toward the source of the problem.

The adjacent corridor was a mess. A defensive device—a wall-mounted security drone—was firing erratic lasers in all directions. Two workers had taken cover behind some metal crates, sparks and smoke filling the air.

“Great! Just one of my prototypes had to go rogue today,” Edna grumbled, pulling a remote control from her pocket. “Ugh, if you want something done right, do it yourself.”

She pressed a couple of buttons, and the beam stopped for a moment… but the drone reactivated, turning in her direction. The buzzing intensified.

Without thinking, (Y/n) stepped in front of the designer. She extended a hand, her concentration palpable, the air vibrating. The laser beam vanished just before reaching them, as if absorbed by an invisible field. In a flash, the drone collapsed, shutting down completely.

Silence fell. The only sound was the ticking of systems restarting.

"Good heavens..." Edna murmured, adjusting her glasses to get a better look. "You're a super!"

The (h/c)-nette took a step back, alarmed. "No... It's not what you think!" she exclaimed nervously, trying to think of an excuse.

But Edna didn't seem shocked or afraid. On the contrary, the spark of fascination in her eyes was impossible to ignore. "My dear..." she said, her voice excited, almost reverent, "that was... splendid!"

A few seconds later, Jackson appeared in the hallway, frowning and hurrying. "What the hell...?" he muttered, observing the smoking drone on the ground and the trail of energy still dissipating in the air. Then his gaze shifted to the two women. "I'm glad you're both okay," he finally said, letting out a sigh of relief.

The two builders, still pale, took the opportunity to slip away from the area, muttering excuses.

"It's thanks to her that we're okay," Edna interjected, with a mixture of reproach and pride, pointing to (Y/n) with her impeccable manicure. Then the designer, approaching him, looked him up and down, as if scolding him for not arriving sooner. Jackson only responded with a guilty smile, scratching the back of his neck.

But Edna's attention quickly returned to the young woman. "I'm very interested," she said, her eyes twinkling, "—in hearing exactly what you just did."

Jackson was about to speak, but stopped. His companion remained rigid, her fingers nervously interlaced. It wasn't shyness he saw on her face, but the weight of the secret she had kept for so long. Edna immediately sensed that tension and softened her expression.

“Oh, I see…” she murmured in a more understanding voice. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’m not concerned with why you’re hiding your abilities. I’m only interested in how well I can help keep you safe… and, of course, make you look fabulous while you do it.”

The agent blinked, surprised by the calmness of the response. Part of her had expected invasive questions, but what she found was understanding. The sparkle in her eyes slowly returned, a mixture of relief and shy gratitude.

“And now that I know more about what you can do,” Edna continued with enthusiasm and care, “all the better! I’ll be able to enhance your capabilities, boost your skills, and help you project confidence and functionality in equal measure!”

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary!” the agent quickly replied, alarmed, taking a step closer. “My powers… don’t require any kind of enhancement. They adapt on their own.”

“Nonsense!"—interrupted Edna, waving her hand. “If your abilities are that precise, they must be telekinetic or energy-manipulating in nature, am I right? I’ve designed suits for superheroes of that type—Psywave, Downburst, Stormicide—they all required balance, flexibility, and zero restrictions on movement.”

(Y/n) no longer knew how to stop this avalanche of deductions. Every word the designer said was logical, but each one pushed her closer to the truth. “That’s very kind of you, really,” she said with a forced smile, “but I don’t work as a superhero, nor do I intend to. I’m fine… as I am.”

Edna raised an eyebrow, and a mischievous smile crossed her face. “Oh, No, no, no, darling,” she said, reaching out to take her hand firmly. “You’re not getting out of this.”

Before she could protest, she was already gently pulled toward another room. (Y/N) turned her head, looking for help, but Jackson just shrugged from the end of the hall, a playful smile that made her pout in disappointment.

They entered a large room, unlike the previous one. Here, there were no sketches or fabrics, but screens, sensors, and a set of glass capsules with measuring instruments. The blonde followed them calmly, crossing his arms and leaning against a wall, like someone who knew the place perfectly.

“And this,” Edna explained proudly, “is my morphological assessment chamber. It identifies the exact proportions and density of body material to tailor the garment with perfect precision.”

She gently pushed (Y/n) toward the center of the device. “Go ahead, dear. It’ll only take a few seconds.”

“But don’t you think the measurements would be inaccurate with the clothes on?” she asked nervously, trying to use that as an excuse to get out of the capsule.

A soft, muffled sound came from Jackson. He had put a hand to his mouth, stifling a laugh. A blush immediately rose to the agent’s cheeks as she realized what she had just said.

“Nonsense,” Edna said without even looking at the blond man. “No garment or material can interfere with a machine I designed myself.”

She activated the panel, and a blue light began to scan the young woman’s body, while three-dimensional graphics and measurement lines were projected onto the designer’s tablet.

The (h/c)-nette remained still, watching the process with discomfort and confusion, but it only lasted a few seconds before Edna nodded in satisfaction.

“Perfect. Now that I have your exact measurements, the most important thing is missing,” she said with a sharp smile. "—I need to know what kind of skill you possess to model a garment that suits you."

The question resonated with unexpected weight. Jackson watched with curiosity how this would unfold, attentive, while the young woman—still under the dim glow of the sensors—wavered between the impulse to tell the truth or remain silent in this situation.

However, throughout this unexpected encounter, (Y/n) understood that she could not escape the designer's questions without leaving her fully satisfied. Edna Mode was too perceptive to be content with evasive answers. She understood then where Jackson had learned those strategies.

Resigned, the agent inhaled calmly and began to explain, with the serenity of carefully measuring how much she could reveal with her words, how her energy regulation ability worked. She avoided fantastical terms; Instead, she used almost scientific language, comparing her power to a mechanism for compensating for force and reducing kinetic energy, illustrating with inanimate objects—machines, materials, even a couple of recent experiments.

Edna listened in absolute silence, only taking notes on the tablet in her hand, meticulously recording with the precision of an engineer as precise as she was. But at one point, she looked up. “Does your ability only apply to inanimate matter… or also to living beings?”

(Y/n) hesitated for a moment, then answered cautiously. “It depends on the concentration required of the matter. I have limits… if I use it for too long or on something, it causes fatigue and intense headaches.”

“Interesting,” Edna murmured, a satisfied smile lighting up her face. “And very convenient, too. I never imagined there were undercover supers within the NSA.” She turned her attention to Jackson, who was comfortably seated in an armchair, enjoying the conversation and patiently awaiting its outcome. “Tell me, Jack, is there a special branch for registering supers as government agents?”

Before he could answer, the young agent intervened with measured swiftness. “Yes, there is… but it’s kept completely private.”

It was the most plausible excuse she could come up with, hoping Jackson would go along with it without compromising her discretion. He watched her for a second, understanding the message in her forced smile, and raised an eyebrow before intervening with feigned laziness. “Yes, it exists, although it’s rather dull. There’s no public recognition. Just covert missions.”

“How peculiar. I’d like to meet the supers in that branch,” Edna remarked thoughtfully, resting her chin on her hand. “Most of the supers I know prefer to work as public heroes, some out of a sense of purpose… and others, of course, for the sweet vanity of recognition.”

(Y/N) smiled slightly, remaining calm. "Well, it's quite likely that many of us prefer discretion," she replied serenely, trying to sound convincing without sounding like she was making excuses.

"Ah... I see," Edna nodded, observing her with genuine interest. "So you decided to serve from the shadows. Fascinating. And tell me, darling, what kind of tasks do NSA agents specialize in?"

Jackson, ever the gentleman, intervened before his partner could be caught up in the designer's curiosity. "I think that's classified, Edna," he said with a charming smile, standing up. He was pleased when his agent gave him a brief, appreciative look.

The blond man then skillfully changed the subject. "Rather, what do you think of her ability? Do you think you could find a material that suits her?"

"My dear Jack," Edna replied, a glint of genius in her eye, "nothing is impossible for me. And yes, I will find the perfect material. Something that supports and enhances energy regulation without compromising mobility or style."

Jackson chuckled softly. "That's the Edna I adore," he said jovially. "And as for the cost... I think it would be fair if you put it on my tab."

(Y/n) looked at him, surprised. "What? No, no, no," she exclaimed immediately in his direction. "I can cover my own expenses."

Edna raised a hand, silencing the protest, and smiled with her usual dramatic flair. “Oh, darling, let the gentleman pay. After all, it was my dear Jack who brought you here, wasn’t it?”

The (h/c)-nette opened her mouth to retort, but realized she didn’t have an argument that could win them over. Both of them—the designer with her commanding elegance and the super with his charming smile—were experts at getting their way.

In the end, she could only sigh in resignation. “I suppose refusing would be pointless, wouldn’t it?”

“Exactly, darling,” Edna said triumphantly, as Jackson winked at her with satisfaction. “At least you learned how this circle works quickly.”

Part of her wanted to laugh at the resignation that had cornered her, but she chose to restrain herself and simply nodded gracefully, just so as not to upset the designer. Deep down, however, she was already plotting how she would speak with Jackson later, privately, to convince him—as subtly as possible—to give her his bank account details so they could split the costs of the commission.

It was her way of not owing anything to anyone.

Edna, meanwhile, checked her wristwatch, a polished metal design that seemed as unique as her creations.

"No way..." she murmured with a slight start. "I've completely lost track of time!" Then she turned her gaze to her guests. "I'd love to invite you to lunch, but unfortunately, the renovation of my residence won't supervise itself."

With a flick of her wrist, the dark-haired woman conveyed the magnitude of her remark.

“Now then,” she continued, regaining her composure, “according to my schedule, the outfits will be ready in a week. I’ll send you a message when it’s time for the next appointment. Please be punctual; I don’t tolerate delays.”

Jackson nodded with a serene smile as (Y/n) walked alongside the designer to the lobby. “I apologize for the inconvenience, and thank you so much for everything, Madam Mode,” the agent said politely.

Edna turned to her, observing her with a nod of approval. “My darling, you are so modest… and that,” she said with her characteristic emphasis, “I like it. But now, my loves, I need you to leave and continue with your date.”

The young (h/c)-nette blushed at the designer’s frankness in reminding her of the purpose of her visit, but she only nodded, trying to hide her discomfort with a polite smile.

Jackson, for his part, took advantage of the moment’s distraction. With a sudden movement, he encircled his agent's waist and gently pulled her close, just enough to startle her.

"We'll have all day to have fun," he whispered, with that carefree smile that always masked something more.

Edna narrowed her eyes, her expression a mixture of annoyance and affection. "I hope you don't forget that today is Robert's wedding," she reminded him firmly, in a tone that made it clear this wasn't a suggestion. "Be punctual, Jack."

The agent parted her lips slightly, immediately recalling the event.

Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl's wedding was the talk of the agency. She knew that several supers—and some of the agents who supervised them—had been invited. It was only natural that Gamma Jack, being one of the hero's closest friends, would be among them.

Jackson, however, feigned nonchalance. “I’ll check my time,” he replied, gently loosening his grip on his partner.

But (Y/n) noticed a nuance in his voice, a brief note of disinterest or perhaps melancholy. She watched him as they walked toward the exit, still not asking any questions.

The front door closed behind them, leaving behind the echo of Edna’s heels and the lingering scent of black tea and new fabric. The air outside was fresher, and the sun was at an angle, bathing the workshop entrance in a golden light.

As they walked toward the car, the agent decided to break the silence. “Are you going to Mr. Incredible’s wedding?” she asked casually, although her curiosity was genuine.

Jackson unlocked the car with a soft beep and opened the passenger door for her. “I’m his friend. I’m expected to go,” he replied with a brief smile, but his gaze avoided hers.

(Y/N) stopped, resting a hand on the door frame. “But you don’t want to go,” she said calmly, stating the obvious. “That’s why you scheduled this date with me.”

The blond man didn’t respond immediately. His smile remained, but the playful spark that usually accompanied it faded for barely a second. Then, with a resigned sigh, he simply said, “That’s right.”

She watched him, trying to understand what lay behind that apparent indifference. Was it simply a reluctance to be formal… or was there something more, something he was avoiding confronting?

Noticing the unspoken question in her eyes, the man gently closed the door and offered her a warmer smile, almost to dispel the tension. “Let’s just say I’m allergic to weddings,” he joked.

The (h/c)-nette raised an eyebrow, unable to suppress a slight, incredulous smile. “Allergic to weddings,” she repeated, almost to herself. “That’s a new one.”

He walked around the car to take the driver’s seat. “Now,” he said, starting the engine, “why don’t we continue our date?”

She nodded slowly, settling into the passenger seat. From the window, she watched Edna Mode’s residence recede into the distance, enveloped in an almost unreal calm, as if the hustle and bustle of her world had been trapped behind it. For a moment, the silence between them felt comfortable.

“So?” she finally asked, breaking the hum of the engine. “What do you suggest? Where could we go next?”

Jackson waited for the gates to open, his eyes fixed on the path unfolding before them. “I was thinking of taking you to Lumine Bleu,” he said lightly. “A fine, quiet restaurant, ideal for a leisurely lunch. What do you think?”

The name was familiar to her. (Y/n) had heard it before, mentioned in other people’s conversations, in reports or society articles. Lumine Bleu was one of those places designed for elegant encounters and discreet dates, with an intimate atmosphere that combined warm lighting, velvet curtains, and the soft echo of live piano music. It was a place where conversations turned into confidences.

“That’s fine,” she replied, trying to sound neutral. “I just hope there’s a table available for us.”

“Don’t worry,” Jackson responded, with that relaxed confidence that came naturally to him. “I’ve already reserved a spot for us at any time.” Then, with a sly smile, he added, "By the way, it seems Edna liked you. You even answered her probing questions about your powers."

The (h/c)nette sighed, her shoulders slumping with a mixture of resignation and weariness. "I guess I didn't have a choice, don't you think?" she muttered. "As soon as she figured out what I could do, she started analyzing me like I was a new research project. She even ignored the fact that one of her security machines malfunctioned. Now I suspect she'll design me a suit just for her own personal satisfaction."

The blond man chuckled briefly, easing the tension. "Well, at least it'll keep her distracted from her remodeling. Trust me, when Edna doesn't have something to design, the world trembles."

She couldn't help but smile at his tone, but as he drove, her attention drifted to his profile. She observed him for a moment, the way the midday light outlined his face, the calculated serenity with which he maintained a relaxed expression. There was something about that calm that seemed forced, as if a part of him were taking refuge in lightness to avoid facing other things.

"I've noticed you have some similar attitudes," she commented gently. "Is Edna related to you?"

Jackson raised an eyebrow, surprised by the observation, and glanced at her with a brief smile. "You could say I consider her like an aunt. But no, we're not related by blood. She's... a good friend since I started my career as a super."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I see." Her lips curved into a genuine smile. "It's clear there's a connection of appreciation between you two."

He didn't respond immediately. He kept his eyes on the road, his hand steady on the steering wheel, his mind somewhere distant. But a part of him was silently grateful that his partner understood. Few people could read between the lines.

The journey continued in peaceful silence, broken only by the whisper of the wind filtering through the half-open window and the low hum of a radio no one had turned on.

The officer gazed at the windshield, where the sun's reflections cast golden glimmers across the glass. The tall buildings receded into the distance, replaced by tree-lined avenues and light-colored stone facades, typical of the city's upper district. Everything seemed more serene there, as if the noise of the world dissolved as they ascended.

She thought how strange that had been.

The day had begun as a duty—a courteous appointment, just another facade in her role—but somehow it had transformed into something else. In the company of that arrogant and complex man, the line between her mission and her humanity was beginning to blur.

And though she couldn't explain it, a part of her… wished it would continue. For once, she could allow herself to let her guard down.

The car turned onto a narrow street, adorned with iron lanterns and balconies draped in flowers that danced in the breeze. Jackson slowed down, his voice calmer, almost absent. “We're here.”

She looked up. In front of them, the Lumine Bleu sign shone discreetly, its soft light reflecting off the windows. From outside, she could hear the gentle clinking of glasses and the echo of a piano playing a nostalgic melody. It seemed like a refuge secluded from the world, a harbinger of calm before the unknown.

Jackson walked around the car and opened the passenger door with his usual smile. “Excuse me,” he said casually.

(Y/n) looked at him, confused by the formality of the gesture, but took his hand. The contact was brief, barely a touch, but it was enough to stir something inside her.

He, in turn, took advantage of the gesture to intertwine his arm with hers, gently pulling her closer. There was no hurry, no explicit intentions, just that silent magnetism they both pretended not to notice.

They walked together into the restaurant. The city's murmur faded behind them, replaced by the warm glow of the lamps and the subtle aroma of white wine and spices.

And as the maître d' guided them to their reserved table, the (h/c)-nette couldn't help but think that, perhaps, that day would not be remembered for duty... but for the moment when she began to see the super beyond the uniform, and herself, beyond the role that had been imposed on her.

Chapter Text

The room was enveloped in a pristine silence. On the desk, several classified folders lay open, filled with confidential reports and photographs partially obscured by shadows.

A notebook displayed scattered notes, numbers, coordinates, addresses, and encrypted emails. In the corner, a coffee machine vibrated faintly, the bitter residue of its contents dwindling.

"That's right..." murmured the female voice into the phone. "Make sure he's ready for tonight."

Pause. "I've already informed the media. They'll report at the exact time."

Another pause, the echo of a barely perceptible doubt. "Don't worry. I just left a message subtle enough to attract their attention. That will be enough."

A brief silence, followed by the final sentence. "You have my word."

She hung up. The click of the phone resonated like a final closure.

Rosney leaned back slightly in her chair, exhaling the weariness of someone who had worked all night. The digital clock read 12:07 p.m. She had spent hours planning and fine-tuning every detail of the operation. In just a few more hours, the plan would be activated. But for now, in a few minutes, she had to resume her usual facade, the agent's routine, her daily work, the Gazerbeam supervisor no one suspected.

She got up from her seat and went to the window. From there, the city seemed harmless, bathed in the midday light. Traffic flowed on, pedestrians strolled by, oblivious to the weight of what was about to unfold.

Perhaps—she thought with an unsettling calm—this would be the last day these people would live with the illusion of security and order.

She would be there when it all began. Observing. Evaluating. Letting the first cracks appear, and then planting the seeds of chaos in the most fertile ground, public opinion.

Because if she'd learned anything, it was that true power lay not in heroic acts, but in the perceptions that shaped the trust of others.

The only dilemma was choosing the right representative to take the initial blow. Who would be the first face of the scandal?

The first name that came to mind was the most obvious, Gamma Jack.

His popularity with the public—especially with women—made him an ideal victim. He knew that female devotion could be a double-edged sword. When a woman idealizes a hero and he disappoints her, the fall isn't just emotional… It's public. Outrage multiplies, rumors spread, reputations are destroyed. And if the fall of a superhero served as the trigger, the effect would be exponential.

Even so, other figures stood out as alternatives. Dynaguy, with his air of service, or even Elastigirl, the flawless heroine, the media figure everyone admired.

But none of them matched the symbolic weight of Mr. Incredible. The war hero, the friendly face of public service, the emblem of unwavering virtue.

She had read every report, every mission log, every published interview. His record was admirable… but flawed. He had a habit of leaving things unfinished, of acting impulsively. His strength was legendary, but so was his carelessness. And collateral damage always leaves its mark.

The agent placed a hand on the surface of the desk, sweeping with her finger the fine layer of dust that accumulated on the documents. “The greatest hero…” se murmured, her voice almost reverent, “always casts the longest shadow.”

He was a perfect target. A superhero who not only moved the masses, but also money, corporations, sponsors, and politicians.

His image was a moral anchor for society, an essential piece on the government chessboard.

But the question remained, how could she get Mr. Incredible’s attention and involve him in her plan?

First, she needed to know where he was, follow his routine… if you could even call Mr. Incredible’s unpredictable schedule a routine.

The agents assigned to watch him rarely shared information, and even less so without a legitimate justification. Getting his exact location would be challenging and time-consuming, something she didn’t have at the moment.

That’s when she remembered something. A phone conversation with her mother, months earlier, when she proudly mentioned that her 'little Buddy' kept sending letters to the hero and followed him to every public appearance.

Rosney narrowed her eyes, a spark igniting in her mind.

Buddy. Her brother. Maybe she didn’t need to seek access to the NSA files… if she could use a child’s curiosity as a key.

Without thinking twice, she picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number. The ringing lingered for a few seconds before the boy’s voice came through on the other end, with that energy that only an 'innocent' soul could maintain.

“Hello? This is Buddy Calloway, who's speaking?"

Rosney sighed in relief and answered with a mixture of tenderness and calculation. "Hey, Buddy. It's Gwen. How are you, little genius?"

There was a brief silence, followed by a surprised laugh. "Gwen? Hi, sis! Mom sent me your greetings from last night. Why are you calling now?"

"And since when do I need a reason to talk to you?" she teased, relaxing her tone. "Jeez, I see my little brother thinks he's so important now."

The boy laughed. "Of course you can call me... but you always do it when you want something."

Rosney raised an eyebrow, surprised at how perceptive he was becoming. She had to stay in control.

"I was just curious," she said with feigned nonchalance. "Mom mentioned you were working on a new experiment... something to impress Mr. Incredible, right?"

The boy's enthusiasm was evident over the phone line. "Yeah! I'm finishing up a prototype of flying boots. They're powered by micro-propellers I designed myself." He paused briefly, suspicious. "Wait... do you want to invest in my projects? I'm sorry, sis, but I'll take responsibility for that as the inventor."

His sister let out a small laugh at his statement, a mix of pride and mockery. He was already starting to think like a Calloway.

"Have you become this possessive? But no, I don't want to invest," she lied, "I'm just glad to see you're making progress. Tell me, what do you plan to do now that you've finished them?"

"I'll test them out today," the boy replied excitedly, "and then I'll go find Mr. Incredible to show them to him. I'm sure he'll be impressed."

That was enough. Rosney leaned back in her seat, processing the information. "And how do you plan to find him?" she asked casually, hiding the edge behind her curiosity.

"That's no problem," Buddy replied proudly. "I've modified a drone. It can search the city for him and track his distinctive suit."

A flash of satisfaction crossed the redhead's eyes. She remembered that drone, a Christmas present from her father. An innocent tool… but with potential to use.

She herself had access to NSA drones, but she couldn't risk using the agency's; every flight was monitored and recorded. Her brother's, on the other hand, was invisible to radar. Perfect.

"Interesting," she said in a firm, calculated tone. "I'd like to use your drone, just for one day. I have a friend who needs to talk to Mr. Incredible, but he rarely manages to reach him. Maybe you could help me."

"Help you? Of course!" the boy replied, delighted. "I'll send you a copy of the control modulator. But you'll owe me one, deal?"

Rosney rolled her eyes at his audacity, but nodded. "Deal, little businessman. I owe you one."

"Done!" he said, with a satisfied laugh.

But the call didn't end there.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Buddy added, with that nonchalant tone he always had before dropping a bombshell. “Dad asked about you this morning at breakfast.”

The redhead woman stopped moving her hand on the desk. She didn’t tense up, didn’t sigh… she just paused.

A cautious pause. “And what did he ask?” she finally asked, her voice as calm as a straight line.

Without much interest, Buddy replied, “Mom said you called last night, that you were fine and all that… but Dad just wanted to know if you’d changed your mind.”

Rosney glanced at the metal clock resting beside her, amidst folders and notes. That piece—a gift from her father for her sixteenth birthday—seemed to be watching her.

Of course. It was to be expected. Who else would inherit the Calloway company if not her?

Buddy was the youngest, overly focused on inventions and obsessed with impressing a super. Karson, the older brother, had already forged his own entrepreneurial path. Only she remained, the only one her father still saw as an unfinished project. As if that were true.

She settled into her seat with quiet grace. “I see…” she replied, not letting her composure waver. “I’ll talk to him about my plans very soon. I just need a little more time. Could you pass on the message?”

“Mm… okay,” Buddy said with blatant satisfaction. “Then that’s two favors you owe me.”

The agent narrowed her eyes. Since when had that kid become such a little opportunist?

“Deal,” she replied in the authoritative tone of an older sister. “Two favors. However, please note that my payment is commensurate with the favor. Understood?”

“Yes, madam,” he answered, and his sister could almost see him giving a military salute.

“Oh, and Dad’s going to lunch with Karson today. You could join them. I would like to go, but I have to show Mr. Incredible my invention. So I’ll stay with Mom,” the boy added.

The agent checked the time. 12:20 p.m. Technically, she could go. Skipping a day of monitoring at Gazerbeam wouldn’t be an obstacle… But no, she still had to work out the final details of her plan.

“It’ll have to be another day,” she concluded. “Now do me the first favor.”

Buddy nodded and hung up.

Rosney remained silent for a few seconds, staring at her phone as if the future of her entire family were written there. Her expression didn't budge an inch. That cold serenity was part of her essence… and her usefulness.

The day would come when she would have to explain her entire strategy to her father. And when she did, he would understand that it would benefit the company more than any stagnant traditionalism.

Investors would change their minds. Supers would cease to be a profitable bet. And she would be the one to guide that change.

The ping of a notification broke the silence. Buddy's message had just arrived. The agent opened it, reviewed the attachments, and her gaze brightened.

The next phase had to be executed immediately, create a maneuver to lure the super, something convincing enough to draw him to the area where their operation would unfold. Perhaps an orchestrated robbery… or a programmed jamming of his radio frequency.

As the second hand ticked by, a shadow of melancholy fleetingly crossed her face.

It would be a shame if Buddy became disillusioned with his idol.

But like every Calloway, sooner or later, he would have to learn that admiration was nothing more than a weakness disguised as hope.

In her family, naiveté was never a virtue. Power, on the other hand… was. It was time for her brother to understand that the world didn't advance through childish dreams, but through well-executed strategies.

With that conviction, Gwen Calloway began to formulate her plan.

_

The Lumine Bleu restaurant was an oasis suspended between elegance and tranquility.

Soft, golden light filtered through the silk curtains, reflecting off the crystal glasses with a warm glow that seemed to breathe alongside the murmur of the piano. The air was filled with the aroma of sweet spices, wine, and fresh flowers that adorned each table in small porcelain vases.

In a secluded corner, surrounded by translucent curtains, two young adults shared lunch, their laughter punctuated by anecdotes.

"I'm telling you," Jackson began with a smile that was both amused and resigned, taking a bite of his food, "what you experienced today was the least of what Edna could have done to you."

He rested an elbow on the table, his chin propping up his hand with a theatrical air. "The first time I went to see her, I ended up locked in her lab almost all day. She wanted to test different materials that could withstand my radiation."

The young woman in front of him listened with an amused smile, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of curiosity and laughter.

"I didn't know if I'd make it out alive the next day after all the escape attempts I came up with," the blond man added, laughing at himself. "That woman's gadgets are torture. I don't know how I survived that day."

(Y/n) took a sip from her glass, stifling a laugh. "I bet you became her favorite back then," she remarked lightly.

Jackson scoffed with an exaggerated expression. "Don't even think about it. Helen always beats me at that."

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You mean Elastigirl? Why do you say that?"

The super nodded, taking a leisurely sip of his glass. "Yes. Helen is brilliant, determined. She has the kind of mind that won't break even if the whole world tries. And besides, she's a woman who knows what she wants"—his tone softened, almost admiring. "Edna always thought that's what truly makes someone great. Not strength, but conviction."

For a moment, the agent observed him with mild surprise. She knew Jackson's reputation, his sarcasm, his charming arrogance, his tendency to use words as tools of seduction. But this time, the way he spoke was different. There was no artifice or irony. Just a quiet, almost melancholic sincerity.

She didn't know whether to feel congenial or uncomfortable with it. And just when the silence seemed to be getting too personal, he changed the subject with his usual nonchalance.

"Did you ever have to monitor her?" he asked casually, as if he hadn't just been praising one of the most revolutionary heroines in the country.

(Y/n) blinked, snapping out of her reverie. “I haven’t had the chance,” she replied calmly, cutting a piece of her food. “And, frankly, I don’t think they’ll assign me to watch over her.”

The blond man tilted his head, curious. “Why not?”

She finished chewing before answering. “She has a green card,” she said simply.

Jackson raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Does that mean…?”

The (h/c)-nette let out a short laugh at her partner’s curious expression as he received her brief answers. “That she’s a case of complete trust. Her monitoring doesn’t require the strict requirements of full surveillance. She’s one of the few figures with a clean record. Plasmabolt also has that status.”

“Oh, wow,” he replied, somewhere between astonished and sarcastic. “That’s news to me.”

His smile slanted, and with that mischievous glint that always betrayed him, he added, “So, what card do I have?”

She watched him with a restrained smile, knowing exactly what he expected to hear. "Red."

Jackson let out a disbelieving laugh. "Red... sure. The color of alarms, passion, and bad decisions," he murmured, feigning flattery.

With a swift movement, he took a small bite from her plate with his fork. "But hey, it's not all bad. If it weren't for that, I wouldn't be lucky enough to have you as my agent."

The agent rolled her eyes with a mixture of annoyance and dissimulation. "Don't think that just because I'm your agent I'll give you a green card," she retorted ironically, but she didn't look away when he brought his fork closer. She yielded to the gesture, naive to the indirect kiss it implied.

Jackson rested his chin on his hand, watching her brazenly, a smile curving his lips. “I didn’t know you wanted to stay by my side longer; it touches me,” he said in a honeyed voice, dragging out the words just to tease her.

(Y/N) coughed in surprise, trying to hide the blush that threatened to rise to her face. Jackson let out a hearty, amused laugh, while she looked away with feigned severity.

To soften the moment—or perhaps to prolong it—the blond resumed the conversation. “So, tell me… what super did you have before me?”

She composed herself with studied calm, wiping her lips with her napkin. “Since I joined the agency,” she replied, “I’ve been assigned to keep an eye on Hypershock.”

Jackson's smile faded, and his expression took on a thoughtful hue. He knew that Super's habits well, impulsive, temperamental, a walking chaos of lightning.

He was surprised that (Y/n) had been able to handle him. And even more so, that she had emerged unscathed.

Silently, he recalled the reports he had read, the interventions that had been resolved with impeccable precision when the super was the star of the moment. Of course… now it all made sense. Hypershock hadn't contained his power out of discipline, but because someone—her—had regulated it.

Jackson held his glass, swirling it slowly.

He was aware of the consequences that (Y/n)'s powers had on her body, exhaustion, headaches, and physical strain. And yet, she always managed on her own. She healed herself. She shouldered the burden of her work alone.

That bothered him more than he would admit.

He knew she was a capable woman, and yet, the idea that no one was there to cover her when she fell stirred something inside him. Pride, perhaps. Or a kind of worry he didn't know how to handle.

'How I wish it had been me accompanying her then…' he thought, as he watched her with a mixture of admiration and something more.

He wouldn't deny it; he felt a certain envy for Hypershock. He could have had her attention, her trust, her professional closeness, had he crossed over further. And yet, he was grateful that wasn't the case. Now, he was the one who had her within his sight, and he would take advantage of it.

But among all that troubled him, there was something deeper, something he couldn't quite decipher. It wasn't distrust… it was intrigue.

The way the NSA kept (Y/n)'s presence within its structure shrouded in mystery revealed that there was something more behind it, perhaps another matter not directly related to just the supers. A matter that perhaps the agent herself knew about.

Jackson sensed it in the caution of her answers, in the way she chose each word, and in that practiced serenity that only someone accustomed to professional discretion could maintain effortlessly.

From what he had deduced—from the few things she had let slip in past conversations—only a small group knew the truth that (Y/n) was a super. Possibly among them were her superiors… or someone closer, someone who owed her their silence.

The question was understanding why she kept that secret.

One possibility was that the agency was hiding it to avoid leaks, scandals, or accusations of favoritism among the supers or even the agents themselves. Another, simpler, and more human, was that she herself had asked for it. Perhaps she did it because she preferred to help from the shadows, without any recognition or credit. After all, duty mattered more to her than fame.

And that idea, curiously, made sense given what he knew about her, her discipline, her discretion, her way of putting others before herself.

Even so, something in his instinct told him there was another purpose behind it all. A parallel mission. An invisible thread connecting the young woman to something larger, beyond the reach of what he—or perhaps even the NSA—could see.

But that intuition was still vague, a shadow he preferred not to pursue… at least, not for now.

Jackson exhaled slowly and decided to leave those conjectures for later. This afternoon wasn't for theories or suspicions. It was for enjoying the company he had before him.

The date had been a success—a pause between tension and duty—and although she still maintained her professional demeanor, he was beginning to notice the small gestures of her trust, her softer voice, her genuine laughter, the way she looked at him without coldness.

There was time. Time to get to know her and earn her trust. And he wasn't in a hurry.

Being patient with her… was, in a way, the most entertaining part of being with her.

With a lopsided smile, he picked up the thread of the conversation. “And tell me, what color did you give him?” he asked, trying to provoke her further.

The agent shook her head with restrained elegance. “It’s best if I leave it a mystery.” Her smile was slight, but challenging.

Jackson let out a genuine laugh, one that stemmed more from charm than humor. “How clever,” he murmured.

The blond man looked at her with that mischievous glint that straddled provocation and complicity.

The atmosphere became lighter, warmer. The pianist changed the rhythm to a soft, almost enveloping melody, and several couples began to fill the dance floor.

The restaurant’s warm lights gave the room a golden hue, and for a moment, Jackson thought that the setting was perfect.

He remembered their second encounter, that time at the casino, when they had danced among the crowd, daring her to reveal her true identity, with that mixture of tension and curiosity.

Now it was different; he only wanted to maintain that closeness he had felt then. It was what compelled him to extend his hand toward her now.

"Would you like to give a dance on this beautiful evening?" he asked with a lopsided smile, his voice low and with that mesmerizing gaze.

(Y/N) looked at him, puzzled. The invitation had taken her by surprise.

But she pursed her lips slightly before replying politely. “I don’t think it would be the most appropriate thing to do after we’ve eaten. I wouldn’t want to… trip in front of everyone,” she said, looking away.

It was an excuse. Jackson knew it.

She wasn’t one to let herself be carried away on a dance floor, not because she lacked elegance, but because she disliked the idea of ​​losing control.

And yet, he remembered well that time—when they danced together—she had followed his steps with precision, as if she had always known how.

"Oh, come on," he insisted, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "you said I was taking the initiative today. Call it... a little compensation."

She raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “Compensation? I thought your request was for me to give my opinion on your friend’s visit.”

“It was,” he replied with feigned innocence, “and I assumed you gave your opinions on the collections she was showing.”

"Is that what you call giving an opinion?" she muttered, pulling her hand away from his and bringing it to her forehead, dismayed. "I barely gave an opinion; I just nodded at Edna's countless suggestions."

Jackson laughed, knowing he had lost this argument. “Fine, if you don’t want to dance, then I’ll give you the initiative. What would you like to do?”

The agent sighed, embarrassed by her earlier outburst. She was grateful he wasn’t pressuring her. For a moment, she thought she wouldn’t know what to suggest, until she glanced at her watch and an idea struck her.

“We could watch the sunset,” she said, her voice calmer. “I know a place with a beautiful view. I'd be delighted to go there."

Jackson nodded, his expression softening toward her. "Perfect. Just give me the address, and I'll be happy to take you."

"Thank you," she replied with a genuine smile.

The blond man tilted his head, charmed by the gesture. "But don't get too excited," he added with a light, mischievous tone. "I'm not letting you pay for lunch. And I don't want to hear any objections."

(Y/n) frowned, but the grimace softened into a pout that made him smile. She had remembered the episode with Edna and realized that objecting would be pointless. "Fine, just this once," she conceded resignedly.

Jackson called a waiter, but the restaurant was packed; the staff were bustling between occupied tables. "It'll be quicker if I go straight to the counter," he said, getting up.

The (h/c)-nette pretended to join him, but he immediately guessed. "No, no, you stay here. I know that look, agent. You're definitely planning to outsmart me."

She crossed her arms, feigning indifference. "What a shame, and I just wanted to keep you company."

Jackson leaned slightly toward her, with his characteristic confidence. "Don't worry, you'll have it... when we dance at sunset." And, winking at her, he walked away toward the reception desk.

The young woman watched him go, unable to suppress the slight blush that rose to her cheeks.

Meanwhile, Jackson approached the counter, where two people were waiting to pay their bill. One was an elegant lady, while the other was a young adult with blond hair, slightly taller than him. His light green eyes, flecked with blue, seemed strangely familiar.

The blond man squinted, trying to place him in his memory. "Excuse me," he asked politely, "have we met before? I think I recognize you."

The other man observed him with equal curiosity before replying with measured composure. “It’s possible,” he said, turning to face him with a professional smile. “Karson Calloway. Perhaps you’ve seen me on television.”

He extended his hand. Jackson shook it with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah, that explains why your face seemed familiar. Jackson Hands, a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” replied Karson, his neutral tone more analytical than cordial.

For a second, their eyes met with a silent tension. Two men accustomed to reading between the lines.

Karson was the first to look away when the receptionist called him over. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said with a brief gesture before heading to the counter.

Jackson nodded with measured courtesy. “Of course.”

When the man finished paying, he turned to him with a professional smile. “It’s been a pleasure, Hands.”

“Likewise, Calloway,” Jackson replied, watching him walk away as the receptionist attended to him. His eyes, however, followed the figure a few steps ahead of Karson. His smile vanished completely.

That man was older, with straight shoulders and impeccable bearing, the same golden hair and those same green eyes, but cold, hardened by years and authority. He had the presence of someone who needed no introduction to command respect.

An uncomfortable memory was triggered in the super's mind with a long shadow.

"I had to run into them today..." he muttered to himself, frowning with a mixture of distrust and displeasure.

"Do you know them?" a soft voice asked from behind him. (Y/n) had caught up with him after he had taken a little while, leaning slightly to look in the direction he was gazing.

Jackson turned, surprised that she had followed him so silently. When he saw her, his expression softened. He couldn't help but smile at his agent's curious expression.

He put an arm around her shoulder, casually guiding her toward the exit.

"Who are you referring to?" he asked, feigning disinterest as they walked.

"The people who caught your attention," she replied calmly, though her gaze continued to search the crowd.

Jackson considered this for a moment before answering. It wasn't necessary for her to know their identities.

“No one important,” he said lightly, masking the thoughtful tone that betrayed him.

The young (h/c)-nette raised an eyebrow, noticing something in his voice, but chose not to press the issue. She knew when to let a suspicion rest when it involved personal matters.

“Shall we go?” she finally asked, with a calm smile.

Jackson returned the gesture and opened the restaurant door to let her go first.

“Of course.” And, as they stepped outside, he added in a lighter, more relaxed tone, “After all, we still have the sunset to look forward to.”

The walk to the viewpoint passed in comfortable silence.

(Y/n) gave him directions in a soft voice, pointing out each turn between avenues and hills, while Jackson faithfully followed, offering the occasional comment about the places they passed.

It was strange—to her, at least—how that super, arrogant by nature, could appear so calm when he shared space with her. Sometimes it seemed that their company spoke volumes more than either of them dared to utter.

When the car stopped, the young woman was the first to get out. A gust of fresh air hit her cheeks, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and pine trees. The lookout point opened up before them like a postcard, a cobblestone path, a dark iron railing, the horizon stretching uninterrupted, and the city far below, shimmering like a swarm of tiny lights.

The sun was setting, casting orange, reddish, and violet hues that tinted the buildings and drew a golden line along the edges of the clouds.

She approached the railing, a melancholic smile spreading across her face, while Jackson silently approached, standing beside her.

“I remember,” she began, a hint of a soft laugh in her voice, “—finding this place a while ago, after a disastrous mission with Hypershock. It was the first time I’d failed at something truly important… well…” she laughed ironically, “it was his fault, but the blame fell on me.”

She rested her forearms on the railing, gazing at the landscape as if trying to relive it. “I was angry, lost, literally. I just wanted to get away from it all. I wandered aimlessly for hours until I ended up here.”

"And…” she took a deep breath, “when I saw this view, everything stopped. All that anger… that feeling of not being enough… it all vanished. And I could remember how to get back.”

Jackson was watching her more intently than the landscape. There was a different kind of gleam in her voice, one she rarely showed.

The agent turned to him with a slight, resigned smile. “Since then, I come here whenever I feel like… I’m losing my mind,” she joked gently, then lowered her gaze.

He leaned against her. And unconsciously, she rested her head on his shoulder.

“It’s still beautiful,” the young woman murmured, looking at the sky that was now blazing with the sun setting behind the city.

The blond man nodded. “It is,” he replied, but his gaze wasn’t on the horizon.

It was then that she noticed a formation of clouds—though she knew it was perhaps just her imagination—that seemed to form two intertwined silhouettes. The sight inexplicably tightened her chest. Something warm… and at the same time terrifying.

A repressed thought surfaced from deep within her, pulling her from her relaxation. “Jack…” she finally said, looking at him, her voice barely sounding like her own, “why are you doing this?”

He frowned slightly, not out of annoyance, but because he understood exactly what she was talking about. He turned to her slowly, letting his blue eyes study her, searching through her doubts and the honest fear that surfaced within them.

(Y/n) continued without giving her time to answer. "Your... insinuations. Your gestures. How attentive you are..." She looked away, uncomfortable with herself. "I don't know if it's a tactic, or if it's just another one of those ways you try to provoke me. But I need to know. I don't want to confuse my... my boundaries."

The wind stirred a strand of her hair. Jackson let a few seconds of silence settle between them, as if the sunset itself were holding its breath.

Finally, he spoke in a surprisingly gentle tone. “I do it… because you’re an interesting woman. Much more so than you let on.” He took her hand and gently intertwined it with his own. “A woman… I can’t take my eyes off of.”

She felt a pressure in her chest. Doubt. Fear. And something akin to wanting to believe him. But her analytical mind told her otherwise.

He could have said that to so many other women. She wouldn't be the exception. Just another piece in his scheme. And as always, her role wasn't to be outside the scheme… but within it.

A bitter pang crossed her eyes. The hope she had tried to suppress returned, only to remind her how absurd it all was. Nothing was truly hers. Not her freedom, not her ties, not even this small moment stolen from the duties of her profession.

Was it possible to maintain the friendly relationship they had agreed to build at the beginning?

No. Not while that invisible line remained, a line she was supposed to respect and never cross.

She gently released his hand, stepping back before her emotions betrayed her more than necessary.

She glanced at her wristwatch. The exact time Edna had mentioned Mr. Incredible's wedding flashed in her mind, illuminating a convenient—or perhaps necessary—way out to end this date.

"I think you're still in time for your friend's wedding," she said, taking a step back, physically breaking the tension between them. "At least you should show up to please Edna. Don't you think?"

Jackson watched her with a hint of disappointment. He didn't like how the moment was slipping through his fingers. That warmth, that closeness… dissipating too quickly.

"How about you come with me as my date?" he suggested, his tone less challenging but more sincere. "After all, you can't stray too far from me as my agent… right?"

(Y/N) bit her lip uncomfortably. “No,” she replied, lowering her gaze slightly. “I can’t be that close to you like that.”

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment to gather her thoughts. “There will be NSA representatives at the wedding. If they see me with you…” She hugged her arms against the cold breeze. “I’d give myself away. I’d break the professional boundaries I have to maintain.”

She couldn’t mention that her case was classified. That Gamma Jack’s supervisor was a secret even within the agency itself. Only those in the super’s inner circle would be notified, but they, too, would have to maintain that discretion.

Jackson raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Why? Are you forbidden from approaching a super like that?”

The question startled her. “No! It’s not that. It’s just that…” She looked away, guilt twisting in her chest. “My case is… particular.”

The sentence hung in the air like a shadow of something much bigger. An invisible wall, higher than any closeness they tried to build. Jackson understood. Or at least, he understood he wouldn't get any more answers.

"I could still go," she said, trying to ease the tension. "As an agent. Out of your... peripheral vision."

As the breeze caressed the lookout, he let out an almost imperceptible sigh and shook his head slowly, with an indifferent air. "Then my attendance isn't necessary."

And it was that look—the same distant, almost empty look—that she had seen before. The same one he had shown when Edna mentioned the wedding, and he evaded her with a flimsy excuse.

Something didn't add up. Something about the super's demeanor intrigued her. There was something in his gaze, a barely perceptible shadow, as if each casual word concealed a weight he preferred not to share. And although something inside her warned her not to interfere, (Y/n) took a step toward him, softening her tone.

"Why?" Her eyes met his. "Why don't you want to go to your best friend's wedding?"

Jackson was silent for a few moments. His eyes followed the horizon, but his mind was far away, trapped in a place he didn't want to look at directly. There, where he kept everything he never showed to anyone.

He had secrets, too. Not institutional, not strategic… but personal. Fragilities he never revealed to anyone because, in the wrong hands, they could become weapons against him.

And she was an agent. A trained observer. A woman capable of reading beyond what was said, perhaps even beyond what was shown. With someone like that, exposing something intimate was the closest thing to letting your guard down.

And yet, there was something about the (h/c)-nette—something that compelled him to consider surrendering.

In their encounters, Jackson had begun to recognize patterns in her demeanor, her quiet kindness, the way she listened without interrupting, a humility that wasn't weakness but a point of equilibrium, a silent loyalty in every decision she made, and, above all, discretion. A discretion born not of fear, but of commitment.

She wasn't naive, nor fragile… but she wasn't cold either. And in those few moments when her guard let down—when she smiled, when she let slip a joke, when her gaze turned sincere—he could see the humanity hidden beneath all that strategy and discipline.

She was trustworthy. In a strange, delicate, unique way. And Jackson didn't usually trust anyone lightly.

He shook his head gently, as if trying to order the whirlwind of emotions that plagued him. These doubts would eventually corner him if he didn't face them. Perhaps… just for today, he could allow himself to lower his guard a little. A small crack.

If there was anyone capable of understanding—even a part of it—it was her. Because she had already shown him that she could carry secrets without being overwhelmed by them.

Finally, he spoke in a voice devoid of his usual swagger. "I don't want to attend the wedding because... I don't want to see the person I was in love with... at an altar next to my best friend," he confessed without looking at her, letting the words drift away.

His words hung suspended between them. She felt as if the wind itself seemed to stop.

Jackson continued gazing at the descending sunset, which burst into shades of gold and violet. “From the first time I saw Helen on a mission,” he continued, “I was… captivated. Not just by how she fought, but by the way she faced danger, as if she could rewrite it.”

He took a deep breath, almost resignedly. “I figured, back then, that she was the one who would be by my side.”

(Y/n) listened, attentive and somewhat in awe of the story he was about to tell, of those feelings for a super who… was no longer within his reach.

“We got along well,” he went on. “She went along with my jokes, even my exaggerations. And yes…” a sad smile crossed his face, “sometimes I pushed it too far. But Helen always knew when to stop me. When to put me in my place with her charm.”

A silence fell, heavy but honest. “We never went beyond that. She didn't see me that way… and our ideals didn't align as well as I thought. Our collaborations stopped flowing, and…"

His fingers tightened on the metal railing of the lookout. “And now… it hurts to see her interact with Bob. It hurts just imagining her walking down the aisle with him.”

Despite everything, an honest, resigned smile touched his lips. “But also… I'm happy. Because my friend found someone who truly complements him.”

He gazed at the sunset, as if he could lose his sadness there among the colors of the sky.

The (h/c)-nette listened attentively, without interrupting, without trying to soften the blow or minimize it. Because it wasn't just a profound confession; it was a part of his story that he, perhaps because of his pride, had never before admitted aloud.

She felt empathy. A deep empathy that confused her… but also a hint of guilt in those words, as if he still carried a remorse he never had a chance to resolve.

She searched for her words delicately. “But…” she began gently, “If you were to go to that wedding, it would also be a way of closing that chapter. Not to forget it, but to put it where it belongs.” She looked directly at him, her voice calm. “Sometimes platonic relationships also need an ending… so that we can truly move forward.”

Jackson turned to her, surprised. He hadn’t expected her to understand him so well, as if her words had been the exact hand he needed to hold onto.

But what she said struck a chord he had been avoiding for years. It reminded him—painfully vivid—of the night he lost his mother. The moment he understood that clinging to 'what could have been' only prevented him from opening his heart to what still remained. That closing a chapter didn’t mean losing security… but rather daring to look beyond the pain.

The silence between them became dense, intimate, and warm.

For the first time, he looked at her as if something inside him had finally clicked. He had admired her discipline. Her strength. Her strategic mind. But now he saw something else, calmness. A calmness he hadn't felt in a long time.

Perhaps—just perhaps—she was the one who could be by his side without consuming him, without judging him, without ulterior motives. Perhaps she was the only one who could offer him that kind of truth.

Jackson took a deep breath, approaching with an almost reverential slowness, as if seeking permission even in the air. And then, before she could close the distance or step back, he placed a soft kiss on her lips.

A cautious kiss at first, as if he expected her to pull away. A kiss that spoke louder than any words he had uttered that day.

The (h/c)-nette widened her eyes in surprise, her heart pounding against her ribs. But she didn't push him away. Because… because she had seen his genuine vulnerability. That sensitive and honest side she had discovered in him was a side she was beginning to empathize with. So part of her—though her reason denied it—had already begun to crumble.

Jackson pulled back barely an inch, his breath still warm on her lips. "Thank you..." he whispered, with that broken voice he never let anyone see.

She was about to reply, but didn't have time. He kissed her again.

This time, it wasn't timid or cautious. It was a firm, sincere kiss, filled with that mixture of fervor and relief that comes when someone stops fighting the inevitable. His hands encircled her waist, drawing her closer with the gentleness of someone still afraid of breaking what they hold.

And she… she surrendered. She wrapped her arms around his neck, responding with an intensity she didn't even know she possessed. Because even though her mind screamed warnings, even though logic told her that this bond was risky for both of them…

Her heart—that part that just moments before had begun to close—had already made its own decision against her.

And in that instant, under the last glow of the sunset, they allowed themselves to forget the world. Just for a moment. Just a sigh of respite.

But behind that suspended moment—between lips, sighs, and the warmth of the late afternoon—neither of them heard what was happening a few meters back, inside the car.

The radio, which Jackson had left on without realizing it, switched to an urgent announcement.

“Breaking News…” The announcer’s voice sounded tense, distorted by static. “An employee is on the edge of a building, apparently trying to jump. Ambulances and police are surrounding the area, but they can’t get into the building. Something inside is blocking access...”

The message was repeated once more, as if insisting, demanding attention. But on the observation deck, two figures remained locked in a kiss they shouldn’t have allowed themselves… Oblivious to the warning that, very soon, it would mark the beginning of something bigger than both of them.

Chapter Text

The room glowed under the warm light of the hanging chandeliers, which cast golden glimmers onto the ivory tablecloths. The sweet scent of flowers—white orchids, pale hydrangeas, and small sprigs of lavender—mingled with the lively murmur of the guests. In the background, a band played elegant, smooth, and festive jazz, perfect for a wedding that brought together heroes, agents, family members, and, for that one night, ordinary citizens celebrating an event that united two exceptional superheroes.

Although many of those present were renowned supers, none wore their signature suits. There were no capes, masks, or reinforced gloves, only men and women in formal attire, enjoying themselves without the weight of their responsibilities. For one night, they all belonged to the same world.

"I think I feel more comfortable in a suit than my super suit now," Simon announced, stepping out of the booth and perfectly adjusting his tie in front of an oval mirror.

The black suit he wore was simple, classic, yet it accentuated his broad shoulders and upright posture. “Edna’s superhero suit is comfortable, but I’m not used to wearing it to formal occasions like this.”

Lucius, impeccable in his own midnight black suit, crossed his arms with a patient smile. “My dear lawyer friend, that’s what you get for barely making it,” he joked as they left the dressing room together.

“I had to deal with a robbery. But at least I wasn’t the only one,” Simon grumbled with a grimace, surveying the room from the entrance. Indeed, the super guests were dressed formally… with the glorious exception of Universal Man, who, despite the suit, insisted on keeping his mask on.

Simon shook his head, noticing the absence of one of his friends. “Jack still hasn’t arrived.”

Lucius made a face of disapproval as they walked toward the bride and groom. “I know. And it wouldn’t be like him to miss something like this. Especially if it's something important to Bob."

Bob Parr, more radiant than ever in his black evening suit, nervously adjusted his cufflinks as he greeted the guests alongside Helen, stunning in a wine-colored satin dress as a change of clothes. They both received congratulations with smiles that seemed to light up the entire room.

"Hey, guys!" Bob raised a hand as his friends approached. "Do you know anything about Jack? I haven't seen him since we moved from the church to here."

Simon and Lucius exchanged a glance, about to confess they had no idea either…

But a familiar voice interrupted them. "And I'm too late to congratulate my friend?"

The three men turned at once. There stood Jackson Hands.

Dressed in a perfectly tailored navy suit, white shirt, and a burgundy tie that matched the elegant atmosphere of the room. His golden hair was swept back with impeccable naturalness, and his smile—that signature smile that could disarm anyone—was undiminished.

Lucius chuckled. “Well, look who decided to show up.”

Bob immediately hugged him, almost lifting him off the ground. “Jack, brother, you nearly missed the reception. I was about to start suspecting something radioactive stopped you.”

Jackson responded with a lopsided smile. “I promise I’ll behave myself today. It’s your day, after all.”

Helen approached the group with a sly smile, her elegant bearing radiating natural confidence. “I think this gentleman forgot to tell us something, don’t you think, Bob?” she remarked, looking at Jackson with a mixture of mischief and carefully calculated challenge.

The blond man let out a theatrical sigh and rolled his eyes. “Here we go again…” he muttered, before straightening up and speaking with an unusual serenity. "Congratulations, Bob. Helen… I’m truly happy you’ve reached this stage."

His smile softened. That unpredictable, almost vulnerable sparkle surprised even the newlyweds. “And this time I mean it,” he added.

The newlyweds exchanged glances. Since getting engaged, they’d heard plenty of his comments, jokes, and sometimes his indifference… but now, this tone was different. Honest. Free of ulterior motives.

“Thanks, Jack,” Helen replied warmly. “That’s very kind of you.”

“For a moment I thought I’d never hear something like that from you,” Bob joked, giving him a light, friendly punch on the shoulder. “But I’m glad you came.”

Jackson looked at his friend with satisfaction. “I apologize for missing the ceremony…” he admitted, returning to his relaxed demeanor. “But I made sure to make it to the reception. I hope that makes up for it.”

Bob smiled even wider, touched by the honesty. “Apology accepted, man.”

Lucius, who had been watching the scene with his arms crossed, chimed in with his gentle humor. “And here I was wondering why you were taking so long. Even Bob was late, and he’s the boyfriend.”

“Really?” Jackson raised an eyebrow, his lopsided smile returning. “And why is that?”

Helen sighed dramatically, crossing her arms. "You know... saving lives, catching criminals, completely ignoring the clock."

Bob laughed, scratching the back of his neck like a kid caught in a prank. “Hey, at least it was to save someone’s life.”

“Wow, what convenient priorities,” his wife rolled her eyes, prompting laughter from the entire group.

As the laughter subsided, a very familiar voice resonated among the friends, firm, theatrical… unmistakable.

“My dear Jack, I’m so glad you made it,” Edna Mode declared, striding toward them with her petite yet imposing presence, as if she had planned the entire evening.

Jackson, always chivalrous with her, took her hand and gave it an elegant kiss. “Here I am, as promised.”

Lucius was quick to chime in with a sharp remark. “Well, it seems Edna is happier to see Jack than she was about Bob’s wedding.”

A soft laugh escaped the newlywed. “It’s not far from the truth,” he murmured affectionately.

Edna lifted her chin, dignified and sharp. “I’m happy for Bob too, of course,” she said, with the tone of someone announcing a universal truth. “But I was… moderately worried”—her eyes pierced Jackson like needles—“that this young man would come up with another absurd excuse for not showing up.”

The blond man shrugged, a guilty smile playing on his lips, but his humor remained. “Apparently, I have someone persuasive on my side.”

Edna raised an eyebrow, astute as ever, subtly deciphering who he was referring to, and smiled with satisfaction. “Oh, yes, indeed… I know exactly who you mean. It’s a shame she couldn’t be with you.”

“Wait, wait,” Helen interrupted, her eyes widening in surprise. “You were convinced to come? And here I was thinking Edna was the one who dragged you here!"

She turned to Edna, questioning, with that sharp look she used in interrogations. “Edna, you have to tell me who that person was.”

The designer clasped her hands together proudly. “Well, she’s a very intelligent and capable young woman whom my dear Jack introduced me to.” Her gaze shone with calculated discretion; she had perfectly considered (Y/n)’s reserved nature, so she didn’t reveal more than necessary.

“Looks like your date already has Edna’s approval,” Simon commented, crossing his arms with a suggestive smile.

“Aha! Jack, I can see signs that someone will finally put you in your place,” Bob added enthusiastically, giving him a light nudge.

Jackson rolled his eyes, but his smile—inevitable, genuine—remained. “Ha ha, very funny.”

Helen observed him more closely. Something about him was different… more serene, as if he had finally released an invisible burden he had carried for years. “Well, I’m happy you’re here,” she said with a motherly gentleness. “And if that person manages to keep your antics in check, then it’s a miracle that benefits everyone.”

Jackson lowered his gaze slightly to his friend, grateful despite the lingering pang in his chest at seeing her as ‘his friend’s wife.’ “Maybe I’ll introduce you to her someday, if you’d like,” he replied with an almost poetic touch, concealing his nostalgia beneath an elegant smile.

“Are you sure?” Helen narrowed her eyes mischievously. “I might tell her some of your dark secrets.”

Jackson exchanged a quick glance with Edna. They both knew perfectly well that (Y/n) already knew at least a little about those superficial “secrets.” It was, after all, her job as an informant on her subject.

Lucius blinked, catching the silent exchange. "Okay, what are you two hiding?"

Edna stepped forward casually. "Nothing serious, darling. I'm just suggesting that this young lady already knows about several of this cheeky fellow's escapades," she said, gesturing to Jack with calculated theatricality.

Simon chuckled softly. "That sounds very convenient."

Jackson just smiled, tilting his head. "And you know I take advantage of opportunities."

---

The party continued its warm rhythm downstairs, but upstairs everything was calculated silence, dim light, and tinted glass. A room designated for screenings and monitoring, where only a few of the establishment's security guards resided. Their absence was due to the organizers' orders, as they were keeping the guests' identities secret.

Some agents took advantage of the situation to blend in and take over the place. (Y/n) was one of them.

From there, the young woman observed the celebration unseen. Her eyes moved attentively: familiar faces, some incredibly relaxed, a few overly confident, family members, guests… and, of course, the blond man who seemed particularly at ease that night.

She was so engrossed that she didn't hear the footsteps until someone opened the door. “You beat me to it,” a familiar voice announced casually. “I knew you were going to take this position first.”

It was Mark, her colleague and friend, holding two glasses of soda.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes with a patient sigh. "As if you weren't here five minutes ago..."

"I was thirsty, okay?" he said, raising both hands in surrender. "And since I was already here... I brought you this."

He extended a glass as if it were part of an ancient ritual and not an impromptu favor.

She accepted it with a small but genuine smile. "Thanks, Mark."

They both stood in front of the darkened window, the party unfolding like a moving painting, with warm lights, elegant attire, conversations, and laughter. For a few seconds, only the soft jazz drifting up from downstairs could be heard.

"And you?" he finally asked, taking a sip of his drink. "Everything alright on your end?"

The (h/c)-nette kept her gaze down before answering. "Yes. Everything's fine. Just…" she sighed resignedly, "hoping Jack doesn't end up drunk. I don't want to be the one dragging him home."

Mark raised an eyebrow, amused… but also curious. He noticed she'd said Jack, without the "Gamma," without the title, without the distance. Something had changed. But he also knew she was discreet. If she wasn't complaining about the super… it was because their arrangement was still working.

"I just know that if my super gets too drunk, I don't know how I'm going to handle it," he added with tragicomic humor. "You know how he gets, intense, melodramatic, and too strong for his own good."

That made his friend let out a soft laugh, one of those laughs Mark always liked. "If you need help, I can lend a hand. Of course, it'll depend on who passes out first," she joked, with a touch of irony that revealed her good humor.

"I'd gladly accept," the brunette laughed, "but I have to let it pass, Mr. Dicker is here, and I don't want to give him any reason to question my professionalism."

The agent smiled slightly, with that silent complicity that only exists between colleagues who have survived too many reports together. While the party continued to buzz downstairs—music, voices mingling—they both remained upstairs in that silent room, vigilant for any disturbance.

It was then that a third voice broke the calm. "This is a good spot to keep a low profile."

They both turned simultaneously.

A female figure had entered the room. Her uniform mimicked that of the venue's private security, but both (Y/n) and Mark immediately recognized the detail that gave her away as an agent, the weight of a transmitter on her belt that belonged to the NSA.

It was Rosney. With a short black wig and a serene expression that never revealed more than necessary.

(Y/n) almost didn't recognize her. But those cold eyes were hard to mistake from the first encounter. “Rosney,” the (h/c)-nette greeted with a respectful smile. “It’s good to see you here.”

Mark’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. He knew the Gazerbeam agent’s name from the files, but not her face. That information was compartmentalized. So seeing her there, in front of him, was… unexpected.

The brunette bowed politely. “You must be the agent assigned to Gazerbeam,” he greeted, extending his hand. “I’m Mark Slater, the agent assigned to monitor Universal Man.”

The new agent nodded, returning the gesture. “The pleasure is all mine.”

The greeting was cordial… but her eyes assessed and measured every gesture. His clothes, his posture, even the way (L/n) reacted to the male agent’s presence. “Do you two know each other?” the dark-haired woman asked, her serene tone concealing a sharp curiosity.

Mark spoke before his friend could answer. “Yes, we’ve known each other for years. We joined the agency together,” he said matter-of-factly.

The (h/c)-nette woman nodded. “That’s right. Although we’d crossed paths before that.”

Rosney’s expression barely changed, but her eyes acquired that curious gleam that betrayed someone accustomed to quickly connecting the dots. She already knew, from partial reports, that (L/n) came from the military… but she didn’t know that there was a second agent who had joined alongside her. Now, finally, she had the complete information. A new piece that could prove useful if she ever wanted to involve them in one of her future operations.

“I read in a report that two agents from the military joined the NSA,” she commented with apparent casualness, almost as if mentioning an interesting tidbit. “And that, because of that precedent, they were assigned red-card supers. Are you those agents?”

The question was posed gently, but its weight was clear. The fellow agents exchanged a brief, silent, perfectly coordinated glance. It wasn't a forbidden topic to discuss… but it was one that demanded caution and confidentiality.

Mark cleared his throat and adopted a safer approach. “I didn’t know they still label us like that even now,” he joked lightly. “But yeah, we’re those unlucky rookies. Back then, there was a shortage of available staff, and well… we ended up being the ones who got the short end of the stick.”

He punctuated her words with an exaggerated, theatrical sigh, which elicited soft laughter from both (Y/n) and Rosney herself.

But the dark-haired woman's smile was just part of the act. In her mind, his response registered as a pattern. Humor—it was obvious—served them to dodge questions, soften boundaries, and maintain confidentiality without sounding evasive. A clean tactic… but very revealing for someone who knew how to read between the lines.

"I understand," she replied, displaying well-rehearsed modesty. "I, on the other hand, come only from academies and technical training. I joined a year ago, so I don't have the experience you have. That's why I stayed with Gazerbeam. Although I'm thinking of applying for a secretarial promotion, what do you recommend?"

That was, subtly, a test-a hint designed to see how they would react. To gauge whether they would trust her, advise her… or shut her out.

Mark narrowed his eyes, searching for an answer that sounded helpful without turning into a lecture on the NSA's hierarchical structure.

"Look…" he began, gesturing calmly, "we all want a promotion here, that's obvious. But the tricky part is maintaining a strategic and efficient track record, especially once you've reached the red card level. You know that."

Rosney nodded serenely, knowing what he meant.

“But there are also,” he continued, “other ways to move up. For example, if you’re on Mr. Dicker’s team, you have a much better chance. He works directly with the star supers; being an agent for one of them gives you immediate credit… of course, if your performance is impeccable.”

He leaned slightly against the railing, his tone almost like a professional confession. "You're in group BN073, aren't you?" he added. "I know your supervisor. He's relaxed… but strict when he wants to enforce something. Since you have a super with a yellow card, he classifies those agents as “competent rookies.”

The dark-haired woman raised a slight eyebrow. Offended that her supervisor considered her that way, but it made some sense.

The brown-haired man continued. “Even so, you have an advantage. Gazerbeam is very popular, almost on par with Frozone. If you manage to maintain a good record of reports—no mistakes or delays—they'll open the door for you as a supervisor's secretary.”

“You just have to submit the application to a supervisor who isn't yours,” (Y/n) added, giving his friend a knowing smile that showed they both knew the 'alternate routes' to advancement.

Rosney nodded, tilting her head… surprised that they both knew inside details she hadn't been able to glean.

“And why don't you ask for a transfer?” she asked gently, this time with simple professional curiosity. "I understand that those assigned to red-card supers have the privilege of requesting a transfer whenever they want."

She knew perfectly well how the system worked; new agents received green-card supers. Competent ones progressed to yellow, blue, or orange. And the experienced ones, the red-card ones, could move up the ranks without any problem. But the two in front of her had been in complex supervisory roles for some time… and she inferred that they had stayed by choice, not by obligation. That made her want to know more.

Mark let out a resigned snort, still leaning against the railing. “I already know the ways of Universal Man,” he confessed. “I wouldn’t want anyone else to suffer what I suffered in my first few months. Besides…” he shrugged humorously, “the pay is remunerable. That helps a lot.”

The (h/c)-nette shared the same relaxed tone as her colleague. “In my case, you know I was reassigned to another super,” she said without mentioning names, “but I’m still in the same category. And, like Mark, I’m used to the hustle and bustle that comes with this rank.”

Rosney watched them silently, processing more than anyone would have guessed. They were competent, disciplined… and they came from the military. That combination was always a powerful weapon.

A fleeting thought crossed her mind. If she could understand what really motivated them… perhaps they could be useful pieces. Maybe even unwitting allies when the time was right. But for that, she needed to test the waters.

“Did you hear what happened a few hours ago?” she asked, feigning civic concern. “I heard on the radio that there was an explosion that brought down a bridge. Mr. Incredible was there to stop a train before it collapsed. Thanks to him, many people were saved.”

The final, complimentary remark was a mask. A calculated addition to avoid revealing which side she truly supported.

(Y/n) frowned, uncomfortable. She had heard fragments of the incident, but hadn't really paid attention; she had spent her entire morning and afternoon in a private 'date' with Jackson, disconnected from the outside world. This led her to admit her lack of knowledge about the event.

Luckily, it was her friend who answered first. "Yes, I heard about it. Although the agency didn't send a general report on group BM041, the police did issue an official statement. The media mentions that it all stemmed from a series of interconnected events."

“It seems so,” Rosney conceded, then slowly turned her gaze back to the agent, noticing her measured silence. “Did you know anything about that, (L/n)?”

The question sounded friendly… but the young woman immediately sensed a hidden agenda. As if she were being tested. She didn’t know exactly what the dark-haired woman had been trying to do since she arrived to talk to them, but she preferred not to judge. Perhaps she herself was uneasy about not knowing information she hadn’t sought out on her own. Even so, she had to answer without making any allusions. And she knew how to handle these kinds of situations.

“I’ll wait for the full, detailed report,” she replied with professional composure. "If everything unfolded within a sequence of events, it could be a matter of coincidence… or an unforeseen consequence of a villain's plan. Without clear evidence, any conclusion would be premature."

Rosney maintained a neutral expression, but inwardly recognized that the agent had dodged her question. Far from being uncomfortable, she found it fascinating. Apparently, the (h/c)-nette possessed this kind of prudent justice, which consisted of corroborating the facts with logical, compelling, and objective evidence.

Mark intervened with an affirmative nod, supporting what his partner had said. “Likewise. The bomb on the bridge belonged to Von Voyage, that's confirmed. But there's speculation that, before that, when the employee tried to jump from the building, all the doors were deliberately locked. Neither the police nor the paramedics could get in. Some believe the employee himself blocked everything to avoid interference… others that it was Von Voyage preparing his heist.”

Both agents listened attentively.

Rosney was surprised by the amount of detail the brown-haired agent had gathered in such a short time; his efficiency caught her attention… but also aroused a certain misgiving. Such a diligent agent could be an obstacle or an asset, depending on how he was handled.

Meanwhile, (Y/n) calmly processed the information. The idea of ​​a secret collaboration—employee and villain causing chaos—didn't seem far-fetched. But she also didn't rule out the possibility of a tragic coincidence. Anything was possible… and nothing should be assumed without proof.

"Team BM041 will be very busy on this case," the (h/c)-nette added, naturally steering the conversation toward safer ground. "I haven't seen Mr. Incredible's agent here. Only Mr. Dicker."

"Or Dynaguy's or Metaman's," Rosney continued, smoothly connecting the dots. "I want to believe Dicker preferred to keep a close watch on the heroes at the party… while the agents dealt with the rest."

“Poor them,” Mark lamented with exaggerated drama. “The downside of having really popular supers is that you have to cover their damages professionally… and without sleep.”

The three women smiled at his comment. It was a joke, but also an uncomfortable truth they all knew all too well.

From the upstairs room, the echoes of the party rose like a warm current: laughter, shouts of celebration, and the lively rhythm of a new song that had replaced the smooth jazz from the beginning.

Apparently, Bob’s group—except for Simon—had taken over the dance floor, and it was no surprise that Jackson was the epicenter of all the revelry. Now he was singing along with the band, moving with ease and eliciting a chorus of cheers from the guests.

The agent’s eyes drifted to that scene. For a moment, her gaze softened. Seeing him laugh freely… gave her a certain peace. Despite everything they had discussed and what he carried inside, Jack still found time to enjoy himself with those he considered close.

Rosney noticed where the agent's attention was drawn; it hadn't escaped her notice. And that, far from answering her suspicions… only sharpened them. If that super had already discovered her identity… how much did they know about each other? How much had changed between them? What were they each planning?

However, the dark-haired woman knew she wouldn't get straight answers by pressuring (Y/n). If she wanted to gain her trust, she would have to adopt a different approach.

And, seeing how objective, cautious, and surprisingly diligent the agent was, she understood that the best strategy wasn't overt manipulation… but calculated sincerity.

A speculation presented as a professional, not personal, interest; enough to sound transparent, but not enough to reveal its true intention.

Then she began in a calm tone. "I wonder why Gamma Jack didn't show up earlier," Rosney observed the scene from the railing. "If it's his best friend's wedding, I don't understand the delay."

Mark had considered it, too, but he came to a typical conclusion in that field. "It's probably because of his hundreds of dates," he said humorously, nudging his friend. "Isn't that right, (Y/n)?"

The (h/c)-nette blinked, returning from her distraction. Her voice sounded neutral, polished by years of self-control. "That's right."

It wasn't a lie… only this time she was in that position. And admitting it—even if only in her mind—caused a slight shudder. There was something unsettling about acknowledging that, for the first time in a long time, she had allowed herself to let her guard down. That she had shared more than was allowed, that she had heard and felt things that weren't in any report or agency regulation.

But she could never tell anyone about it. Not there, not with those watchful eyes… and not with an agent who seemed to be as perceptive as Rosney.

So she kept up the facade, took a discreet breath to steady her pulse, and added with a perfectly measured, tired sigh, "Although, honestly, I would have preferred I hadn't had any today. I could have finally had a Sunday off..."

The sentence sounded credible. Professional. Distant. But inside, the truth was different... The reality was that she didn't regret at all what they had shared that sunset. That faint warmth that had risen in her chest, gratifying yet dangerous at the same time.

'This can't happen again,' she told herself. 'I mustn't allow myself more than this.'

The brunette chuckled softly, understanding her friend's expression. "Well, at least mine stayed home until the wedding. I was able to relax a bit before coming."

Rosney silently analyzed every word the (h/c)-nette said. Nothing on her face betrayed any hint of the speculation that she was in a relationship with the super. So she had to dig deeper, a more subtle tactic, cloaked in a tone of feigned nostalgia.

“During the time I shared missions with Alex,” she began, dropping the name with calculated casualness, “he mentioned that Gamma Jack’s outings always had a purpose behind the facade.”

She closed her eyes for a second, exhaling a perfectly rehearsed resignation. “He said he felt sorry for the girls… because sooner or later they’d all end up heartbroken realizing his interest was fading.” A theatrical snort escaped her lips. “Although he also admitted Gamma Jack was surprisingly good at negotiating ‘amicable endings.’”

She shook her head as if trying to shake off uncomfortable memories. “I honestly don’t know how you cope. If I were you, I would have punched him for doing that to those poor girls.”

Mark tried to stifle a laugh, but failed miserably. Rosney joined in, this time without needing to act; The exaggeration of the comment had amused even her. “Seriously, though,” she regained her composure as she looked back at (L/N). “What do you think now that you’re the one monitoring him?”

(Y/N) barely frowned. She knew Rosney wasn’t attacking her; her comment was aimed at empathizing with the women who had previously fallen for Jackson’s unstable charms. But even so, the blow struck deeper than she expected.

Because perhaps she was just another one. Because even if she denied it, even if she tried to separate the professional aspect, the truth was that she had fallen for it. And that same truth was what she now had to conceal with precision, more out of pride in believing that his shared vulnerability was genuine.

So she took a breath, choosing her words like someone dismantling a criticism without revealing a trace of her deepest emotions. “I think…” she said calmly and deliberately, “that there’s a lack of feeling in him. Something he believes he needs and tries to compensate for by seeking affection from others. And to avoid disappointment, he gives those interactions a purpose. Not out of malice… but to protect his pride. To feel he isn't wasting his time."

It was a cold response. And yet, it wasn't entirely true. Perhaps it was more a reflection of what she feared than what she actually believed about him. But she had to say it. She had to keep that wall intact.

"Oh… I understand. It seems he has those insecurities too." Rosney finally replied, and although her expression remained impeccable, inwardly she confirmed something (L/n) was still evading. Still protecting herself.

That resistance was a clue in itself—a tiny but useful opening. There was the seed she needed. She just had to nurture it little by little, guiding it toward 'reasonable' conclusions, without letting it notice the real direction.

She needed to continue down the objective, critical, almost academic path. An analysis that sounded legitimate, professional… and that would erode the pedestal on which society had placed the supers.

"Speaking of… 'lack'" continued the dark-haired woman, adjusting her tone to a reflective, almost clinical one. "All the time I've supervised Gazerbeam, I've observed patterns that could be considered anankastic… even traits of OCD."

Her gaze became more analytical. “The supers who worked with him showed apathy or distaste for that obsession with perfection on every mission. And I don’t blame them. Extreme rigidity is just as dangerous as impulsiveness.”

She paused briefly, crossing her arms and adopting a professional posture. “I don’t see it as an immediate problem,” she continued. “Because as long as there are disagreements, we’re there to mediate, redirect, and compensate. That’s our job, isn’t it?”

But… her eyes narrowed slightly, as if the thought had been nagging her for some time. “With so many unstable and erratic personalities, it’s inevitable to wonder, how long can we maintain this control?”

There, she introduced the sharp edge behind the reflection. “We humans are the ones who maintain order, who organize, who repair the streets they destroy… and what do we get in return? Nothing but the obligation to keep doing our job, because someone has to.”

With a neutral demeanor, she lowered her voice. “Supers have been embedded in society for years… and society has integrated them too readily. Government, marketing, industry, media… they’re even attributed a moral, almost ethical, value, as if being a superhero were equivalent to being virtuous.”

A faint shadow crossed her gaze. “But we’ve overlooked something fundamental, the possibility that power—any power—can displace everything else. That society forgets who maintains the structure. That we confuse admiration with dependence.”

And then she blurted out, in a casual… yet heavy tone. “We, humans, are the ones being diminished because of this.”

It was at that moment that something—a memory, a broken flash—pierced her like an involuntary interruption. A fragmented image, a blond boy, a proud father, a smile that wasn’t meant for her. And then, an abrupt cut that left her with a shadow of frustration, emptiness, resentment… why?

A slight dizziness pulled her from her thoughts. She forced herself to close the door because she didn't know what she might find inside and preferred not to take any chances.

"I'm sorry," she said, regaining her usual composure. "Perhaps I said too much. It was just… professional curiosity."

The sudden interruption, the way she had cut short her own train of thought, left both agents slightly disconcerted.

Rosney regained her composure, seeing how uncomfortable it was for her to harbor these feelings of unknown origin. "I have something else to attend to," she announced, bowing her head politely. "It's been a pleasure talking with you."

And with the same meticulous calm with which she had entered, she left.

Mark let out a soft snort, still staring at the door through which Rosney had disappeared. "Okay… that was sudden," he muttered, frowning. Then he added thoughtfully, "For a second, I thought she was venting some old resentment toward the supers."

(Y/n) shook her head gently, almost with a gesture that blended understanding and distance. “I don’t think so,” she replied calmly. “That’s been her way since I met her. Direct, meticulous… and yes, a little cold. But that’s not unusual in our line of work. Those qualities are useful for an agent, especially one assigned to a super as perfectionist as Gazerbeam.”

A slightly mischievous smile curved his lips as he looked at his colleague. “Besides, you’re resigned to your super too. You complain about Universal Man all the time, or have you forgotten?”

Mark let out a short laugh, defeated by the evidence. “Touché,” he admitted. “But…” His expression changed, becoming more sober, more in line with the part of him shaped by years of military doctrine, “I think what she said reminded me why we’re here. Our job is to supervise, to contain if necessary. To prevent a high-risk super from causing a catastrophe.”

The (h/c)-nette nodded. She knew exactly what he meant. But then came the phrase that left a small knot in her stomach.

"And if any of them get out of control," Mark added in a much lower, almost mechanical tone, like someone reciting a protocol burned into their memory, "We must... annihilate them."

The word hung between them. It wasn't aggressive or cruel. It was simply cold, useful, practiced doctrine. They both shared that ideology, ingrained since before they became agents.

The military had repeated the phrase to them so many times that it sounded like absolute truth, 'An out-of-control super is a weapon, and weapons are neutralized.'

It was the kind of thought that stuck in you, somewhere between discipline and survival. However... For the agent, the idea wasn't so simple. It had never been.

As she kept her gaze fixed on the dance floor through the dark glass, a shadow of conflict crossed her face.

She was a super too. A truth the military didn't know. That the agency didn't know. That only a couple of people knew.

If a strict reform, a severe protocol, or a mandate for 'neutralization' were to emerge tomorrow… it would apply to her too. Her life, her worth, her identity… would be at the mercy of a system that saw no nuances.

And that was the reason—the only reason she could never share—why she so fiercely hid who she was. The reason her father had protected her identity her entire life. The reason he never wanted her to fully develop her powers, feared that a single slip-up would make her a target for institutions, governments, or even her own colleagues.

She glanced at the party upstairs. The room was alive with laughter, glasses raised in toasts, the jazz band playing a more lively swing, golden lights cascading over the tables. And the supers… they seemed so human… and so free.

That image pierced her like a sharp reminder. She could never afford that freedom.

It was then that Mark, beside her, noticed the change in her expression. It wasn't sadness, but rather a reflective shadow, as if something inside her had broken free and was slowly falling.

Having known her for years, he knew when her mind was stuck on a dark thought. So he decided to employ the oldest tactic among colleagues, shift her emotional focus before she sank any further.

"Hey…" he began in a light, friendly, almost mysterious tone, "Have you ever thought about your future? I mean… if you see yourself getting married or starting a family someday. Or if you plan to stay at the agency until you're old and grumpy."

The (h/c)-nette blinked, abruptly pulled from her thoughts. "Excuse me?" she asked, because the change of subject had been so sudden it almost sounded comical.

The brunette continued, without missing a beat. "I have thought about it. If I ever find someone and decide to start a family, I'd leave fieldwork. I'd move up to supervisor or something more administrative. That would be right," he shrugged, his expression masking more vulnerability than he admitted. "A quiet life, but with responsibility… and someone waiting for me at home."

There was a genuine gleam in his eyes. A small, almost forgotten dream resurfaced. "And you?" he asked then, looking at her with genuine curiosity. "If you ever wanted to get married or have a family… what would you do?"

The question hit her with unexpected weight. (Y/n) remained silent for a few seconds. Because yes, she had thought about it. More than once.

In those days when she saw real, complete families and wondered if she could ever have something like that. Or when, in her youth, she saw her father answer evasively on the subject, taking refuge in his military role, in the idea that his soldiers were his family… and she, just another responsibility on his list of duties. When she saw others finding their footing while she had to think first about how dangerous she might be to someone else.

What if her powers spiraled out of control, as they said? What if she hurt the person she loved? Fear… no, anticipatory guilt… always held her back. Her father knew this. That's why he'd instructed her to hide. That's why he'd pushed her into the agency as an informant, an agent, a useful tool until "the time" came. Afterward… perhaps she would be free. Or perhaps not.

"I have no idea," she finally replied, with a gentle honesty that slipped out before she could disguise it. "But I don't want to get my hopes up either." She didn't take her eyes off the illuminated runway. "I still have a mission to accomplish."

Mark watched her in silence. He simply nodded, understanding more than she was saying. And yet, he sighed, feeling a pang of regret. Not because he'd said anything inappropriate… but because, as always, he'd run headlong into the invisible wall his friend had spent her entire life building around herself.

Of course, she would link everything to her mission. To her duty. To that doctrine that General (L/n) had instilled in them both as if it were a second skin.

The brunnette knew this because he, too, had been part of that military family. He had shared training sessions, endured long nights on guard, faced harsh orders, and silences that weighed more than words. And, above all, he had been there the first time she showed him her abilities… secretly, trembling between fear and the need to trust someone.

He had never understood why the General insisted on chaining his daughter's potential. Why not let her be like the other supers? Why hide, limit, or “protect” something that could become an extraordinary force?

The answer he always received was the same 'Exaltation and arrogance blind you. Remaining objective is the only way to survive.'

And that lesson, harsh and cold, had taken root in her. Although in (Y/n) that lesson hadn't fully germinated, it was warped.

There was discipline, yes… but also humility. There was obedience… but also kindness. There was rigidity… but also doubt. She wasn't like the General, and Mark knew that better than anyone.

Even so, there was nothing he could do to uproot that seed. It was a full-grown tree, a tree she carried on her own.

"At least keep in mind," he finally said, looking down at the dance that was beginning, "that you, too, can make your own life." His voice was soft, but not weak. It was the voice of someone who wanted something better for her… even if he knew he couldn't give it to her.

Below, the music had changed. The band played a slow waltz as the newlyweds twirled in the center, bathed in warm golden light. The guests surrounded them, smiling, applauding, savoring a pure and simple moment.

The (h/c)-nette nodded gently. Grateful. Because it was good—too good—that someone else in that military family saw her as more than just a walking duty.

But the answer she carried inside remained the same. Not out of coldness… but out of learned conviction. Responsibility came first. Obligations before desires.

That's how they had grown up. That's how they had been molded. And although Mark's desires were sincere—almost tender in their nobility—he too was trapped by that same code.

That's why, in silence, they both shared the same gentle resignation…

Keeping her eyes on the dance floor, (Y/n) noticed that the blond man wasn't among the guests. She had lost him. The music had shifted to a softer tempo, perfect for him to slip into the crowd and disappear without raising suspicion. A pang of unease ran down her spine.

"I'll go see where Jack is," she informed Mark, who followed the direction of her gaze and understood immediately.

"I'll be here," he replied, without asking any further questions.

The agent nodded her thanks and headed toward the back of the hall. She had a plan, to go down the emergency stairs to avoid running into any curious guests or agents. If Jackson was out, it would be easier to find him discreetly.

She pushed open the metal door. The cold echo of the hallway greeted her… along with an unexpected presence. There he was.

Jackson Hands, perched on a railing, his jacket slightly open and his tie loosened. The dim emergency light cast an orange glow over him, giving him an almost cinematic air.

As she entered, a slow—and dangerously familiar—smile spread across his lips as he stood up. “Hey… what a coincidence that we run into each other here,” he murmured, walking toward her with leisurely steps.

Reaching her side, he gently took her arm, as if afraid she might disappear.

Cautionately, the agent checked that no one was near the place and lowered her voice. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the party?”

He sighed dramatically, like an actor about to confess his crime. “I just needed a little getaway to clear my head. They won’t notice I’m gone.” His relaxed tone contrasted sharply with the closeness he was seeking. “At least… I hope so.”

She raised an eyebrow, incredulous. He conceded with a half-smile.

“Okay, technically I’m ‘in the bathroom.’” And, before she could even notice, he slid a hand down to her waist, pulling her a little closer. “Which gives me the perfect excuse to…”

“To what?” she asked, suspicious of the change in his expression.

Jackson didn’t respond with words. Quickly and gently, he cupped the back of her neck. And before she could process it, his lips were on hers in a kiss that didn’t ask for permission… but wasn’t aggressive either.

It was warm. Yearned for. Almost vulnerable. That detail—that nuance—was precisely what set off all the (h/c)-nette’s alarm bells.

With a start, (Y/n) pulled her face away, breaking contact more forcefully than she intended.

"Why did you do that?" she asked, taking a deep breath, trying to regain the control his impulse had just completely disrupted. A blush burned her cheeks, and that, of course, wasn't helping.

Jackson didn't seem sorry. Rather, he looked pleased to have provoked that reaction in his agent. His mischievous smile reappeared, crooked, but there was something more behind it… something suggestive. "It's just a way of saying I missed you."

She closed her eyes for a moment and pressed her lips together in barely contained frustration. He was still provoking her… but this time, part of her wanted to believe him. And that was precisely what was dangerous and contradictory at the same time.

"You need to control yourself," the agent whispered, regaining the professional composure that sustained her. "And be more careful. You know who's at this party, Jack."

She didn't need to repeat it. It was the reason they were separated, hidden, away from prying eyes that could turn an intimate moment into a professional disaster.

Jackson, however, barely backed away. He held her gently, leaning in close enough so his voice brushed against her skin. “Um… I wanted to find you sooner,” he confessed in a whisper that vibrated in her ear, “but I thought you might be with another agent… or very well hidden. So if I disappeared off the radar, you’d come looking for me.”

He took her hand and, with a gesture that melted any defenses, brought his fingers to his lips. A soft kiss. Then another. And another, each more intentional than the last.

The (h/c)-nette's nerves began to race. "It's essential that they don't see me with you…" she whispered, trying to regain control. "You must go back."

But her advice had little effect. Jackson, attentive to her every move, took another step, closing the distance between them. "This is a good place," he whispered, almost pleadingly. "No one will interrupt us…"

His hand brushed against her arm, inviting her closer, not demanding it. "We could continue what we left off this sunset… at the lookout."

His words struck her at the core of her memories.

(Y/n) looked at him. And for an instant, she saw it, the sunset blazing over the city, his sincere voice, his vulnerability, the kiss he gave her, the involuntary response she returned. The tranquility. The warmth. Her own heart betrayed her for the first time in years.

The young woman smiled—a faint, honest smile. But she composed herself instantly. She couldn't allow herself to fall so easily. Not when they were both still entangled in unresolved emotions. Not when he was still processing the silent grief of his unrequited love for Helen. Not when she herself led a life built on secrets, fears, and restrictions he didn't know about, and which could destroy him, too.

He deserved clarity. She deserved something real. And neither of them had that yet.

Besides, since her conversation with Rosney, the doubt kept nagging at her. Was Jackson acting on impulse? Or from an emotional need she didn't want to turn into a band-aid, a mere comfort?

She didn't want to become his temporary refuge. Or his distraction. Or his next wound.

But… why did she always have to run away? Why couldn't she allow herself, at least for one night, to do something risky? To break free, even for a few minutes, from the strict life she'd led since childhood. To be more than a weapon, more than a vigilante, more than a shadow of the NSA.

To take her own hand. Not her father's. Not the hand of duty. Her own. Just as her friend had suggested, she too could forge her own life

The agent closed her eyes for a moment. Was it so terrible to want to feel like a person for one day?

In the midst of that whirlwind, Jackson took advantage of her silence. Gently, he put both arms around her and pulled her close. His lips brushed her cheek, then the line of her jaw, in small, warm kisses that made her breath tremble.

Her body responded before her mind. That kind of tremor that starts in the chest, travels down to the stomach, and becomes an electric whisper on the skin. Until he found her lips again.

And this time, she didn't push him away. She kissed him back—gently at first, then with more conviction—giving in to the synchronicity they'd shared since the lookout point.

A dangerous synchronicity. One she swore she wouldn't let grow…and yet, it was slowly but surely consuming her.

Chapter Text

Dawn was still, almost suspended, as if the world held its breath. The city still hung in that warm silence that exists only between night and day.

The distant hum of traffic starting up, the breeze still undecided between cold and heat, the sky barely tinged with the first light hues.

That same silence—seemingly tranquil but filled with inner turmoil—was what inhabited Gwen Calloway's mind.

She sat in her car, her hands motionless on the steering wheel, a pang of unease crossing her impeccably composed expression.

For the past couple of days, certain images had begun to appear in her mind unbidden. Brief, hazy fragments… but charged with emotions so strong they disturbed her more than any Gazerbeam mission.

It bothered her deeply because she didn't forget. That was her pride. Her most precious gift.

For as long as she could remember—literally—she had been able to store, process, and understand information with an ease her family considered exceptional. Her lineage boasted brilliant minds, and Rosney had never failed to live up to the hype.

But this memory… this memory had struck her like a burning needle in a perfect system.

She didn't recognize it. She hadn't lived it—or at least, she didn't remember it. And yet, her body reacted as if it were her own, a mixture of resentment, shame, and a visceral rejection she couldn't justify.

"It doesn't make sense," she murmured, soflty, exhaling through her nose with barely contained irritation. However, she also knew that ignoring it would be irresponsible.

Something in her instinct—the same instinct that had made her an excellent strategist—told her that this fragment had a purpose. That it wasn't a mistake. That she had seen it for a reason.

She reviewed the images as if analyzing evidence. First: there were two children. She herself, maybe eleven years old, and a blond boy, older than her, probably by two or three years. They were both standing before their father.

Second: they had both accomplished something. An important achievement, one that their father judged. But the boy's… The boy had demonstrated something more impressive than she had. Enough for her father—her own father—to give him a proud smile. A smile she had rarely seen was directed at her. And there it was, the part that stung her the most. She herself was feeling jealous. Childish, primal jealousy, which now, upon reliving it, filled her with a discomfort she didn't understand.

And there the image ended. An abrupt cut. As if someone had torn away the rest.

Rosney rested her forehead against the back of the seat, breathing slowly as she organized her questions. Who was that boy? What did they have in common that warranted her father's evaluation? Where and when did this happen? Why couldn't she remember if she never forgot anything? Would her father remember?

Perhaps the only way forward was to ask. And to confront him. If anyone could provide answers, it was him.

Besides, it was time to talk to him about her other matter, the proposal she had in mind to involve the family company. And for that, she needed his approval.

Her father trusted results more than sentimentality, but the idea was solid. He would have to listen to her.

She glanced at the clock. It was early, but her father was always available at home in the afternoons. She would go later. While she was there, she could return the drone to Buddy that she had “borrowed.”

First, she had to organize her day. Gazerbeam would be busy; it wasn't his regular mission day, and he didn't require constant monitoring. Her absence wouldn't raise any suspicions. Simon, the lawyer, would soon have a packed schedule after recent events and those that were coming very soon.

Which meant she would have room to move around freely. Perfect.

Now she had to head out to finalize certain deals. The side deals—the real ones, the ones not on official records—couldn't be left unfinished.

She didn't like owing favors, especially when some of her contacts were criminals… and others were simply ill-informed civilians. A dangerous balance, but one she knew how to manage.

She drove slowly, calculating every turn, every rearview mirror, every blind spot.

Finally, she arrived at the underground parking garage of a shopping center, choosing the lowest, quietest level, where cameras were scarce and blind spots numerous.

She parked between two columns. There, the yellowish fluorescent light barely defined any outlines. It was ideal for concealment.

Before opening the door, she adjusted her makeshift disguise; a mask that covered the lower half of her face, dark glasses, a perfectly styled brown wig, simple, neutral clothing, impossible to trace.

And her weapon rested under her jacket, perfectly accessible.

She knew how to use it. Years ago, she had competed in shooting and martial arts tournaments within her community; she won both. No one could have imagined that this talented girl would end up here, negotiating in basements with international criminals.

She glanced in the rearview mirror. Another car slid into the same space, stopping right beside her.

It was the signal. The undercover agent got out with the calm of someone in control of the dashboard.

The man who got out of the vehicle was also in disguise, hat tilted at a jaunty angle, mask, and long coat. But his posture, the scent of expensive perfumes, and above all, that unmistakable accent…

"Bonsoir, mademoiselle," the man greeted her with his characteristic French accent. Von Voyage.

They both seemed like any other citizens exchanging packages, if it weren't for the fact that the entire floor seemed to hold its breath.

"I brought what I promised," Rosney said simply, extending the suitcase.

The villain opened it, carefully examining the stacks of bills. He counted a few at random, moving his fingers with precision.

He clicked his tongue, satisfied. “It’s all complete… as agreed.” He closed the suitcase with a metallic click, his eyes gleaming from behind his mask. “Always a pleasure working with someone so… punctual.”

The agent held his cold gaze a second longer than necessary. It was her silent way of reminding him that she wasn’t playing games.

“Have a good day,” he added finally, tipping his hat.

“You too,” she replied, already turning to walk back to her car.

There were no handshakes. No extra words. Not a single unnecessary movement.

Each of them went their separate ways, synchronized to avoid the security cameras. A clean, precise negotiation, leaving no trace. Like everything she did.

Rosney closed her car door, started the engine, and slowly drove up the parking ramps to observe the routine of the busy city.

And all the while, she watched.

Her plan was unfolding exactly as she had orchestrated it.

That employee who had staged the “suicide attempt”—and who was then “saved” by Mr. Incredible in a rescue that went a little too well, almost too conveniently—had fulfilled his part of the bargain.

Now he was hospitalized, under medical observation, and would soon be discharged. When that happened, which was surely today, the lawyer she herself had hired would initiate the next phase: suing a super for interfering without consent.

An absurd move at first glance, but in the legal arena, absurdity was a powerful weapon when wielded correctly.

Because in that country, a monumental legal vacuum existed. There was no Good Samaritan Law. No clause protecting civilians or superheroes who acted to save lives without explicit consent. Nothing to shield the hero who intervened in a critical moment. Nothing prevents a shrewd lawyer from twisting the facts to create criminal or civil liability.

That vacuum—that legal loophole no one had wanted to see—was the cornerstone of her perfect maneuver.

And the media would be on high alert. She had made sure of that herself.

One call to a producer, a word whispered in the right ear… and the machine would kick into gear.

Having Karson as head of media was a luxury few could afford. Although her brother didn't know it yet, he was about to become an indispensable cog in her plan.

Public opinion was malleable—too malleable—when it came to headlines: “Superhero Causes Injury to Civilian While Interrupting Suicide Attempt.” “How far does a super’s right to intervene extend?” “Victim claims ‘I didn’t want to be saved.’”

People would be outraged, confused, and repeat what the screen told them. It's exactly what she needed to happen.

The most convenient thing was that the initial idea had been different. A controlled explosion in the building, reporters injured by debris, and a super who "acted badly" under pressure. Enough to sow doubt.

But the train incident surpassed everything.

Von Voyage had caused the explosion, yes… but the media narrative would be different: "Super miscalculated when stopping the train," "Reckless action, hundreds at risk."

And that would open the door to something bigger. Not just an individual lawsuit, but a public questioning of the entire system, the government, the NSA, and society's dependence on beings with extraordinary abilities.

If you planted a single doubt, well placed… society would do the rest.

After all, as the proverb says, “A little stupidity can outweigh a hundred acts of virtue.”

Heroes could salvage dozens, but it only took one amplified mistake—a viral complaint—to sink their reputation. And there, in that carefully manufactured chaos, Rosney planned to position herself.

Now she had to find out what Simon would do, whether he planned to go to his office or stay and work from his home studio.

She drove to the lawyer's residence and, just in time, saw him come out and get into his car. So yes, he was heading to the studio.

As she followed him at a safe distance, her car's built-in phone started ringing. She pulled over to a side street before answering. Seeing the caller ID, she frowned. Karson.

“Gwen?” her brother began without even a greeting. “What the hell are you up to? I just found out one of my producers wants to run a story about a complaint against a super! Do you want me to get in trouble with the government?”

Rosney closed her eyes for a second. Of course. The producer had been scared and had told Karson the “safer” way to cover his tracks. Typical. With a tired sigh, she replied, “You have nothing to worry about, Karson. Just give them the go-ahead. I assure you, it’ll go pretty well. Your ratings are going to skyrocket. Trust me.”

“How the hell did you find out about that?” he was annoyed, almost nervous. “Gwen, this is a delicate matter. Spreading that news could cause a media disaster.”

“I know,” she replied with irritating calmness. “But I also saw an opportunity.”

The redhead rolled her eyes, though he couldn’t see her. “Look at the profit, not the collateral damage, not people’s sympathy, just seize the moment.”

There was a tense silence on the other end. “Says the woman who’s still single because no one can stand your plans,” he grumbled. Then he added, more seriously, "I don't know if I can trust you. We haven't spoken in months. You spend all your time 'gaining experience' who knows where, instead of taking care of the family business."

That struck a nerve. Rosney didn't like being belittled. Much less having her worth questioned. But it was Karson, and he had a certain limited immunity.

"For your information," she replied with icy sharpness, "I plan to talk to Dad about business. So consider my suggestion part of our competition. It's about time we got back in that game."

"So you're finally going for it?" he scoffed, amused and competitive at the same time. "It took me over a year to get you back in the game."

She let out a short, sardonic laugh. "Then get ready. Because this time I intend to win."

And she hung up without waiting for a reply. She knew Karson would end up approving the story. He might grumble, he might complain… but he always caved when he saw the potential for an explosive scoop. With that obstacle out of the way, the next step was to prove to her father—and to herself—that she was still a Calloway of substance.

It was time to go home, present the strategy to the head of the family… and while she was at it, visit her mother.

She saw Simon enter his office. And with that confirmed, Rosney started the engine and left.

The Calloway mansion stood imposingly at the end of the private driveway, bathed in the soft light of the setting sun. It was a modern building, with clean, geometric lines and large windows that reflected the perfectly symmetrical garden. The design was minimalist, elegant, and expensive, as it should be for people of their stature. Instead, the Calloway home exuded quiet power; marble columns, abstract sculptures, a perfectly timed central fountain, and high walls that ensured absolute privacy.

Rosney parked her car and got out, carrying the bag with the drone she had borrowed from Buddy. The guard greeted her with a slight bow, and the gardeners paused their work only to nod respectfully. She returned the gesture with the formality required.

Then she saw it. A sleek, black car with license plates she knew all too well. The Deavors' vehicle. How ironic, just what she needed; extra spectators at a conversation she longed to have alone with her father.

She took a deep breath, adjusted her bag strap, and entered the mansion. She walked down the main hall to the living room, where they usually received guests.

There they were. Her mother, impeccable as ever, with her elegant posture, and beside her, Mrs. Deavor, with that kind yet polished bearing of a woman accustomed to high society.

The two were chatting animatedly, and both looked at her as soon as she entered. Her mother stood up, genuinely surprised. "Gwen, my child, what a joy to see you. You're right on time; we have a visitor."

"Good morning, Mother," Rosney replied with a polite smile. Then she bowed her head. "It's a pleasure to see you here, Mrs. Deavor."

“The pleasure is all mine, my dear,” the woman replied with that professional sweetness that always characterized her. “I had hoped one of my children could join me, but they’re busy with one of their projects. Perhaps you would have had a good chat.”

Rosney maintained her smile… because that was the right thing to do. The truth was different.

She had no problem talking to Evelyn. In fact, she respected her—intelligent, incisive, perceptive. Much more than most people realized. They both understood the pressure of being the prodigy daughters of their respective families, expectations to meet, goals to surpass, and parents who evaluated everything with an auditing eye.

The problem was Winston. Despite being clever, kind, and adept at business, he possessed a quality that Rosney found unbearable< the same idealistic outlook as his father.

Winston—like his father—shared an optimistic view of superheroes, in which they represented progress, innovation, and social stability. For him, they were the bridge between human capabilities and the possibilities of the future, symbols of unity and allies of the community.

From his perspective, it was logical to invest in them.

This idealism—brilliant, positive, almost heroic in itself—contrasted sharply with Gwen's cautious and analytical nature, whose vision always began with the risks, the hidden variables, and the political interests behind everything.

Evelyn, on the other hand, didn't entirely share this view. Although she wasn't opposed to the supers, her approach was much more critical, more questioning, more open to nuance. She understood the political complexity, the social risk, and the economic dependence that Supers generated within institutions.

This perspective sometimes aligned with the redhead's, rather than Winston's, in considering supers a symbol of progress; whereas for her, they were a variable that needed to be controlled.

A clear incompatibility.

But as if that weren't enough... The Deavors and the Calloways had hinted—on more than one occasion—at the grotesque idea of ​​an arranged marriage between families "to strengthen alliances."

Ridiculous. An archaic tradition disguised as a business strategy. In response, Rosney simply distanced herself. She used the excuse of trying something new, and so she was less present at home, did more "external" work, gained more independence... and thus avoided contributing to that absurd plan.

And as always, a memory surfaced uninvited. The date she had with Winston. The most awkward night she could remember. They had been conversing in a cordial and professional tone, but with opposing ideas.

Not a spark of chemistry. Only tension, other people's expectations... and the mutual certainty that there was nothing to build there. At least on that much, they agreed.

Rosney took a deep breath and returned to the present. The Deavors' visit meant she had to adjust her approach. Diplomatic, impeccable, convincing.

"It'll have to be another day. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Deavor, I have a few things to organize and attend to,” she smiled with impeccable courtesy, the kind of smile society expected of someone of her status.

The redhead took a couple of steps into the hallway when she heard her mother’s voice. “Gwen,” she called, “could you watch your little brother for a moment?”

She stopped. She turned around, raising an eyebrow, puzzled by the unusual question. “Did something happen with Buddy?”

Her mother sighed, visibly concerned. “I’m a little worried. The visit with Mr. Incredible wasn’t… entirely to his liking.”

The redhead frowned. “Oh, really? What happened?”

“Well… the police came to visit,” she explained, a look of displeasure on her face. “They said your brother interrupted a crime scene. One that Mr. Incredible was involved in… and that he was almost in danger if the super hadn’t saved him.”

The woman massaged her temples, exhausted. “I told him off for being careless, but he took it so hard that he locked himself in his room. And he seems so angry and disappointed… that he threw away all his collections and posters of that supermarket.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder what goes through that kid’s head.”

Gwen had to stifle a laugh. It was… dramatic, childish, over the top-typical Buddy.

But beyond the theatrics, there was something useful. The boy had let go of his idolatry of a super. A step that, frankly, the sister viewed with satisfaction.

“Let me talk to him,” she replied calmly. “I want to know how he is.”

The redhead headed down the hall toward Buddy’s room. The door was closed, but not locked. She entered unannounced, as only an older sibling with authority would.

The room was a controlled chaos; torn letters in the trash can, scribbled papers, diagrams, and jumbled notes on the desk. Among the papers were fragments of letters Buddy wrote to Mr. Incredible under the pseudonym "Buddy Pine"—a name designed to conceal his lineage.

And there he was, hunched over the desk, scribbling furiously.

"Hey, Buddy. How are you?" Rosney asked.

Nothing. Not even a glance. She approached and placed the drone package on the table; the noise caught his attention.

Buddy looked up, surprised, only to immediately frown, offended. "Gwen? What are you doing in my room?"

"You didn't answer when I came in, so I invited myself," she said with the absolute authority of her demeanor, not letting her attitude affect her.

"I don't want anyone here," he grumbled, returning to his plans.

She crossed her arms, implacable. "And why is that?"

Buddy let out a soft groan without taking his pencil from his hand. He held back... and spoke. "I want to concentrate on my plan. If I want to prove I can outsmart a super..."

That caught her attention. Rosney tilted her head, assessing. This wasn't her brother's typical tantrum. There was irritation, yes, but also… a spark. Something rawer. Deeper. “And why? What happened with Mr. Incredible?”

The boy gripped his pencil tightly. “He dumped me!” he blurted out bitterly. “He wouldn’t give me a chance to show him what I can do.”

Ah. There it was, the source of his anger. The fracture in his ego.

“So,” his sister concluded, her tone soft but analytical, “you want to prove that, as a civilian, you can be better than a super?”

Buddy nodded, that resentful glint still burning in his eyes.

The redhead studied him for a moment. Buddy was a proud, creative, obsessive boy. And even if his dreams were naive, his pain was real. He had been humiliated. His illusions had been crushed. Yet, that shattered pride could be transformed into ambition.

Rosney leaned closer to him, her voice low and persuasive. “Buddy… you don’t need to be better than a super. You’re already a Calloway. And that makes us better than the rest.”

The boy glanced up slightly, attentive.

“What you need to do,” she said, her tone calculated, “is look inside yourself. What does your blood tell you to do?”

Buddy was lost in thought. She continued, now with cold conviction. “If you want to surpass a super, it’s not with strength. It’s with strategy. With intelligence. You have to think about their weaknesses… their blind spots. How they operate, what makes them fail.”

The boy watched her with fascination. His sister’s words resonated like a revelation.

“To be better than a superhero,” she continued, “you just have to be more cunning. Plan your environment. Have backup. Turn their strengths into your opportunities… and their weaknesses into your advantages.”

Buddy glanced down at his blueprints, and something clicked in his mind. “So…” he murmured, as if beginning to define an entire future, “I want to show that we don’t need supers… when you can become one and be so much better.”

The redhead smiled. Not warmly. But like someone who recognizes the perfect seed to sprout. “That’s good to hear, little brother.”

Now came the most important move on the board. Convincing her father.

A man whose will ruled the foundations of the family business, whose vision had shaped every Calloway who bore that name.

If she wanted to carry out her strategy, she would need him. His approval, his authority, and his signature.

Gwen breathed a sigh of relief, closing Buddy’s bedroom door behind her.

It was time to confront the only man she had never been able to manipulate with ease. And to show him that the key piece on the board... was right beside her.

__

How fascinated he was to see his agent surrender to him—even if only for a few seconds.

There was something addictive about the way (Y/n) let her guard down in his presence. That perfect blend of professional composure and carefully contained vulnerability.

And Jackson, who rarely found anything that truly captured his attention, now desired her close more than any triumph or accolade.

He wanted her by his side, more than he would admit. But it was a shame there was always a limit, one she imposed.

Part of him appreciated the challenge... the other consumed him. Because even when she yielded, even just a little—a longer look, a stolen kiss, a moment where she forgot the rules—the agent was quick to recover.

Determined, cautious, and ready to remind him that they were playing on risky, almost forbidden ground.

And the blond man had to obey, even though it irritated and excited him in equal measure. Jackson couldn't quite stand it, but he couldn't stop this game either.

He instigated, pressed just enough, testing the limits, trying to push the lock she guarded so jealously. But (Y/n)... she always found a way to thwart his attempt before he could go any deeper.

Like on the wedding night, which he remembered all too well.

The distant echo of music and laughter behind the metal door... her perfume escaping the tension of the moment... and that kiss he wanted to prolong until it destroyed any rational thought in her.

But then they heard footsteps approaching.

He wasn't worried; whether they were seen, whether they were suspected, he didn't care. There was something intensely satisfying about the idea of ​​the world knowing that this woman—this inaccessible, disciplined agent—answered to him.

The (h/c)-nette, on the other hand, went on immediate alert. Her body tensed, her gaze hardened, and in the blink of an eye, her prudence swept away the passion of the moment.

She didn't push him away. She didn't ask him to let her go. She simply used her powers on him.

A gentle, precise, controlled shock coursed through him like a tamed electric current. It didn't hurt him, but it weakened his muscles with such perfect elegance that for a moment he was breathless.

She broke free from his grasp with an almost cruel, almost seductive ease and escaped through the door before he could regain control.

Jackson stood there, leaning against the railing, his heart pounding in his chest. Not so much from the shock... but from the impact of feeling her power directly. That sensation left him stunned, intrigued, and dangerously fascinated.

It was a reminder that she wasn't just his agent. She was also a super, capable of subduing even a dangerous super like him with a single touch.

And in the darkest recesses of his desire, that idea ignited him like nothing else. Because if she could disarm him... what couldn't she do to him if she ever let herself be consumed by him?

He had experienced barely a spark of her power, a mere hint. And he found himself fantasizing about possibilities he shouldn't. About what his beloved could do to a human. About what she could do to him. About what they could do together if she stopped fighting what was beginning to blossom between them.

The truth was simple, though dangerous. Jackson was falling into a gentle, silent, but unstoppable obsession. And every time she tried to hold him back... she only made him want her more.

The blond man had finished his lunch at a new restaurant, different from his usual haunts. But while one part of his mind was paying the bill, the other was pondering the possibilities of where he might find his (Y/N).

Because they were playing a silent game. Where his agent tried to hide from him with that impeccable discipline that defined her so much... and how he, inevitably, found her.

And Jackson was enjoying it more than he should.

Watching her maneuver with professionalism, erecting walls to keep herself out of his reach... while he dismantled them one by one with patience and charm, as if all that effort on her part existed only so that he could tear it down.

Jackson knew that in these last few days, his agent had been more aware of her surroundings, more alert, more determined to avoid being seen together. But there was something deeper, something he sensed in the way she averted her gaze, in the sudden stiffness of her shoulders, in every excuse she offered about her work.

The (h/c)-nette evaded her emotions. She didn't want to show them to him. Or she didn't want to admit them to herself. And yet... he had discovered a way to make her surrender, even if only for a few seconds.

He didn't need elaborate tactics. A gentle gesture, a subtle comment, a barely suggested touch was enough.

She could resist a direct order, obvious pressure... but not that deceptive warmth with which he knew how to test her boundaries.

And when he did, (Y/n) softened, yielded, and ended up surrendering to those "intimate touches" that never went too far, but were enough to make it clear that she desired those caresses as much as he desired hers.

However, Jackson also had to be honest with himself. He didn't want to break the trust she was, almost involuntarily, placing in him.

His agent took her job seriously—too seriously—and repeated time and again that she couldn't have a close relationship with the super.

And yet... she returned his kisses. She tensed when he came close... but never pushed him away immediately. It was a delicious contradiction. A charming hypocrisy.

Jackson smiled as he walked out of the restaurant, remembering those moments.

It was perfect. She, a stubborn, complex, brilliant woman... who could stop him with a single touch if she so desired. A woman who didn't give up easily, yet who still, for fleeting moments, surrendered to him.

However, something irritated him. Something that lurked beneath all that delicious tension, behind every stolen kiss and every secretly permitted caress.

It bothered him that they couldn't have anything official. It bothered him that they always had to move in the shadows. It bothered him that she couldn't be completely his, not for lack of desire, but because of the rules, the job, the surveillance... because of those obstacles she erected even when she was on the verge of surrendering into his arms.

Whether he admitted it or not, what they had was—in everyone's eyes, and perhaps their own as well—just two people distracting each other.

Carving boundaries. Taking each other without naming each other. Without belonging, without a depth that could withstand the light of day.

And now he understood something that had previously seemed absurd. That silent frustration that many of his former lovers felt when he left relationships undefined, when he offered crumbs... when he only took without giving anything real in return.

He never stopped to think about it. He never cared, until now.

Because with her, it was different. So different that even Helen—who for years had been the perfect woman for him—no longer occupied that emotional space that had once depressed him.

(Y/n) was inevitably displacing her. And she was also awakening a desire he hadn't felt in a very long time. Not just carnal. It was something more primal, a need to possess her, for her to be his, for no one else to touch her or discover her.

An obsession made of fire and tenderness, of danger and complicity.

It was time to define what they were. Women appreciated clarity. And she—his agent, his woman, his tormentor—deserved more than hints, games, and silence.

She deserved for him to let his guard down... to offer her something real. His vulnerability, his attention, everything.

Because he wasn't going to find another woman like her. Not after having tasted her. Not after having felt her tremble beneath his kisses.

A slow smile spread across his lips.

Maybe he should ask her today. Yes, why not?

He had the afternoon free, and so did she—technically. Monitoring him meant accompanying him.

He could invite her to the movies, choose a romantic film to ease the tension... and then, in a private place... ask her, make it official. Make it clear that he wanted her to be his. Officially.

It was a good plan. But a growing murmur pulled him from his thoughts.

People were gathering in front of a television store.

Jackson, curious, approached.

The screens showed reporters surrounding Bob, aggressively bombarding him with questions. The headline was unpleasant: "Man files lawsuit against superhero for 'damages caused by being saved'"

The blond man blinked... and almost burst out laughing.

His friend, true to form, responded with sincerity and morality, speaking about the duty to save lives, about acting without hesitation when someone is in danger.

But the absurdity of the lawsuit was so ridiculous that he had to look away for a second to avoid laughing in the faces of the onlookers.

The audacity... The utter stupidity of a human suing his friend for saving his life.

On the broadcast, the news anchor announced that the case would go to court in three days and that the verdict would be delivered that same day. The atmosphere among the bystanders was tense. Some murmured uneasily, others debated whether a superhero should be treated like an ordinary citizen under the law, and several remained silent, arms crossed, watching the screen as if they were witnessing the beginning of something big... and risky.

Reporters spoke of a 'historic legal precedent,' 'the superhero's criminal liability,' and the social impact a ruling against such a renowned hero as Mr. Incredible would have.

Jackson shook his head, still smiling at the absurdity of the whole thing. However, he also couldn't deny that the situation was serious. And that was precisely why he needed to talk to Simon.

"This is going to get unpleasant..." he thought with a sigh. "And I need to see her. I need to recharge my batteries with her before I lose my temper."

He looked away from the store and the worried faces. Some were passionately defending Bob. Others countered that the government should take more regulatory measures for superheroes, as well as any active law enforcement agency. And others simply seemed confused, caught between admiration and fear.

Jackson pushed aside that noise and began searching for her. She couldn't be far... And there she was. His (Y/N).

Standing in front of another screen, arms crossed, and brow furrowed, watching the legal analysis two specialists were debating live.

He approached unannounced and gently slid his hands over her shoulders. "I found you," he murmured with a charming smile.

She, already accustomed to his ability to appear whenever he wanted, replied without surprise. "I can't be that far from you. It was obvious you'd find me."

The blond man chuckled softly. "But you weren't very good at hiding today. You were so distracted you practically gave yourself away."

But his agent didn't react to his playful tone. Her attention returned to the screen where they were analyzing the impact of the case.

Jackson, intrigued, raised an eyebrow. "Are you worried about the news?" It wasn't a question; it was a statement.

"That's right," she admitted with a slight grimace. "I think this time the agency will have to be less subtle than usual. They won't be able to sweep this under the rug like they always do." She sighed. "Especially when it comes to Mr. Incredible."

He took his hands off her shoulders and crossed his arms. “What surprises me is how audacious the media was to publish this story. As far as I know, you—the government, the NSA—have quite a bit of “influence” to silence scandals.”

The (h/c)-nette nodded openly. “That’s true. Some supers are so careless that they don’t think about the consequences. And sometimes, just sometimes, silence prevents the public from panicking.”

She said it generally, as if she weren’t talking about him. And Jackson wasn’t offended; he knew his powers produced collateral damage, and he knew it was inevitable. But this time…

“This case is different,” she added. “Very different. Unless there’s something behind it.”

The conversation with Mark and Rosney at the wedding returned to her mind like a pang.

There was the doubt that had resurfaced in her. What if this incident wasn’t an accident? What if the employee collaborated with someone? What if this was part of a larger plan?

"It's none of your business," Jackson's calm voice said, bringing her back to the present.

But he didn't know that it was her business. If the case went to the Supreme Court—and it clearly would—there would be a meeting between the top military brass, the NSA's top supervisors, and a select government committee.

Her father would be there. And she knew—with the cold precision of someone raised under military command—that he wouldn't hesitate to make drastic decisions if necessary. For that, he needed information. He needed data. He needed a flawless analysis of the case.

And she was his silent informant. A bridge between the military, the NSA, and the truth disguised behind the official reports.

And she had to be prepared. But she wasn't.

These days, (Y/n) admitted that she had only done the bare minimum, daily reports, superficial observations, and minimal protocols. Nothing extraordinary or strategic.

She hadn't investigated the IT team, hadn't requested expanded files from the BM041 team, hadn't checked for patterns in the incident, nor had she traced whether the media had amplified information that would normally never have escaped government control.

And that simple fact worried her even more. Because when something that should be silenced becomes public, there's always someone behind it with enough power to pull the strings.

She blamed herself for getting distracted. For letting her guard down. And, although she didn't want to admit it, she also blamed Jackson for playing along. For occupying thoughts that should be purely analytical. For stealing emotional space just when she needed cold concentration. But that's partly the fault of both of them.

But that could wait. What was urgent was evaluating scenarios, possible causes, and anticipating the moves of the Court, the government, and the military before the storm swept them away.

"I have to go," she said finally, with a firmness that left no room for argument. "I have things to do."

She was already planning her day, her night, and probably the early hours of the morning, reviewing reports, working with predictive models, and gathering covert data. Everything.

But the blond man stopped her before she could take a step. “Where are you going?” he asked, a slight frown forming on his brow.

It was clear he understood the gravity of the situation… but not enough to connect it to her. And yet, he sensed that something about his agent wasn't right. That her responsibility went beyond simply monitoring him. That she was carrying a burden she wasn't sharing.

And Jackson, who never let anything slip through his fingers, felt it. Like a tense vibration in the air between them.

But he wouldn't let her go like that. Not after the plans he'd made in his head over lunch. Not after deciding that this time he'd do things the right way. Not after accepting—with a clarity that had taken him far too long to grasp—that he wanted something serious, something clear, something real with her.

So he clenched his jaw with that mixture of stubbornness and desire that defined him.

If she was obstinate, he'd be even more so. If she kept her distance, he'd take a step forward. If she hid behind duty, he'd lay bare his feelings.

He wasn't going to let her disappear without asking her out again. One that wasn't a game, an excuse, or an emotional outburst between missions. A date to woo her.

The (h/c)-nette stopped, took a deep breath, and turned slightly toward him. "I have to finish a report I was supposed to turn in hours ago," she replied, knowing it was a weak excuse, but also the only immediate barrier she could put up between them.

She couldn't tell him the truth, not now. That's why she took a step toward him. Her eyes reflected an uncomfortable mix of pressure, urgency, and pleading. "Jack... please. I need you to not do anything out of the ordinary today." Her voice sounded controlled, professional... but there was a tremor in it that betrayed her. "What I have to do is urgent."

The blond man's shoulders tensed. He sensed her concern. He sensed the anxiety hidden in the rigidity of her posture. He sensed that this time it wasn't for him.

And something in his chest burned with a pang of jealousy and helplessness. But he also remembered the promise he had made to himself. If he wanted to earn her trust, he had to be patient. He had to be a man, not an obstacle.

So, with effort, he loosened his jaw and reached out to gently hold her arms.

"I promise," he said, his tone lower and more sincere than usual. But then, his lopsided smile—that mixture of tenderness and ego—returned to his face. “But promise me you’ll make it up to me with another date.”

(Y/N) blinked, surprised, and confused by his boldness and audacity.

It wasn’t the right time to think about dates, not with the controversy escalating, nor with the meeting she knew would take place between the agency, the government, and the military. But a part of her understood that giving him that promise was the surest way to keep him away from her business.

So she nodded with a calmness she didn’t quite feel. “Okay. But this time I’ll choose the date. Does that sound good?”

Jackson tilted his head slightly, watching her as if analyzing something deeper behind those words. “Only if you don’t make me wait too long,” he whispered.

She let out a tired sigh. “Don’t worry. You have my word.”

He finally let go, though his fingers seemed to want to cling for another second. The agent offered a small smile—just enough to reassure him—and walked purposefully toward her office.

Jackson watched her go, that strange mix of desire, frustration, and growing worry stirring within him.

He knew something was up. He knew she was holding back. He knew she was hiding something crucial from him. But as a man of action, he wasn't going to stand idly by.

As she disappeared into the streets, he turned his gaze in the opposite direction.

If she had a mission, he would find his own. And visiting Simon now became the defining event of the day.

—

The Calloway mansion was bathed in the soft light of a veiled sunset. The tall windows filtered an orange glow that spread across the marble like an imposed silence. This house was designed to convey order, structure, and hierarchy. It was the kind of home where even the air seemed to obey a chain of command.

A redhead moved through the foyer with the calculated precision of someone who had rehearsed her composure for years.

She knew every painting, every rug, every shadow in the corridor, but the weight in her chest remained the same as always, the one that only appears when one is about to defy the patriarch.

The study was at the end of the main hall. The half-open door released the aroma of dark coffee and oak. When she reached for the doorknob… “Come in.”

Her father’s voice pierced the door like a natural authority. She entered.

The study was less an office and more a sanctuary for intimidation. Walls covered with diplomas, photographs with politicians, business awards, and newspaper headlines celebrating financial victories.

In the center, seated by the window, was William Calloway. Impeccable dark suit. Rigid back. Sharp gaze beneath blond locks that were already beginning to turn gray.

No smile. No surprise. Only assessment. “Gwen,” he greeted, placing his pen on a document. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

She walked to the desk without lowering her chin. “I needed to talk to you,” she replied, her tone firm and direct.

Mr. Calloway raised an eyebrow slightly. An almost imperceptible gesture, but one that, on him, amounted to a frown. “And it’s about your… ‘experience’ away from the family business?”

His tone carried that perfect blend of irony and disapproval that only a Calloway could wield as a weapon.

Rosney didn’t back down and maintained her modesty. “It’s about the change the family business can lead.”

For the first time, William remained completely still. His eyes scanned her as if he were suddenly assessing a chess piece that had decided to ascend to queen on its own. “I’m listening,” he ordered, leaning back slightly in his seat.

Rosney inhaled calmly. It wasn’t a nervous sigh; it was the kind of breath someone takes just before jumping, confident of landing on their feet. “That night’s incident with Mr. Incredible created a fracture in public opinion, thanks to a single push. This rift can become our opportunity. We can steer the narrative to be influential, to be the ones who lead the conversation.”

In any other family, it would be an observation. In this house, it was a political move.

Mr. Calloway narrowed his eyes. “Are you telling me you were responsible for that news spreading?” he asked, bringing his hand to his chin. “I thought your brother was risking something more reckless.”

It was no surprise that his father induced it so quickly. She gave a subtle grimace. “At first he was scared… but we reached an agreement.”

The patriarch maintained his impassive expression—a sign that he wanted to hear more. Rosney continued. “If we let others manipulate history, we’ll lose ground. But if we shape public perception, we’ll control stability. It’s not about opposing the supers. It’s about the influence we could gain if we demonstrate that society relies more on rational institutions than on idealized figures.”

William tilted his head. “So you’re proposing to capitalize on the instability. To become the voice that interprets—and guides—the crisis.”

“Exactly,” she confirmed. “The government has ensured that the supers have defined the national conversation for years. They’re idols, heroes, campaigns, symbols. We’ve always been behind the scenes, funding, investing, maintaining the balance. But now, for the first time, we have the opportunity to tip the scales. To show that true power lies not in who makes the noise, but in who decides what noise matters.”

The silence thickened.

“I have a plan,” she continued. “One that will place the Calloway family at the center of the national debate.”

The father clasped his hands on the desk. His voice became an instrument of measurement, of judgment, of destiny. “And what role do you want to play in that plan, Gwen?”

She held his gaze without blinking. “I want to lead it. I want to represent us. I want to take on that responsibility. And prove that I can guide what’s to come.”

There was a prolonged silence. A silence so thick it could be felt on the skin. Finally, Mr. Calloway exhaled, not with relief… but with restrained acceptance. “Present your proposal to me in detail,” he ordered. “If your vision is as solid as you present it… I will consider it.”

It wasn’t approval. But neither was it rejection. And coming from him… it was the closest thing to a vote of confidence.

The redhead bowed her head in formal respect. And for the first time in a long time, she knew that after her explanation, she would leave that office without feeling like she needed to catch her breath.

Chapter Text

Jackson did not usually visit the law center where his friend Simon J. Paladino worked.

Not because he didn't want to—in fact, he found it amusing to appear there as if it were a personal fashion show—but because Simon, exhausted by his "visits," had strictly forbidden him from flirting with his second-floor secretary again. That caused him "distractions", according to the lawyer, and he needed a professional environment, not a catwalk of flirtations.

Even so, Jackson had his methods. He used that sly smile that functioned almost like a universal VIP pass, and, with enough charm to melt hearts, he managed to convince the receptionist to let him use the waiting room.

Whether the lawyer agreed to see him was another matter, depending on how overwhelmed he was with cases or how impatient he was.

Luckily—or unluckily for his friend—it wasn't long before the office door opened.

There was the lawyer, with rectangular glasses, a dark suit, and that neutral expression he reserved only for two situations, when a client was blatantly lying to him… or when Jackson showed up unannounced.

“So, what brings you here now, Jack?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” the blond replied, raising both hands in a theatrical gesture of innocence. “I come in peace. I just have a few questions.”

His friend narrowed his eyes. That phrase, coming from Jackson, made him suspicious whether this time it would signal something simple or the opposite.

The other reason the super visited the office was that, when he did, it almost always involved some problematic legal inquiry.

And Simon knew it. Small claims, civil incidents, or even lawsuits that bordered on the "major" category, depending on how much collateral damage Jackson had caused as a 'civilian'.

One of the most recent had been particularly unsettling. A man had filed a lawsuit claiming that Jackson was responsible for the injury he suffered in a bar. The ironic part was… the guy wasn’t entirely wrong. Jackson had intervened to "impress" a lady who was being harassed, and although he managed to save her from that jerk, the guy ended up in the hospital with a leg trapped under a piece of structure.

The lawyer won the case without breaking a sweat—the jerk had a history and enough witnesses to point the finger at him—but Jackson vividly remembered the moment he'd had to use just a fraction of his power to unbalance a metal support and make it fall "by accident."

Unfortunately, he couldn't interrupt the scene like a super, because it was completely unexpected, so he had to be careful not to be seen using his power. He couldn't expose himself. He couldn't afford to ruin his reputation as a superhero, especially when he lived surrounded by female admirers… and the inevitable jealous boyfriends that came with them.

Being Gamma Jack had its perks, sure. It inflated his ego, maintained his status, and gave him the image he cultivated. But it also had consequences. The reckless use of his powers left property damage here and there, especially given how dangerous his power could be. Fortunately, the NSA and the government usually absorbed those costs and buried the reports to avoid public backlash.

Even so, not all problems could be buried so easily.

Simon merely shook his head at Jackson's statement, but still opened his office door for him to enter.

The office was exactly what anyone would expect from the most serious lawyer in the super-rich circle. Walls lined with tall shelves of legal texts, perfectly aligned filing cabinets, a small conference table, and a dark wood desk piled high with folders labeled with codes.

Not a single object was out of place; even the coffee maker in the corner seemed to belong. The air smelled of freshly printed paper, strong coffee, and long workdays.

Jackson plopped down in one of the armchairs, stretching his legs out as if he were in a hotel lobby and not his friend's professional sanctuary.

Simon, on the other hand, was back behind his desk, hands clasped, his gaze fixed on his friend. "Jack… you're impossible."

"I know," the blonde replied proudly, without a hint of annoyance. "But I'm charming."

The lawyer placed his palm on his forehead and said, "That's not a compliment. It's a complaint. One you make me repeat every time you come in here."

Jackson leaned back in the armchair, enjoying the other man's frustration. "Then you should be grateful I haven't been here for over two month."

Simon glared at him. "Because I banned you. After you flirted with the secretary and mistook the receptionist."

"I didn't mistook her," he corrected him. "I charmed her."

Frowning and with his hands on his desk, the lawyer exclaimed, "That's the problem, Jack."

The blond man laughed as if it were a compliment. "You worry too much, my friend. But now you can rest easy; my interest lies elsewhere."

The lawyer crossed his arms again. "Oh, right, now you have another date. Or is it something else?"

Jackson smiled more broadly at the mention of his beloved. "You're not wrong," he replied, but then he decided to change the subject. "Did you hear about Bob?" the blond man asked calmly.

The lawyer raised an eyebrow, exasperated by the obviousness. “It’s impossible not to know. Every newspaper, every news program, every radio station has the same front page.” He pointed to a magazine on the coffee table, where Mr. Incredible’s photo took up almost the entire cover under a sensationalist headline.

Jackson picked up the magazine and let out a whistle. “How do you think this case will be resolved? They say it’s going straight to the Supreme Court.”

Simon leaned back, adopting that posture he only used when he was already analyzing a problem from every angle. “The way the press is handling it… they have to give a verdict that stabilizes public opinion,” he explained in a grave voice. “Most likely, there will be a settlement between the parties. Financial compensation for the employee, presented as a ‘negligence penalty.’”

He picked up his coffee mug, took a sip, and continued, "And only with luck… it won’t qualify as direct damage civil liability."

It didn’t need to be said. The supers had known for years that the NSA and the government quietly covered up the damage caused on missions, and they were warned to be careful with their image. There was no public record of successful civil lawsuits against supers because… they never made it public. But this time was different, and with a purpose in mind.

Jackson leaned the magazine forward seriously. “If this case sets a precedent… anyone could start suing for personal injury or collateral damage,” he mused, crossing one leg. “That would affect the image of all supers. And it would divide public opinion.”

Simon nodded, satisfied with his conclusion, and, while refilling his mug, filled another for his friend. The blond man accepted the coffee, glanced at the stack of open documents on his friend’s desk, and asked, “And are you going to help Bob with this?”

The lawyer followed the blond man’s gaze to the files, took a deep breath, and sat down in the armchair opposite him. “I would help… if I could. But you know this, Jack. I’m a super too. If I appear as a defense attorney, the independent journalists with this situation are going to dig deep into my identity. And sooner or later, they’ll find out what I am.”

He tapped his finger lightly on the armrest. “That would complicate the case. It would give the plaintiff the perfect argument. The court would see it as a conflict of interest, and public opinion would tear him apart."

Jackson rolled his eyes. It made sense, but he didn't like it.

Simon continued, returning to his practical tone. “Besides… I’m up to my neck in other cases. If I wrap them up soon, perhaps I can intervene from another angle. Not as a direct lawyer, but as a consultant.” His glasses gleamed with calculation. “But for now, I’ll see how things develop. If this escalates, I’ll find an entry point, whether in the legal press or, if necessary, behind the scenes at the NSA.”

The blond man placed his mug on the table without tasting it. His expression hardened, his jaw clenched with barely contained annoyance. “It’s absurd,” he objected. “Suing Bob for saving a life… What’s next? Suing me for being too close to people?”

The annoyance, however, wasn’t just indignation. As this situation snowballed in the media, his agent would distance herself from him even further. Immersed in the problem with the same methodical obsession with which she carried out every order in her work.

That would absorb her so completely that it would bury any effect of his courtship; the dates, the provocations, the stolen kisses… all would fade into the background as she focused on a mission he knew nothing about. A mission that, no matter how much he tried to get his attention, she was determined to keep secret.

And that thought, more than wounding his pride… frustrated him.

Simon sensed that external, secondary tension, but he spoke from a different perspective. “What worries me isn’t the case itself,” he said, frowning, “but the precedent it sets. If the Supreme Court accepts it, even partially, it will open the floodgates to mass lawsuits. Any citizen with a scratch could sue a super. Any insurance company could weaponize this. Any politician could campaign on it.”

Jackson listened, each word leading directly to a reasonable conclusion.

“This will activate all the power groups,” the lawyer continued. “Investors, media, insurance companies, citizen lobbies… None of them are going to let an opportunity like this go to waste. And if there’s already a player making moves, someone with money and media reach, then this narrative didn’t just appear out of thin air.”

That’s when the blond man felt an uncomfortable pull in his stomach.

The magazine on the table—the cover featuring Bob cornered by reporters—wasn’t from just any publisher. It was the most well-known in the country. Owned by the Calloways. Owned by Karson Calloway.

How had he not made that connection before?

The logic was obvious. It was to be expected that they would exploit a popular story that generated an audience.

But this wasn't just sensationalist coverage. It was direction. It was selective emphasis. It was perhaps even a campaign disguised as news. A carefully crafted narrative designed to go viral because someone—with power—had allowed it.

The blond man pressed his lips together, suppressing disdain. He recognized the pattern, strategic headlines, framing that manipulated emotions, and questions that weren't questions but insinuations.

He didn't like the idea that this surname was behind the media frenzy. And it seemed strange to him that, after years of operating quietly behind the scenes, they now dared to so blatantly ignore government warnings. The Calloways didn't take risks without a clear purpose. They wanted something more, something he didn't yet know.

But what bothered him most was something else. Not only because of what it meant for Bob, but also because, as a super, he couldn't intervene without making the situation worse. Any comment would be twisted. Any defense would be interpreted as arrogance. And any abrupt action would be used as proof that the supers were irresponsible, as figures trying to silence the press.

Unless—he thought with bitter irony—everyone started acting like perfect robots, calculating every move to avoid causing harm. Something impossible when the villains literally worked to generate chaos, not to provide government statistics or cooperate with protocols.

The irony elicited a short sigh.

Perhaps the NSA would understand and be smart enough to negotiate a deal with the publishing house, or directly with the head of the family. But it would be a difficult deal. They would have to satisfy the Calloways or find a weakness they could exploit to keep them under control.

Erasing memories was no longer an option. That card was worn out, and in the case of the Calloways, it could even trigger unpredictable consequences.

Of course, Jackson couldn't exert any influence. He hadn't been a Calloway for a long time; he didn't know their new loose ends or who was really pulling the strings within the company.

And worse, he shouldn't get involved. Not for lack of courage, but because he knew the intellectual capacity that ran in that genetic makeup. A single crack, a connection, or a coincidence… and it could awaken memories that the NSA had very carefully sealed away.

With a sigh hidden beneath a relaxed smile, he murmured, “There's no other option but to put on our best face, don't you think?”

Simon watched him silently through his glasses. That sudden change in attitude didn't escape his notice. He didn't comment at first; he simply studied him with the same patience he used to evaluate a client who was hiding the true reason for their visit.

He knew that skilled heroes—Jackson, Lucius, and a few others—had a particular inclination toward public validation. A curiously common complex among exceptionally talented superheroes, and one that perhaps he himself was adopting.

But he also sensed there was something more. Perhaps something personal that he did not reveal out of pride. Or perhaps… something to do with a certain date that seemed to occupy his every thought lately. In any case, he knew Jackson would talk when he wanted. He always did.

Even so, the sudden visit without any concrete legal reason left him intrigued.

“As you said,” the lawyer finally replied, calmly raising the coffee cup to his lips, “we must maintain high expectations. Our standard has always been exemplary, and I hope the others understand the political climate… before one bad decision ruins what remains of their reputation.”

The conversation had cooled, but a persistent thought kept nagging at the blond man. The office was thick with the smell of paper, ink, and coffee. A mixture that always struck him as… unsettlingly sober.

Jackson nodded and stood up. “Well, I think my visit here is over. I wouldn’t want to take up any more of your time,” he said casually, as if that hadn’t been his intention from the start.

Simon barely glanced up, gauging his friend's sudden impulse, but didn't stop him; he just rolled his eyes at the irony and accompanied him to stand up, leaving the empty cup on the table. "I'm impressed that this time you didn't come to ask me for a favor... just to ask," he commented in a dry tone, although there was a hint of sarcasm.

The blond man responded with that arrogant yet charming smile of his. “I’m glad you appreciate my good intentions of just wanting to chat a bit.”

Simon’s response was to slam the office door firmly in his face.

Jackson blinked once, even slightly offended… barely. Then he snorted. “My (Y/n) is more polite…”

Remembering her, a thought struck him with sudden curiosity. Who the hell was the agent monitoring Simon? The secretary? The receptionist? A man or a woman?

That little mystery distracted him more than he’d admit. But he couldn’t dwell on it too long; he had a promise to keep to his agent… and a date to plan meticulously. Because if there was one thing he knew, it was that his (Y/n) would be very focused—or very stressed—with all the media chaos, and it was his personal duty to dispel that chaos for her.

After all, what kind of super was he if he couldn't save her… even from her own thoughts?

With a smile of anticipatory satisfaction, Jackson left the building, ready to occupy his mind with something more important: how to win her over on their next date. And maybe Edna could give him some ideas or advice.

___

She had sent all the necessary reports to her father, along with an analytical summary of everything she had managed to gather. She spent almost an entire day investigating, sifting through, and organizing information related to Mr. Incredible's viral incident. And, as she expected, the data was murkier than the average person was showing.

She had investigated the employee, Oliver Sansweet. A mid-level accountant with an impeccable track record… until that year. The documents she obtained—financial reports, audit reports, and some internal memos—reflected a company in financial decline. Consecutive losses, staff reductions, cuts in benefits, pressure from investors.

For someone responsible for the company's cash flow and financial health, the stress was obvious. But what made her frown was the connection between the deteriorating financial statements and the employee's personal transactions. Recent medical expenses, accumulated loans, a sudden increase in credit card payments…

It was easy to deduce the logical sequence; personal financial ruin, emotional breakdown, suicide incident, and now… a lawsuit.

A lawsuit that, if filed correctly, could cover years of debt, expenses, compensation for emotional trauma, and even allow him to retire from the workforce as a victim. It was a strategic… and desperate move.

But the problem was something else entirely; the Supreme Court couldn't so easily accept a lawsuit based on a rescue action, because that would set a dangerous precedent. A precedent that would allow for: lawsuits for involuntary intervention, lawsuits for damages not directly caused by authorities, lawsuits for omissions in a rescue, lawsuits for interpreting a heroic act as assault.

And if that happened… then the agency, the government, and the military would have to completely rethink the operational policy of the supers.

For that very reason, the Supreme Court had two options.

Option A: Dismiss the lawsuit as inadmissible. Based on the absence of malicious intent, the fact that the action was to preserve life, the lack of specific legislation against emergency rescues, and the absence of direct harm attributable to the super.

Option B: Partially accept the claim and force a settlement. This is to avoid a dangerous precedent, public outcry, and a social divide between "pro-super" and "anti-super."

(Y/n) knew the second option was more likely. Because the Supreme Court almost never issued absolute rulings when political stability was at stake.

But there was something that worried her even more, the feeling that something was going to go wrong. Or that the decision would be postponed due to external factors—media pressure, protests, corporate interests—or because some group wanted to capitalize on the uncertainty.

Nor could the side effects be ignored. Like the fact that some sponsors were freezing contracts with supers for fear of being associated with the controversy. Others, on the contrary, were launching support campaigns under the slogan "The heroes have saved us for decades."

An economic, media, and social chaos. A silent revolution is brewing, and everyone is taking advantage of the legal vacuum.

The agent took a breath, resting her elbows on her desk as she reviewed the analyses she had prepared throughout the day. She had organized financial data, potential legal scenarios, strategic predictions, and even a draft of contingency speeches to present to her father if he demanded them. Nothing was complete, but at least there was a structure.

And yet, she knew that the NSA specialists had probably gathered more information than she had. "Or maybe not," she thought. Everything was classified and compartmentalized, almost impossible to know.

She also wondered if Mark had made any progress. He usually had better access to certain internal reports. And his report would focus on a different perspective, one more centered on speculation regarding the incident, or what might be behind it.

She needed to call him to compare notes… but she also knew he would be just as overwhelmed as she was. He, too, had a report to submit, and the military was strict with its deadlines.

The next day would be critical. The Supreme Court would issue its ruling. And she knew—instinctively, through training, because that's how she'd been raised—that the response would be a turning point.

Something would change. For the supers, for the agency, for the government. And perhaps for the lives of many.

But now, she had another commitment to make, now that she had been freed from some of her responsibilities. She had accepted a date with Jackson.

Although this time, the proposal had been different. He didn't want to take her to a bar, a movie theater, or a viewpoint; he suggested something more intimate, dinner at his apartment, and a movie. A quiet, private place, with no eyes on them, no agents watching, no protocols to follow. Precisely what they needed to avoid…

They would have absolute privacy.

The (h/c)-nette clearly suspected the hidden intentions behind that invitation. Jackson rarely acted without an emotional or carnal subtext. But she accepted anyway, because she didn't want to add another headache to the list. And because—though it was uncomfortable to admit—she was starting to feel some consideration for him.

During those two days when she was focused on reports, Jackson had kept his promise; he caused no harm. He didn't go out on patrol. He didn't seek out action. He didn't generate collateral expenses or problems for the agency.

For her, that meant fewer reports. For him… it was a sign. One, he didn't know whether to interpret it as maturity or as an obsession with pleasing her. Even so, she appreciated the respite.

All she hoped was that the media wouldn't notice Gamma Jack's absence from the streets. However, the controversy surrounding the Mr. Incredible case diverted public attention.

The privacy offered by the meeting at his apartment didn't sound so bad, after all.

As usual, Jackson offered to pick her up. But she refused. She argued that it was more prudent if she came directly, since, as her monitor, she knew exactly where he lived. A professional excuse that masked the need to maintain a minimum of emotional control over the situation.

Miraculously, he agreed. He told her that he would notify reception so that she could be allowed in without any inconvenience.

As she sent the last document to her father, the agent leaned back in her chair. Stress throbbed behind her temples like a disciplined drum. Part of her wanted to cancel the date, lock herself in her room, and meditate, using her powers to balance her strength. But another, silent part of her needed a bit of that distraction.

That night, (Y/n) took more time than usual to get ready. She took a long bath, letting the heat dissipate some of the accumulated stress, and then chose a black dress—elegant, understated, but delicate enough not to appear cold.

A touch of perfume, subtle makeup… nothing overdone. Just enough to project decorum, as she herself defined it, although deep down she knew she was actually preparing for something different than any formal meeting.

She left her apartment with measured breathing and an orderly mind. Or at least, she tried to.

The building's reception staff checked her name on the list, and the receptionist—a professional-looking but attentive man—directed her to the correct floor. “You're cleared, miss. You can go up.”

Inside the elevator, in the enclosed silence of the cubicle, she noticed her own reflection in the polished mirror watching her with a mixture of control… and a touch of nervousness. The cold spotlight highlighted the tension in her posture and the slight blush she was trying to suppress.

'Relax. It's just dinner. Just a date. Nothing more,' she told herself.

The doors opened with a soft metallic click. The hallway was quiet and elegant, with only two apartments on that floor. Hers was the one on the right. She rang the bell.

The door opened almost immediately, revealing Jackson.

It wasn't the first time she'd seen him with that flirtatious, confident smile. But tonight… There was something different. Perhaps it was the dim light behind him, or the warm scent wafting from the apartment, or the way his shirt clung to his torso, clearly a deliberate choice. There was a more provocative, more intentional air about him. And for a moment—just one—she felt her skin prickle.

"Good evening, my dear agent," he greeted her in that low voice he knew how to use when he wanted to disarm her. He stepped aside to let her in.

"Good evening, Jack." She entered with a modest smile that couldn't quite conceal her unease, but tried to ignore it.

Her eyes scanned the place almost immediately. The apartment was spacious, arranged with an unexpected elegance. Light tones on the walls, soft brown furniture, and gold accents that added warmth without being ostentatious. Everything smelled of wood, coffee… and something more personal. Something masculine.

“Would you like me to help you with your jacket?” Jackson asked, approaching from behind.

She barely had time to react. “Oh… sure.”

Before she could take it off herself, he was already behind her, gently sliding the garment off her shoulders. It was a simple gesture, but his proximity—his breath close, his warmth—pierced her in an unexpected way.

“You seem very tense,” he murmured, his voice almost brushing against the back of her neck.

The (h/c)-nette let out a low sigh, one she couldn't suppress. “Yes… well. It's work-related. It's been a bit stressful, but thanks to you, I haven't had to overdo it these past few days.” She gave him a genuine, grateful smile.

His smile widened with an almost territorial pride. “That's flattering,” he replied gently. “But still, I'd like you to relax a little. After all, we're on a date.”

He hung her jacket on the hanger and then, with a subtle but confident gesture, led her toward the living room. “If you'll allow me… I can give you a massage to ease that tension.”

The agent raised an eyebrow. With him, courtesy always came with an ulterior motive. She knew perfectly well what Jackson was after, physical and intimate closeness.

And although she tried hard to set boundaries, she also knew that lately she hadn't denied him any of his touches, caresses, or advances. Because he was careful. Because he respected her boundaries when necessary. And because his hands… had the ability to erase the weight of the world for a few seconds.

But there was also the risk that if she became too dependent on those affections, her professional judgment could be clouded. And she couldn't allow that.

"I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable," she replied gently, appealing to a courtesy she hoped would stop him. "It wouldn't be appropriate to accept so much attention when you invited me."

However, the blond man didn't back down. "And I would be grateful if my guest felt at ease," he said, leaning only slightly toward her. "I don't mind offering you my services at all."

His soft tone, his steady gaze, the almost calculated closeness… it was a provocation disguised as courtesy. A silent push into territory Jackson longed to explore with her. But (Y/n) wouldn't let her self-control waver so easily.

"Perhaps…" she replied calmly, taking only a step back, "I could accept that after dinner. Does that sound good?"

His smile didn't fade; it just slowed… it became more meaningful. "Very well," he conceded with that proud tranquility. "I accept my guest's request." He gestured for her to follow him. "Come, I'll show you the dining room."

The space was ample, illuminated by a warm light cascading from a suspended crystal chandelier. The dark wooden table was set with stylistic precision, tall glasses, perfectly aligned cutlery, elegantly folded cloth napkins, and two lit candles that gave an intimate, almost romantic glow.

A subtle aroma of spices and butter filled the air.

Like a true gentleman—or perhaps like someone who wanted to politely assert his dominance—Jackson quickly pulled out a chair for her. She accepted the gesture without resistance.

"I prepared everything myself," he remarked, taking a seat across from her with evident pride. "And I hope you like it. These are recipes that… let's just say, I've perfected with some help."

The (h/c)-nette listened with genuine surprise as he described each dish. Jackson spoke with a mixture of playful vanity and self-satisfaction that she didn't usually see when he was in superhero mode. It was strange to see him like this… and endearing.

Dinner began. Between bites, he decided to resume the conversation. "Honestly," he began, observing her with a raised eyebrow, "I'm curious to know what you do that keeps you so busy. The NSA seems to be squeezing you dry."

She finished chewing before replying, choosing her words carefully but remaining relaxed in his company. “I’m just following protocol. And… now with the Mr. Incredible scandal, there’s more work.”

“Then I gather my previous agent was a bit more laid-back,” he remarked, taking a sip of wine. “I never saw him so busy. Although…” He shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t take the job that seriously. Or maybe he enjoyed having access to my life a little too much. I don’t know. I just know that when I sensed him around… I didn’t want him there.”

This piqued (Y/n)'s professional curiosity. "So that's why you threatened him?" she asked with subtle boldness.

Jackson gave a slanted smile. "'Threaten' is a strong word," he retorted, enjoying the insinuation. "Let's just say I offered him... a warning that might have scared him a little."

The agent shook her head, stifling a laugh. "You could have gone to the agency and notified them that you knew you were being monitored. They would have assessed the situation and assigned another agent... without all the drama and without having to give you a higher-ranking agent."

He understood then that his agent was higher-ranking and a specialist in her field, a detail that swelled his pride a little more. So he leaned forward, without breaking eye contact. "Oh, but if I had done that... I wouldn't have you now, would I?"

The woman felt heat rise in her cheeks, glancing away for a second before looking back at him. “You didn’t even know which agent they were going to assign you,” she retorted, trying to sound firm.

“I know,” he murmured, tilting his head. “But I wanted to confirm something about the NSA.”

She blinked, confused. Confirm what? It wasn’t about the agent system; he already knew that. Maybe it was something more personal… or more calculated. She didn’t know whether to press the issue.

Jackson changed the subject as easily as a gentle breeze shifted direction. “So tell me…” he said calmly, twirling his silverware between his fingers, “why continue being an agent when you can be a super and live with so much more freedom?”

The comment stopped her mid-bite. The (h/c)nette gently placed her silverware on her plate. Her gaze, calm but steady, held a mixture of warning and weariness. “Why do you keep asking that, Jack?” she whispered, not harshly but with a clear edge. “What exactly are you trying to achieve?”

It was a loaded question, she'd told him before, and she'd made it clear it was a commitment. Why insist? Why push right at that point?

The blond man didn't flinch. He leaned back with his natural elegance, relaxed, confident, as if the questions that disarmed others were, for him, mere invitations to play.

"I'm just curious," he replied, tilting his head with an almost feline gleam in his eyes. "You always dodge me on that very topic." He leaned slightly forward. "And you, my dear, are very secretive about it."

She didn't lose her composure. She smiled with a bold courtesy, the kind that says, 'You won't beat me that easily.'

"Well, you're secretive about certain things too," she countered gently. "So we're even."

Jackson's expression lit up with amused surprise. "Oh, really?" he asked with genuine intrigue. "What do you think I'm hiding?"

(Y/n) took a breath, modulating her voice so as not to betray the lack of information in her defense. "To begin with… that 'connection' of yours with the NSA. Or whatever's behind it."

The blond man chuckled softly, not mockingly, but with fascination. What an adorable excuse she'd used to defend herself. How careful… and how far from the truth of that agreement the agency was keeping completely silent. It showed she didn't have much information about his past, and he preferred to keep it that way until he decided to confess.

"Fine," he conceded, bowing his head in understanding her response to the need for discretion. "You got me. I understand your point."

He returned to his plate and continued eating naturally, leaving the small victory in her hands. But with her next question, he pushed the boundaries again. "So, if you don't want to tell me that…" he said lightly, "how about you tell me how you discovered your powers? Or how you learned to use them?"

The (h/c)-nette paused for a moment before answering, taking a small sip from her glass. “It was at a high school,” she finally explained, choosing each word carefully. “We had a martial arts competition.”

She sighed softly. “I accidentally disabled my partner. Everyone thought I’d executed the technique perfectly… but the truth was something else entirely.”

The memory made her frown slightly. What she didn't say—what she didn't want to say—was that the military had been the true stage of the discovery. That her "talent" had emerged during training, when she took down an opponent far too strong for a normal teenager. She had learned there to lie skillfully… and to survive without being identified as a threat.

Jackson watched her expression with interest, taking a sip from his glass. "Ouch," he commented with playful exaggeration. "I hope you didn't knock him out for life."

The agent let out a soft laugh, small but genuine; his comment helped her relax a little. "I was a rookie. It wasn't that bad," she replied.

He smiled. His mind connected the dots. Perhaps her self-control, her prudence, her professional rigor had deeper roots. But he knew he shouldn't rush her. He had learned—in his own way—to wait.

Looking to get to know her from another angle, he asked, "So, when did you join the agency?"

She took a small bite before answering. “I’ll be three years old soon.”

Jackson raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “Three years… and I didn’t even notice you.” He made a theatrical face of disappointment. “What a shame.”

(Y/n) was momentarily taken aback. Was this a complaint against the agency for not assigning her a top-tier super? Or a personal grievance for not having “discovered” her sooner? She chose not to search for the answer.

But the conversation continued, softening amidst the food, quiet laughter, and simpler questions, sharing favorite colors, small daily routines, culinary tastes, books, music, and trivial details they both shared without realizing how cozy their interactions were becoming. A sweet mix of comfort, latent tension, and a bond that Jackson wanted to deepen hung in the air.

Dinner was over, but the atmosphere still vibrated with a different kind of closeness, slower and more natural.

The (h/c)-nette insisted on helping clear the dishes, and although Jackson tried to politely refuse, he eventually gave in. Not because he wanted to—but because he knew that look in her eyes, that mixture of firmness and kindness that he found impossible to deny.

As they moved back and forth between the modern kitchen and the dining room, they had unknowingly created a small domestic rhythm.

He tidied; she followed. She dried; he put away. It was a simple scene, but strangely warm for both of them.

It was in the midst of this back-and-forth that the blond man remarked, with nonchalant ease, "Edna says your suits will be ready. She wants you to pick them up this weekend, and that's in two days."

(Y/n) stopped mid-movement, clutching a plate. The news hit her like a sudden bell.

Was the weekend already so soon? Time had flown by without her noticing… perhaps because between work, reports, and certain distractions, everything had been a chaotic jumble.

“Thanks for letting me know,” she replied with a genuine smile, though a hint of worry flickered in her eyes. With Edna, every visit was an unpredictable experience. “I’ll see how I can arrange to go, and see how the suits are. Do you really think she could make my personal suit?”

Jackson placed a glass on the counter and chuckled softly. “Trust me, if Edna got engaged… your suit was probably the first thing she finished. She told me she was ‘inspired.’ And I have to confess,” he added with that slightly roguish grin, “I’m dying to see it. I feel like… it’ll look perfect on you.”

For a moment, the agent felt a warmth rise in her neck. She masked it by turning toward the sink, then shook her head gently, not so much out of modesty… but because she knew he would accompany her without fail, excuse or no excuse. He would never miss an opportunity.

When they finished cleaning, Jackson suggested moving on to the second part of the date: watching a movie.

She agreed without hesitation.

The room was spacious, elegant in a masculine and immaculate style. Warm light filtered from strategically placed lamps, creating soft shadows that caressed the walls.

On the coffee table were two cold drinks and a small plate of snacks.

The (h/c)-nette took a seat in the enormous leather armchair he offered her. She felt the material envelop her, firm and comfortable, too comfortable for her professional taste.

Jackson returned after putting on the film and sat beside her. An intentional closeness; she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

He picked up the bowl of snacks and placed it between them, as if an excuse to be closer.

The story was moving toward the romantic scene. Soft music played, and the silence was palpable.

It was then that he slid his arm behind the sofa. Slowly and gently, until his hand brushed against her opposite shoulder with a barely perceptible caress.

The agent tensed for a moment—the reflex of a professional always on high alert—but then she felt the way he was touching her. Just a gesture that invited her to lower her guard.

She breathed more calmly. And she relaxed, noticing that he was only offering her comfort or relief. Allowing herself, for a second, to lean lightly on that warm touch.

That small gesture was a clue for Jackson. He felt her soften beneath his hand and receive that silent confession. He glanced at her, and his expression changed, becoming warmer, more satisfied, as if he appreciated that small gesture of trust and acceptance more than he was willing to admit.

(Y/n) watched the screen, but part of her saw herself reflected in the protagonist, her discipline, her responsibility, her inner strength. The way the protagonist refused to give in… and then yielded just a little when she fell in love with the one who captivated her heart.

The blond man noticed it too. And although the man in the film wasn't exactly like Jackson, there was a similarity in the intensity with which he looked at the protagonist… that genuine, unwavering, almost defiant interest.

A deliberately fleeting spark ignited in his mind. He could play the protagonist's role. He could do it better and with authenticity. He could take her to an emotional place she would never allow herself to go alone. And that thought captivated him.

That's why, when she took a sip to refresh herself, he took the opportunity to lower his hand a little further on her shoulder and, with a firmer touch, trace a gentle path up her arm.

Nothing invasive. But enough to make her skin tingle.

The (h/c)-nette kept her eyes fixed on the screen, but her fingers tightened slightly around the glass.

She wasn't immune. He knew it.

And that awareness made him smile, very slowly, with the quiet satisfaction of a man who was beginning to understand the exact rhythm of her walls and how to erode them without breaking them.

The scene on the screen shifted to an intimate tone. With warm lighting, restrained breaths, and a crescendo in the music that seemed to synchronize with the very atmosphere of the apartment.

Jackson, noticing the change, took it as a sign. As if it were a routine gesture they'd shared for years—and not some bold move on his part—he took the glass from his beloved's hands.

He brushed his fingers against hers as he removed it. He brought it to the edge of his lips. He drank from it. And he placed it on the table without breaking contact with the hand that rested on her arm, firm, possessive, almost protective.

The agent didn't stop him. But her breathing slowed. Her eyes opened a little wider, attentive, expectant, caught in the direct, deep gaze he gave her.

Then Jackson raised his free hand… and with a dangerous delicacy, he brushed the edge of her chin, guiding her face toward him.

His fingers traced a soft line from her jaw to the corner of her lip. She trembled slightly, just enough for him to feel it.

The whole world fell silent. Only the two of them remained. Between their breathing, the screen's dim glow, and the narrow space between their mouths.

The blond man leaned in very slowly, giving her time to pull away… and she didn't move. She closed her eyes. A tiny gesture, but decisive.

Their lips met in a slow kiss at first, almost a brush, as if he were measuring her every reaction, her every minute movement. A touch that sought synchronicity, permission, and something more: surrender.

And she granted it. His lips deepened the kiss with measured gentleness, and when she hesitated for a moment, he guided her with a slight tilt of his head.

In response, her hands—previously firm on his chest to maintain distance—yielded, encircling his shoulders, drawing him in with a need she hadn't anticipated.

The rhythm quickened. Their lips parted. First tentatively, then more confidently. Until they both yielded to a deeper, more intimate, more real kiss.

Their tongues brushed together in a synchronicity that seemed inevitable, as if they had both waited far too long for this moment.

And when a small moan escaped her lips involuntarily, Jackson pulled her close with an impulse that betrayed how much he had desired her.

The kiss became almost urgent, charged and alive, for a second. Yet they had to break apart, breathless, breathing close, so close their noses touched.

Jackson's gaze burned. Not out of lust, but out of a sense of purpose.

He held her by the waist with both hands, as if afraid she might vanish if he let go. And in a soft, almost reverent—yet equally possessive—whisper, he uttered the question he'd been preparing for days. "(Y/n)... do you want to be my partner?"

Her world stopped. Her eyes widened in surprise.

All the military logic, the training, the discipline... mingled with a torrent of emotions she'd been trying to contain for days.

She took a deep breath, but couldn't quite steady herself. Her heart was pounding so hard she could almost hear it.

And though her lips still burned from the kiss, her mind was racing with a single thought, 'What did it mean to say yes to a super like him when her whole life had been a wall of secrets, limits, and missions?'

The kiss had ended, but its echo still vibrated between them.

They were still entwined. (Y/n) rested against Jackson's torso, her breathing still uneven.

And he… he just looked at her, patiently and expectantly, with an almost tranquil stillness.

The silence spread like a thick fog. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it was decisive. A threshold between what they had been and what they could be.

For her, every second felt like a countdown. Her mind raced with the trained speed of an agent. Her heart, on the other hand, beat with the disarray of someone who had never been trained to love.

She had to respond, but she didn't know how. Because accepting what he was proposing meant crossing a line she should never have touched.

A line she herself had drawn when she agreed to that initial arrangement with him. First discretion, professional distance, and then meetings only when he requested them.

That “deal” was her shield, her self-protection, her excuse. And yet, she had gone on a date.

She had allowed his caresses. She had yielded to his closeness. She had let him care for her while she was unconscious. She had set an emotional precedent that she herself hadn't known how to stop. Now that the agreement had been shattered by kisses that had revealed too much.

She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't feel this way. She shouldn't let him go so deep. But she had. And that's why her answer came out broken, uncertain, almost a whisper that was incredibly difficult for her to articulate.

"I... I'm not sure." Her lips thinned. She lowered her gaze because she couldn't hold his. She felt that if she looked directly at him, her resolve would completely shatter.

"We haven't resolved anything," she whispered. "Neither you nor I. We have... voids, wounds, things we don't say. And I'm afraid"—she inhaled deeply—"that our relationship is built on pride, neediness, ego, or even lies. Not on something mutual and honest." She slid her hands, which had been around his own chest, creating a minimal but clear distance between them. “I wouldn’t want that for us,” she murmured.

Jackson didn’t move. His body was like a warm statue, but his eyes were alive, analyzing every word, every pause, every doubt.

He was already expecting that answer. He knew it from the way she breathed, from how she avoided his gaze. But accepting it wasn’t the same as anticipating it. That’s why he gently raised his hand, took her chin between his fingers, and made her look at him.

His voice dropped to a low, deep… moderate tone. “So you want us to continue like this?” he asked. “With these approaches… without clarity? Pretending they mean nothing?”

It was a dangerous question. Not because it pressured her or confirmed his intentions. But because it forced her to confront her own desires, those she had always denied.

And (Y/n) hated herself for trembling before him. For being drawn to his determined demeanor, to that gaze that demanded without violence, to that way of dominating the conversation with a simple gesture.

She hated that he managed to disarm her. She hated that he was the only person who made her feel shy. She hated that her boundaries—so rigid in the military, so unbreakable with anyone else—became blurred with him. She hated that she herself was too permissive when he touched her. That her body responded before her mind. That she wanted him… even when she shouldn't.

But above all, she hated a silent truth. She didn't fully trust him. And she didn't trust herself around him either.

Not when she had secrets that could destroy him. Not when she was his agent. Not when she'd been trained to kill supers if they went rogue. Not when she herself was a super, a hidden weapon, a potential danger.

How could he entrust her with his vulnerability? How could he want a relationship with someone who could betray him… or annihilate him… If orders demanded it?

She didn't understand. Or didn't want to understand. And that's why she had to create distance now. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she murmured, "I don't think this is the time for that." Her words were soft yet firm. "And… something like that can't happen between us either," she added, avoiding his gaze again. "I'm your agent. And there are ethical guidelines. I shouldn't get emotionally involved with a super."

She took a deep breath, confessing what she never thought she'd admit aloud. "And I'm guilty too. For playing along, for letting myself be carried away by these emotions I don't know how to control." Her voice trembled. “I react more impulsively with you than rationally. And I fear… that we'll end up hurting each other unintentionally.”

The words hung between them like a broken whisper. It wasn't outright rejection. It was a heart torn between duty and desire. Between fear and longing.

And Jackson knew it. That's why he didn't back down. Because he'd heard more doubts than negativity. More fear than rejection. More repressed desire than real boundaries. And that… ignited him, propelled him, made him move forward.

His voice, when he spoke, was a mixture of firmness and vulnerability. "Don't think you're the only one who thinks this way."

His gaze didn't waver. It was honest and raw. So much so that the (h/c)-nette couldn't help but hold her evasive gaze.

"You're not the only one with indecisive thoughts, (Y/n). I have them too."

The agent's eyes rose to his, surprised. Jackson rarely talked about himself. But now he was doing it for her.

"There are things of mine… personal things… that I keep buried." His voice lowered, becoming more intimate. "Because I'm afraid that if I show them, this facade I've built my whole life will crumble."

The blond man paused. It was a different kind of silence, not pressure, but a heartfelt confession.

"But sooner or later, I won't be able to do it alone." Jackson took a deep breath, as if admitting that would also set him free.

And then, with an almost painful clarity, he added, "You know it too. That's why you're here. Because you want to challenge your own limits. Because you want something to pull you out of that rigid routine they imposed on you. Something that will allow you to feel freedom. Real control over your decisions."

He leaned in slightly, closing the distance between them. "And if you need me for that... then use me. I won't blame you, nor will I break down. Because I'm willing to take the risk for you."

The (h/c)-nette swallowed. She never expected to hear something like that from him. He was so direct... so honest... it hurt, and at the same time, it was the first time anyone had offered her support with such intense commitment.

However, her fear still haunted her. That's why her voice trembled when she asked, "Why would you do that for me?"

Jackson didn't hesitate. Not for a second. "Because I want to challenge myself too. Because with you... with what I feel for you... I can try something deep. Something I've never allowed myself before."

His hands gently encircled her waist, pulling her closer to his chest. With a hold that said, "Trust me." But also, "I'm not going to walk away."

"I want to learn from my mistakes. Not repeat them with you. Not hurt you. Not to lose you." He looked at her as if she were the only person in the room, in the world, in his life. "I want to try a real relationship with you (Y/n). One where we can both move forward without masks."

And without breaking eye contact, he asked, "Now tell me, what's your answer? What do you want?"

The young woman parted her lips slightly, but no answer came immediately. Because she didn't have one. Or rather… because her answer was a labyrinth impossible to articulate without revealing too much.

Part of her cried out that she did want to try, that this was the opportunity to take the initiative; and the other part suggested that it wasn't the right time for that, not now when she was bound by duties and responsibilities.

Finally, she murmured, "I don't know, Jack…"

Her voice broke with a thread of sincerity she never allowed anyone else. It was an ambiguous answer. A surrender. A restraint. All at once.

Jackson barely frowned. Not with frustration… but with an emotional intensity that seemed to envelop her, study her, read her as no one else could. "Don't you know… or don't you want to admit it?" he whispered, leaning slightly toward her.

(Y/n) felt the beating of both their hearts pressing against her chest. There was that answer she couldn't say. And she knew he could feel it too.

The blond man ran a hand along her cheek, a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the ferocity of his gaze. "(Y/n)..." his voice dropped to a deep whisper, "you're telling me you want this, but at the same time you're running away. Why?"

She pressed her lips together. She could invent a technical explanation, talk about ethics, protocols, the NSA... but none of those reasons were the true source of her fear.

So she took a deep breath. And for the first time, she decided to crack her wall. "Because... I don't know if I'm cut out for this."

Her eyes couldn't meet his. "Because I'm afraid that... if I take this step... I'll lose everything. My job. My principles. And..." she swallowed, "...that I'll lose myself in the process."

Jackson remained silent. His fingers still caressed her cheek. But now there was gentleness, not insistence.

The (h/c)-nette continued, with a courage she never used for herself. “And I’m also afraid of what might happen if you find out more about me than you should.”

A shadow crossed her face. “There are things I can’t tell you. Things I was taught to hide even from those I trust. And if any of them go wrong… I could hurt you. Because it’s part of my duty.”

There it was. Part of her real confession. Beyond her excuses and her fear.

Jackson understood. Much more than she expected. Because far from backing away, he leaned in even closer, devouring her with his gaze. “(Y/n)… I’m not someone who gets scared because someone has shadows.”

His voice was firm. Calming. Terribly sincere. “I don’t want you to be perfect. Or to tell me everything. I just want you to let me be with you. Even if it’s just a little. Even if it’s just a little bit.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the wall she'd built her whole life begin to crumble. But he didn't pressure her. Not this time.

He took her hand, with a surprisingly gentle gesture, and placed it on his chest, right over his heart. "When you're ready… when you think you can… then say so. I can wait. But I'm not going to walk away. Not after what we've shared."

The agent swallowed. That was the problem. She didn't want him to walk away, but she couldn't afford to fall apart either. Her lips trembled as she answered. "Jack… I can't give you an answer right now. But… I don't want this to end. Not yet."

The spark in her eyes said it all. That was the "yes" he'd been waiting for. A brief glimpse of her.

Jackson pressed his forehead against hers. He breathed in her air, her skin. "Then… we'll go at your pace," he murmured with a slow, possessive, dangerous smile, "But don't get your hopes up, I'm not going to give up."

She felt a shiver run down her spine. Because he meant it. And because maybe… maybe she didn't want him to give up either.

Chapter Text

Dawn broke over Municiberg City Hall of Justice—the venue where the Supreme Court held its special hearings—and drew an unusual crowd, even for a high-profile event.

Outside, the steps were teeming with journalists, sound technicians, radio correspondents, and mobile cameras broadcasting live every move. Flashes of light flashed as if the trial had already begun. The crowd murmured in waves—concerned citizens, activists, the curious—all waiting to see what would happen in the lawsuit that, if successful, could set a national precedent against the Supers.

The session was still a couple of hours away, but the tension was already palpable, like an electric vibration in the building's columns.

Mark watched the crowd from an interior window in the government liaison room, a space reserved for technical advisors from the Joint Chiefs of Staff, public policy analysts, and NSA representatives involved in the case.

The brunette man wore a discreet suit, without visible insignia, maintaining a hybrid profile between military and civilian that defined his role.

He wasn't there as a field agent. Nor as a direct representative of Universal Man. But as a strategic liaison between the military, the NSA, and the state's legal team. A figure known internally as a Policy Liaison.

In simple terms, Mark would suggest key points to Mr. Incredible's defense attorney, providing technical, operational, and procedural context for super missions, without compromising classified information.

It was a delicate position. And one that only a select few could occupy.

As he reviewed the documents in his metal folder, Mark couldn't help but glance occasionally toward the door. He was waiting for (Y/N). He knew that, despite not being formally assigned to this case, she would never miss a critical moment like this. Her sense of responsibility and her obsession with understanding every angle before anyone else wouldn't allow it.

Furthermore, if General (L/n) was involved in government coordination—and Mark knew he was—it made sense that he would have requested his daughter's presence as an inside observer. With or without explicit permission from the NSA chief.

Unlike his friend, Mark did have direct authorization to be present. The NSA had designated him as liaison precisely because he wasn't a super, and because his experience as a military informant—combined with his training in legal and tactical analysis—made him the ideal candidate to represent the government sector without compromising classified information.

(Y/n), on the other hand, would have to come up with a way to justify her absence from monitoring her assigned super. If she wanted to attend the hearing, she would need an impeccable excuse to avoid a reprimand from Mr. Grayson, especially on such a critical day.

That thought led him to another point, the strange pattern he'd detected in his preliminary research.

Knowing the media would exploit this event, one production company in particular was pushing the criticism against the supers more aggressively than the others. And it wasn't just any production company; it belonged to the Calloway investment conglomerate, one of the most influential financial families in the country.

Mark frowned at the memory.

The Calloways rarely acted without considering the consequences, as they followed certain agreements with great caution and didn't take many risks. And yet, this time they seemed to deliberately ignore the pressure the government usually exerted on the media to moderate the coverage of sensitive events involving the Supers.

What was unsettling was that this campaign was creating a domino effect. Subsidiary companies were beginning to rethink their alliances, and the public was becoming polarized under the media's influence.

It was typical for large corporations to take risks for strategic gain, but this time, Mark sensed a deeper purpose. That's why he'd investigated further. And what he found, though incomplete, left him puzzled.

The most visible heiress of the conglomerate was Gwen Calloway, daughter of patriarch William Calloway. And although her official records showed her with red hair and she was always surrounded by bodyguards, her face bore an unsettling resemblance to someone else… Rosney, the agent assigned to Gazerbeam.

Mark hadn't seen Rosney much in person, as she always appeared in different outfits, wigs, or fake uniforms; nothing unusual for an undercover agent. But the structural similarity—the features, the posture, the calculating gaze—was too specific to be a coincidence.

He had no solid proof. Nor access to delve deeper, because Gwen Calloway was heavily protected, both physically and in terms of documentation; her movements were discreet, her business activities were fragmented, and all her information passed through reinforced privacy protocols. And that's why the suspicion lingered.

"You're early." The voice broke his train of thought. Mark looked up and saw his friend walking toward him, dressed in the appropriate formal attire for a meeting of this magnitude.

The brunette offered a tired smile and greeted her with a slight nod. “Well, yes. I didn’t want to run into any journalists blocking the entrance.” He lowered his voice, intrigued. “And you? How did you get in?”

(Y/n) held her gaze matter-of-factly, as if the answer were obvious. “I used the cleaning staff’s back door. I showed my ID—you know, daughter of a militia general—and the guard let me through without much questioning.”

Mark sighed, a mixture of exasperation and defeat on his face, rolling his eyes. “Sure… how could I not have thought of that?” he muttered, imagining how many hours of sleep he could have gotten back if he’d had the same logistical savvy. The (h/c)-nette chuckled softly at his misfortune, with that familiarity shared only by those who had survived too many shifts together.

“That also explains why they let you through here, into this room,” Mark added, a hint of humor returning. “The perks of having an ID with the power to unlock doors.”

(Y/n) then glanced down at the folder he was holding, noticing the tension in his grip. “So, are you ready? I got word that you’d be filling in for the Strategic Security Coordinator.” She crossed her arms, sympathetic to the burden her friend was carrying. “I assumed you wouldn’t be taking calls, so I didn’t try to confirm your status.”

“Of course I am…” Mark sighed in resignation, looking down at the document. “I absolutely have to be. Luckily, I got a replacement to keep an eye on Universal Man in these last days. That gave me, at least, a couple of hours of rest.”

The agent gave him a gentle, understanding expression, but without letting her professionalism waver. “Good. So… what have you been able to gather or analyze so far?”

The brunette’s expression tightened, as if he were trying to piece things together before speaking. Finally, he looked up with a calculated question. “In these last few days, during your monitoring with Gamma Jack… have you seen Rosney with Gazerbeam as she should be?”

The (h/c)-nette raised an eyebrow, clearly puzzled by the direction the conversation was taking and by the sudden mention of Rosney in all of it. “Honestly, no,” she replied with measured sincerity. “As far as I know, Gamma Jack has been keeping a low profile… without attracting any media attention.”

That was all she knew, information that came mainly from Jackson and the partial comments he gave her when she was busy with the other part of the investigation. She had no choice but to take the blond man’s summaries at face value, even though she suspected they were never completely exhaustive.

Mark frowned, surprised. This was unusual for Gamma Jack, especially considering how much the super enjoyed public attention… and female attention. Although, given the current media frenzy, perhaps he was trying to protect his image. Or so he wanted to believe.

“And what does Rosney have to do with your investigation?” the friend interjected, still not quite seeing where he was going with this.

Mark took a deep breath before speaking, as if choosing each word carefully. “Perhaps it’s a coincidence… or perhaps not. But I believe Rosney isn’t just an agent. There are indications that her true identity is that of the next heiress to the Calloway conglomerate.”

The name hit her like a familiar weight. (Y/n) knew the reputation of that family well, as well as that of other influential figures in the country, those with economic power, political influence, and so on. However, she only knew them by reputation, never by sight.

To hear that Rosney—the most secretive and composed agent—might belong to that family… was unsettling. And profoundly coherent in a way.

If that speculation was true, then what was a figure of that caliber doing infiltrated in the NSA? Was she part of a larger family plan to manipulate the case of the supes? Or was she, personally, the one fueling the controversy?

The agent watched her friend, troubled by the implications. Mark nodded gravely; they had both reached the same point of uncertainty.

“I plan to delve deeper into this after the meeting,” he continued. “I couldn’t get much in such a short time, and their information is extremely protected.” He crossed his arms, quietly assessing the situation. “But if this speculation turns out to be true… the NSA will have a serious problem on its hands.”

And not a minor one. An infiltrated high-profile figure would trigger a complete personnel review, exhaustive internal audits, and an urgent restructuring of security protocols. Furthermore, both the NSA and the Calloway conglomerate would have to negotiate measures to preserve sensitive information… or, in extreme scenarios, resort to more drastic methods.

Eliminating the target was never the ideal option—and they both knew the government avoided such solutions unless absolutely necessary—but other techniques existed, such as the memory-erasing machine or Psywave’s or Everseer’s abilities to manipulate memories.

Whatever the final procedure, they had to ensure classified privacy.

Both agents watched as various officials—members of parliament, legal assistants, and jury personnel—entered and exited the adjoining rooms, completely oblivious to their conversation.

When (Y/n) turned slightly to the opposite side, a small shadow near her neck was revealed behind her hair. Mark frowned, surprised by something he hadn't noticed before. "You have marks on your neck," he remarked, pointing discreetly.

"Marks? Where?" she asked, placing her fingers on the indicated area, feeling for what he had seen.

“I don’t know… it looks like you scratched yourself or something stung you; it’s a little red,” Mark speculated, tilting his head to try and make out the source of the small redness.

“Oh…” the (h/c)-nette murmured, finding one with her fingertips. She took a half step back, uncomfortable. “That must be it. I hadn’t felt it.” And covering the area casually before leaving the hallway, the officer added, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to the ladies’ room to have it checked.”

Mark watched her go, pondering the expression on her face. She had been different, too self-conscious. And that disconcerted him.

Ever since he’d known his friend since they were younger, she had always been reserved, cautious, protective of her personal space, and always avoided situations that could be interpreted as intimate.

The idea that she had a hickey—a mark clearly inflicted by someone else—was unthinkable. It wasn’t like her. Not with her insecurities. Not with her tendency to keep everyone at arm's length.

So, maybe it had just been an insect. Maybe she really didn't know where it came from. It was better for him to think that way.

After all, (Y/n) always told him the truth when she was ready. They were family. They protected each other. And whatever she hid, she would reveal when she felt she had to.

Meanwhile, the agent gently pushed open the door to the women's restroom and approached the mirror. The white lighting highlighted every detail her gaze tried to minimize.

And there they were, the marks. A faint redness, barely visible from a distance, but clear enough for someone observant—like Mark—to notice.

She sighed, bringing a hand to her forehead.

Of course… It shouldn't have surprised her that Jackson's "attempted tickling" had left such an obvious trace. He had that impossible mix of playful and possessive, a way of subtly and meticulously claiming space.

The truth was that night, their kisses hadn't stopped where she would normally have drawn a line. They'd allowed themselves more… More caresses, more closeness in their physical touches, more breaths mingling in a single, intimate rhythm that suggested they could disregard their boundaries. And many signs on her body bore witness to it.

She had to admit it—at least to herself—it felt good. Too good. Part of her had even wanted to continue, to let herself go further… but she had to stop before things escalated to an intimacy she wasn't yet ready for. Not out of fear of him, but out of fear of what this meant within her own life, her mission, her promises and commitments.

Even so, when she left Jackson's apartment that night—her heart racing and her cheeks burning—she felt that embarrassing, warm mix of someone who crosses a line they didn't know they wanted.

Remembering it now made her cheeks flush again.

No. Not now. It wasn't the time to think about kisses, or furtive caresses, or marks she shouldn't have. It was time to work, to be an agent again, to keep her composure.

She took a deep breath and began to cover the marks with makeup, blending until they disappeared under a perfectly even layer. When her reflection regained its professional appearance, she recovered her composure and strode out of the restroom.

Returning to the hallway to go to the room where Mark was, she was surprised to see several people hurrying out of the room reserved for the jury and judge, some with worried expressions, others murmuring anxiously among themselves.

(Y/n) frowned and approached one of the court clerks. “Excuse me… did something happen?”

The assistant, seeing her government ID on the tag of her collar, responded without delay, “We have just received new documentation from those affected by the train incident. The opposing defense has requested a postponement pursuant to Article 42-B of the extraordinary hearing rules, which allows for immediate rescheduling when supplementary last-minute evidence is presented.”

She paused, watching the others hurry by. “The hearing will most likely be postponed until Monday. The judge will issue an official statement to the press in a few minutes.”

“I understand. Thank you,” the (h/c)-nette replied with a slight nod, not wanting to interrupt more of her time. The assistant apologized for having to return to her duties and hurriedly left.

The agent stood motionless in the hallway for a moment, letting the news sink in. The postponement changed more than just a date. In two days, the hearing would occupy the space designated for the NSA's monthly meeting, that mandatory gathering where updates, protocol adjustments, and new strategies were presented to all participants.

Now everything was suspended. And, even more unsettling, everything would be at the mercy of the Supreme Court's preliminary ruling. The actions of every agent, every department, every super involved would depend on that decision. Including her.

She took a breath and resumed walking toward the room where she expected to find Mark again. But when she arrived, she saw him leaving at that very moment.

He smiled at her—a smile that didn't bring relief but rather a certain… complicity. A subtle warning. She didn't understand until she recognized the person behind the brunette. Her father.

Mark, with a slight nod, indicated that she should enter. (Y/n) understood the message instantly.

The door closed behind her with a soft click, silencing the murmur of the hallway. The young agent greeted him formally, “Sir (L/n). Good morning… I didn't expect to see you here.”

The general turned slightly to look at her, his expression stern but not hostile, “Good morning to you as well. We need to discuss your mission, (Y/n).”

Those words said it all. The closed-door meeting between government personnel, militia representatives, and NSA leadership—the very meeting she hadn't been allowed to attend—had already taken place. Probably the night before, and now her father would inform her of the initial findings.

The (h/c)-nette straightened slightly, assuming the posture befitting her role as informant. “What decision have they reached, sir?”

The general held her gaze, direct and unadorned. “The militia high command has decided not to participate—or rather, not to contribute—to the NSA's affairs regarding this case. We will abide strictly by the Supreme Court's decision.”

Then he turned to the window, his figure rigid, hands clasped behind his back, in that posture that marked the boundary between father and superior, while she remained still. “The council has requested that you be transferred back to our ranks,” he continued, surveying the crowd of journalists on the parade ground. “But I’ve convinced them to allow you to remain in your current position, temporarily. Only until we see how this case develops.”

The weight of those words fell with a silent gravity. A narrow margin that would dictate what her mission would be after that statement.

The general continued, without taking his eyes off the window, “When the court issues its preliminary ruling, Mark will return to us. We’ll need sharp minds to design the next strategies from our side.”

The sentence carried an implicit, almost stark, message. They didn’t trust the current stability of the NSA. They didn’t want to be tied to a political conflict that could erupt at any moment, nor did they want to assume responsibilities that would tarnish the military’s image in the eyes of the public. They preferred neutrality, strategic distance.

Just following orders. Orders that, depending on the court’s ruling, could completely redefine the role of the supers in the country, imposing mobility restrictions, forced relocations, or even much more drastic decisions.

The agent took a deep breath, feeling a slight lump form in her throat. “Do you think there will be any restrictions on Supers?” she asked cautiously, already aware of the answer.

“It’s very likely,” her father replied bluntly. “It depends on what parliament decides.” The general lowered his gaze for a moment before asking again in a low voice, “I just hope it doesn’t come to the extreme of implementing Plan E-7.”

That code… just uttering it sent shivers down her spine. The young woman’s brow furrowed immediately. She knew that plan perfectly well. Its technical name was cold, but its purpose was anything but ambiguous: to eliminate the supers. She herself was part of the first operational phase. Her power wouldn’t be used to protect, but to immobilize the targets without her being seen, while others completed the rest of the process.

And deep down, she knew it; once that operation was over, she too would be considered a dangerous variable. An expendable resource. A weapon that, after being fired, could be discarded.

The tension in her hands began to become evident, and the general observed her with a mixture of concern and understanding. He recognized that gleam in her eyes; it wasn't fear… it was clarity. The weight of understanding too much.

“Don't worry,” he murmured, his tone more human than military. He took a step toward her and placed his hand on her shoulder, warm and firm. “I'll do everything I can to prevent things from coming to that. After all, the supers are people too. They've lived among us for years.”

The young woman's gaze softened at his words. “And even if not everyone agrees with me… that life must also be respected.”

The (h/c)-nette felt that, despite the whirlwind of political tensions, she could still cling to something solid, her father's words. She trusted him. Not because he was a general or because he represented the military, but because behind the uniform was still the man who had once held her in his arms, accepted her into his home, and raised her with the same discipline—and quiet affection—as the rest of his battalion.

Even though she was a super, he always treated her like any other person, not like a weapon. That thought warmed her chest with a mixture of relief and sadness.

She nodded gratefully, but also with a weight that wouldn't dissipate. She knew that if that extreme scenario were to become a reality, she would be forced to follow orders. Perhaps, at least, that would guarantee her a modicum of mercy; the impression of being an agent who maintained her professionalism to the very end. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The general gently removed his hand from her shoulder before asking her a question that, although familiar, struck her differently this time, “How are your powers holding up? Have you used them lately?”

It wasn't unusual. Every time they met, he would ask about her abilities, if there were any updates, incidents, or any issues. It was his way of both caring for her and monitoring her health.

She took a deep breath. She had, in fact, used them recently. A week ago, during the incident with Varón Von Ruthless, she had suffered that fainting spell. An overload. A limit she hadn't foreseen.

In her report, she described the event as a "malfunction of the villain's machine," and mentioned how Universal Man had acted thanks to Gamma Jack's strategic suggestion. A clean, technical, smooth version.

She didn't add anything more. She knew Mr. Grayson would take care of telling her father the details that really mattered… or at least the most worrying ones.

That had been the last time she'd used her powers to their fullest extent, and since then she'd limited herself to something much more mundane: preventing Jackson from being so touchy with her during their alone time.

“Yes, but… regularly,” she finally replied, maintaining a calm, almost casual tone. “I haven't needed to use my abilities lately.”

It was a half-truth. She preferred to keep to herself what she'd recently discovered… that feeling that her powers weren't just stabilizing, but expanding.

“I see…” the general murmured, glancing at his daughter out of the corner of his eye, as if assessing details she thought were invisible. Then he added, almost casually, a comment that took her by surprise “I heard you're now monitoring Gamma Jack. Why didn't you mention it the last time we met?”

The question stopped her in her tracks for a moment. (Y/n) felt a pang of guilt immediately; she hadn't withheld that information out of disobedience, but because in those days her mind had been completely absorbed by the uncontrolled—and evolving—powers. The mention of the change had simply been relegated to the back burner.

“With the temporary disabling of my abilities by the medication… it didn't occur to me to mention it,” she answered honestly, her voice steady. “I didn't consider it that relevant, since I'm still monitoring a red-card super. The protocol remains the same.”

“I understand.” The general nodded, but didn't break that slight, analytical gaze. A silent suspicion lingered, hanging between them. “Rather, Grayson mentioned that your position was compromised during one of your monitoring assignments… and that you were close to being discovered by Gamma Jack.”

The (h/c)-nette frowned. So there was a report after all. If they had taken note of the incident, that night at the bar where the agents monitoring other supers had witnessed her closeness with Jackson. Why hadn't her supervisor informed her? What was the point?

Before, the agent had convinced herself it was because of the trust they had placed in her. Or that, being the only one capable of filling that role without an immediate replacement, some warnings were "omitted for the sake of efficiency." But that explanation no longer sufficed.

Even so, she controlled her discomfort and concealed it beneath her impeccable composure. "I managed the situation so that my position wasn't compromised," she replied with calculated neutrality, without adding any further details. She didn't want to lie, but neither did she want to raise any more questions.

Mr. (L/n) observed her with a silence so serene it was unsettling. There was no anger, no reproach, but there was a profound reading of her body language. And seeing that spark of hidden frustration in his daughter—one she tried to conceal with military discipline—he drew his own conclusions.

“So,” he said, raising an eyebrow slightly, “that contradicts what Mark said about you having some kind of ‘arrangement’ with the Super, to keep up appearances.” He crossed his arms calmly. “And if that’s true, I’d like to know what kind of arrangement it is.”

(Y/n) remained motionless for a moment, surprised that her father had such complete information about her situation. More complete than she had imagined.

It made sense—he was a calculating and strategic high-ranking individual, and her father—but even so, something inside her tensed. If he knew this, how far had he dug? Had he seen more than he should have about her encounters with Jackson?

She also understood that Mark hadn't had any other choice but to talk. He had always been honest with his father, even when it meant revealing uncomfortable details. She couldn't blame him.

But what she couldn't allow was for her father to know that someone else was aware of the true nature of her powers, much less that this “someone” was a super as opportunistic and megalomaniacal as Gamma Jack.

“That deal,” she began with carefully controlled calm, “is simply based on not getting involved in personal matters. Let's just say I used a certain threat to maintain appearances and ensure that neither party is compromised.”

It was a half-truth. And she knew it. And so did he.

The general looked at her with a raised eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the situation his daughter had gotten herself into, though without losing his military composure. He also noticed that she chose each word carefully.

“There are some activities you haven’t been reporting lately,” he pointed out, his tone not judgmental, but certainly pressing. “Is something wrong?”

The agent felt a small pang in her chest. She deeply admired her father’s strategic mind, his ability to read between the lines, and his almost surgical precision. He had always been attentive, protective, and structured. And before, that attention hadn’t bothered her. On the contrary, it had given her a sense of security. But now…

Now she felt the need to keep certain aspects of her life hidden from him. Especially because she didn’t want her image as an “impeccable agent”—the one he had built and invested so much in—to be tarnished.

All because she had allowed herself a small slip-up, a momentary distraction that she herself considered imprudent, but which hadn’t affected her performance in the slightest, or so she thinks.

“No,” she finally replied, with a gentle but firm gesture. “I just wanted you to trust me a little more. I can handle this; I assure you.”

She kept her gaze steady, a hint of prayer in her eyes, though inside her heart was pounding. “This doesn’t affect my responsibilities or compromise any safety protocols. My performance remains the same; I promise.”

She concealed the truth. That she had indeed disobeyed certain regulations. That she had acted impulsively. But it was also true that she would never let anything, not even this small personal transgression, interfere with her duties. And that was the line she refused to cross.

Mr. (L/n) kept his gaze fixed on his daughter for a few more seconds, assessing her with that mixture of sternness and paternal affection that always characterized him. He had his doubts, yes, but he also clearly remembered that (Y/n) had never given him any reason to doubt her professionalism. She had demonstrated discipline, integrity, and loyalty for years.

Finally, he nodded solemnly. “I know your record,” he said firmly. “And I know you’ve always fulfilled your responsibilities, even in difficult circumstances. I will trust your judgment.”

The tension in the agent’s shoulders eased slightly. It wasn’t a license to let her guard down, but it was a valuable acknowledgment.

“We’d better be going. I have other matters to attend to,” the general concluded, before gesturing politely to the agent and opening the door, maintaining his imposing bearing.

They both left the room. Mark waited a few feet away, and as soon as the (h/c)-nette approached the brunette, the general gave them one last nod as a farewell before leaving.

But before the two agents could speak, there was movement at the opposite end of the corridor. The door to a side room opened, and the judge in charge of the case emerged surrounded by assistants and, among others, lawyers and some Senate staff. They quickly escorted her toward the area prepared for the press.

(Y/n) and Mark watched all of this from a distance. They both knew that approaching the press would only complicate things, so they opted to move to a more secluded room, where a group of workers were watching the broadcast on a wall-mounted television.

As they walked toward it, the brunette broke the silence. “So… how did it go talking to your father?”

The friend glanced at him sideways, feigning indignation. “Well, I was hoping you wouldn’t rat me out about my ‘deal’ with the super I’m in charge of.”

“I had no choice!” he protested, raising his hands slightly, visibly nervous. “Your father gave me that look he gets when he wants to get the truth out of you. Have you seen that look? It’s scary.”

The (h/c)-nette smiled, amused by his dramatics. If she had been in his place, perhaps she would have done the same.

But her expression soon softened, becoming more serious. Reality was beginning to weigh heavily. “I asked a moment ago, and they told me they were postponing the trial for two days, due to the complaints filed by the train victims,” she murmured.

Mark nodded slowly, immediately understanding the reason behind the commotion they had witnessed earlier. He also frowned slightly, thoughtful. It was a predictable pattern; after the precedent set by the employee who filed the first complaint, it was only a matter of time before other victims—perhaps influenced by media pressure or simply desperate to cover their hospital expenses—would do the same.

“It’s clear the government will have to cover more costs,” the brunette commented as he opened the door to the courtroom where several workers were already watching the live broadcast. There, the judge was preparing to address the press.

Cameras and microphones were immediately raised; the murmurs transformed into the usual chaos of reporters eager to capture any statement.

On the screen, the judge appeared on a makeshift platform. Flashes illuminated her visibly tired face, and her voice, amplified by the courtroom speakers, resonated firmly.

“As a result of the additional information presented this morning, it has been decided to grant the defense's request for adjournment. The hearing will resume early Monday morning, at which time the scope of the new statements from those involved and the preliminary assessment of the train incident will be detailed.”

Around her, journalists erupted with questions, but the judge left without pausing, quickly escorted through the throng.

The uneasy murmurs of the staff filled the courtroom. The atmosphere was heavy, thick with uncertainty.

The agent let out a long sigh. It wasn't relief, nor was it concern. It was simply releasing the pressure that had built up from everything that had happened that morning.

Beside her, Mark checked his watch. “I should go,” he said dully. “I shouldn’t leave Universal Man unsupervised for too long. He’s capable of doing something reckless.”

The friend raised an eyebrow, confused. “But you’ve been assigned a replacement for today. You can take a break or continue your investigation.”

The brunette blinked, paused, and then lightly slapped his forehead, remembering that. “You’re right… I’d completely forgotten.”

She smiled at his absentmindedness. “I should be going now.” She shrugged. “I don’t have the same leave as you.”

He nodded understandingly. “Will we see each other soon then?”

In light of what her father had said, (Y/n) understood the weight of the question. It could be the last day they would be at the NSA together, or at least, the last time they would talk as frequently. From now on, they would go their separate ways.

“Of course,” she replied with a grimace that was meant to be a smile. “At the next meeting on Monday. Right here.”

--

Lately, Jackson hadn't gone out on patrol as his alter ego for many days. His body felt it; that inner, almost electric energy vibrated beneath his skin, reminding him of the lightness of moving between buildings and the controlled vertigo of the wind hitting his face as he took flight. It was a freedom that only his identity as a super allowed him to experience, and one he had now had to contain because of the promise he made to his agent.

He vowed to stay off the streets and away from risks, at least for a while, in his superhero guise. But the truth was, a power like his wasn't meant to be kept locked away. The accumulated tension was like a muscle that had been immobilized for too long; it hurts if you ignore it.

Now that his agent wasn't around—preoccupied with the growing controversy surrounding his friend that had been gaining momentum in the media lately—Jackson took advantage of this brief respite. He had no intention of defying her warnings, but he needed a moment to himself, a space where the noise of the world couldn't reach his thoughts.

This time, he didn't care if someone saw him, if a paparazzi managed to snap a blurry photo of him atop a building, or if some curious onlooker called out his name. That wasn't the kind of exposure that bothered him. What truly weighed on his mind was the doubt the situation had sown between his two lives: his existence as a super, free, and radiant; and that of the civilian, discreet, responsible, though not quite as restrained.

And at that breaking point, where both versions of himself seemed to regard each other with suspicion, the thought he'd been avoiding for days surfaced.

He had built his life on such a precise duality that sometimes he struggled to remember where one ended and the other began. As a civilian, he was a moderate man, the competent physicist and chemist who worked at a nuclear power plant and tried to keep a 'low' profile.

In the other persona, as the hero, he allowed himself to be a radiant and confident figure, someone who reveled in the thrill of being the center of attention, of having the spotlight on him. Being Gamma Jack gave him what he silently craved: attention, recognition, the feeling of absolute presence.

But both personas had something in common, one in which he concealed who he truly was. He didn't display his origins, his past, or his most intimate emotional scars. Even his emotions, those that made him human, he kept hidden beneath layers of performative perfection and rehearsed vanity. They were masks he had polished for so long that, in the end, they began to feel like a natural part of him.

Over time, these versions of himself became solid, almost autonomous, and with them, friendships and relationships were born—some genuine, others fleeting—that never fully flourished. As a superhero and as a civilian, his ways of connecting with others varied. Interestingly, only with a few friends was he able to balance both aspects at the same time, although even then, there wasn't such a clear difference between them.

However, now everything felt different. The certainty with which he once inhabited his two lives had become a shifting shadow. Doubt seeped into his thoughts like a slow, imperceptible infiltration, impossible to ignore now. The recent crisis, the fierce scrutiny of the Supers, the days of forced silence, and above all, her presence in his life… all of it was testing the identity he had always believed to be most solid, that of a Super.

Something within him was beginning to crack. It wasn't weakness, but a strange lucidity that forced him to reconsider whether his duality still made sense. He repressed one life himself, trying to maintain balance; the other was destabilized by a person who had entered his world uninvited and yet had become a pivotal figure he didn't know how to remove. (Y/n) had blurred his boundaries. She had made him question things he never thought mattered to someone like him.

As he stood atop a building, the wind cooling his face and his thoughts swirling in disarray, he tried to make sense of that uneasy mix of certainty and fear. Who was he, really, when no one was watching? Gamma Jack? Jackson? Both? Or neither?

He didn't have time to answer himself.

A sudden movement in a nearby alley cut short his thoughts. There, in the shadows cast by metal dumpsters, he saw a platinum-haired girl struggling with a pickpocket trying to snatch her purse.

The decision was immediate. In the blink of an eye, he cleared the edge of the building and descended with precision, cushioning his fall so as not to draw too much attention. He didn't need to use his powers; not in a narrow alley, not with a frightened girl so close.

The pickpocket didn't see him coming. Gamma Jack advanced with a firm movement, grabbed the assailant by the forearm, and spun him around with ease, immobilizing him before he could react. A swift blow—devoid of energy, just well-calculated physical force—was enough to knock him unconscious. Enough to stop him; not enough to cause further harm.

“That was close,” he remarked with a smile that was meant to be light, as if his heart hadn't yet stopped beating from the fall.

The girl, trembling but unharmed, lifted her face. Her eyes were wide, surprised, almost shining with recognition: “Ga— Gamma Jack?” Her voice trembled with shock and excitement. “Are you… Are you okay? You weren’t hurt?”

The blond man suppressed an amused expression. It was always curious how, after a situation like this, people worried about him.

“I’m fine. The question is, are you okay?” he said, bowing slightly, modulating his tone with that chivalry he had practiced so much, but which now felt automatic.

The girl nodded, breathing more calmly. “Thank you… really. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up.”

The super let out a soft laugh, with that confidence that always characterized him. “Let’s just say I have good timing.”

The girl, still nervous, opened her bag and took out a somewhat worn notebook. She held it with both hands, almost as if she feared he might say no. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but… could you sign this?” She flipped through the pages to one where a photograph of him was taped to the page and surrounded by personal notes.

Jackson paused for a second. If it had been days ago, he would have agreed without hesitation, delighted by another ounce of attention. But now, with everything that was happening, signing something like this carried weight. It could be traced. It could be misinterpreted. It could be used.

He looked at her more closely. She was young. Sincere. She was still breathing rapidly from the shock. There was no ulterior motive in her gaze; only gratitude and an excited gleam.

However, his smile didn’t return as before. “Okay, but let’s keep this between us, alright?” He winked at her conspiratorially. “I don’t want to cause a stir among my other fans.”

The platinum-haired girl blushed and nodded quickly, clutching the notebook as if it were a treasure. “I promise. Thank you. Really, thank you.”

The blond man signed elegantly and returned the notebook with a gentle gesture. For a moment, that simple interaction connected him to a part of himself he used to enjoy without question; that public, charismatic version, the one who smiled for the cameras and played at being unforgettable.

But seeing himself reflected in the young woman's grateful eyes, something felt different. That kind of attention, which had once nourished him, now felt hollow. Not empty, but certainly alien to what truly motivated him lately.

A quiet unease settled in his chest. He didn't want to be rude, so, maintaining his gentlemanly composure, he apologized to the girl and left without a fuss. Taking flight gave him a respite he hadn't known he needed. He headed toward his apartment, letting the wind clear his thoughts as the wave of emotions he'd been trying to sort through subsided.

On the way, he understood more clearly what had been troubling him. Being a super no longer meant the same thing as before. His motivation had shifted without him fully realizing it. His need for recognition, for external validation, had given way to something more intimate and far more powerful. Now, his attention gravitated toward a relationship that, although informal, represented a new kind of emotional anchor for him. His agent. That fragile, unexpected, and addictively hopeful beginning.

He had discovered that, being with (Y/n), he didn't need performances or masks. With her, he could allow all his facets to coexist: his vulnerability, his foolish pride, his flirtatious humor, his possessive competitiveness. He had shown her these nuances without fear, and she—to his surprise—had accepted them, and correspondingly, she too was able to confess her own anxieties. Although she still held back and certain areas of her life remained unspoken, the possibility that one day she would fully open up remained, dormant. And that was enough, for now.

Thinking about her had become a natural, almost automatic impulse. And more than that, it awakened in him a genuine desire to see her move forward, to see her explore that power she had been holding back for so long. He wanted to be part of that process, to accompany her and secretly—or perhaps not so secretly—continue searching for a way to win that heart that already bore his name from their first touch.

For Jackson, she was perfect in a way that was impossible for him to rationalize. Beautiful, intelligent, direct, funny, sensual… and on top of that, a formidable super, someone whose power not only impressed him but complemented his own in an almost poetic way. But more than all those qualities, what captivated him was that she could accept his true self without trying to mold it.

The only obstacle was her profession. Belonging to an organization that monitored, regulated, and evaluated supers put them both in a risky game. They couldn't express themselves freely; they couldn't cross certain lines without consequences. And although neither said it aloud, they both knew that the line was becoming fragile.

As he descended to a more secluded area, a thought broke through all his doubts and curved his lips into a genuine smile. She must be waiting for him already at the restaurant where he usually has lunch.

And he, like a true gentleman—or like the man he was allowing himself to be—wouldn't accept leaving his lady waiting.

He barely landed on his apartment balcony before changing quickly, almost with youthful haste. He was straightening his jacket when the emergency radio crackled with the official broadcast. The judge had confirmed the adjournment of the case; the hearing would resume on Monday, after the arrival of new allegations and medical reports regarding the train incident.

Jackson frowned. The tone of the statement was cold, legalistic, and sounded like the net was tightening around the supers. This media frenzy made him uncomfortable; it reminded him that his every move could be publicly dissected.

But he decided to ignore it. He had a more important commitment. And for now, his priority wasn't the noise of the world, but the presence of a single person.

He left his apartment and walked briskly toward the restaurant, his face hidden behind a cap and sunglasses. The sound of cars, the murmurs of passersby, and the smell of freshly baked bread from the nearby bakery greeted him as he turned the last corner. His mood shifted the moment he saw the building's facade.

There she was.

Sitting near the wall, at the most inconspicuous table in the place, intently reading something in her hands. So focused, so lost in her own world, as always. His perfect, resilient agent. He couldn't help but let out a short laugh, almost proud, almost warm.

He approached and sat down next to her. "Did you wait long?" he asked softly, his tone filled with satisfaction at seeing her there.

The (h/c)-nette looked up, and the tension in her shoulders seemed to dissipate as soon as she saw him. "I'm glad you are here," she replied sincerely, allowing herself a small smile.

He didn't miss his chance; he put an arm around her waist, gently pulling her toward him. She jumped, more from the sudden closeness than the gesture itself, and immediately tried to regain her composure.

“Jack,” she whispered, trying to hide her blush as she leaned forward slightly to avoid prying eyes. “I told you to be more discreet in public. I don’t want anyone to get suspicious.”

He leaned forward without removing his arm and placed a quick, warm kiss on her cheek. “Don’t worry,” he murmured with that arrogant confidence he only revealed to her in private. “I’m the only super that comes here. And, believe me, nobody pays that much attention.”

She sighed. Yes, he was right. Even so, part of her job was precisely to avoid these kinds of scenes. Although the restaurant wasn’t full, she didn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression. “Okay,” she finally conceded, keeping her voice low and pushing him away with a finger to his chest. “But don’t push it.”

Jackson smiled a lopsided, victorious smile. “So…” he said, settling in closer, “we’ll proceed with our proposed lunch, shall we?”

The idea belonged to both of them. The day before, they had agreed that, to cope with the limitations of their relationship—that contained, forbidden, yet inevitable relationship—they would have brief encounters over lunch.

(Y/n) didn’t mind granting herself this little respite with him, which disconnected her from the weight of her responsibilities, even though she knew that afterward she would return to the world that demanded she remain grounded.

He loved every second of it; he was aware that, as long as she accepted him by her side, he would cross any boundary.

It was a strange, tense balance, full of limits that they both understood all too well. But it was theirs. And that “theirs” would be the certainty they would hold onto.