A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 0001

Chapter 1

The old chair groaned under Jack Williams’ weight—a long, weary lament that echoed the precarious state of everything around him. The worn upholstery, salvaged from a container behind the gas station where he worked, had irregular holes from which tufts of yellowish foam escaped. He leaned back, feeling the loose springs press against his thin back, but it was the most comfort that life could offer. The room was small, almost suffocating—a cramped cubicle in an old building near the San Diego harbor. The air carried the permanent smell of mold, sea air, and a faint odor of diesel leaking from the half-open window. The only light came from the old monitor, a cold, bluish glow that painted elongated shadows on the peeling walls.

Jack was eighteen, but his body looked like someone life had punished for much longer. Six feet three inches tall, just over seventy kilos—an elongated skeleton wrapped in pale skin and almost nonexistent muscles. He wore only worn-out boxer shorts, the only piece of clothing that brought him any comfort on that hot, stuffy night. A light sweat clung to his skin, but he barely noticed. There, alone, far from the toxic family he left behind in Huntington, West Virginia, he could finally let his guard down. No shouting, no slaps, no disdainful looks from his older brothers or the sour smell of alcohol from his father. Just the silence broken by the hum of the ceiling fan, which spun lazily.

His long, slender fingers glided across the worn keyboard. The computer was a relic—slow, noisy, incapable of running any modern game. It served only what truly mattered: reading digitized comics, watching pirated series, and losing himself in films that transported him, even if only for a few hours, far from that miserable existence. He glanced at the bottom right corner of the screen. 11:30 PM. An hour had already passed since he should have gone to sleep. The next day—or rather, that very day—his shift at the gas station started early, with the scorching sun beating down on the asphalt as he filled the tanks of grumpy truckers. But sleep could wait.

He opened Twitter—or X, as they insisted on calling it now—and immediately regretted it. The debate over the ending of The Boys was in full swing. A bunch of idiots were defending that lazy, ideological conclusion tooth and nail. Jack felt his blood boil. His shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched. He typed quickly, his fingers pressing the keys harder than necessary.

“Have you read the comics? The director has become an ideological fanatic and decided to destroy his own work to push his agenda. Millions of fans waited years for something faithful to the original spirit and this is what they got. Pathetic.”

An answer came almost immediately. Jack read aloud, his low, hoarse voice echoing in the empty room:

“Man… these guys think they understand comics. They want to force their ideology on us and don’t realize they’re destroying something that a lot of people truly love.”

He frowned, anger mixed with deep sadness. Comics, anime, games—those were the only escapes he had. The only places where he felt in control, where the world made sense. And now they wanted to contaminate even that. He closed the tab with an angry click, the mouse squeaking. He took a deep breath, feeling his thin chest rise and fall. He opened another tab, navigated to a webnovel site. He read a few chapters of mediocre stories, full of clichés, but still better than the garbage Hollywood had been producing.

That’s when he appeared.

In the bottom right corner, a flashy ad blinked like bait. A gacha game, one of those addictive ones, with elaborate art and promises of power. Jack raised an eyebrow. It looked… familiar. Like those apps he saw on fanfiction forums, mimicking isekai systems. “ChaosGacha ,” the title read. He hesitated for a second, but boredom and curiosity got the better of him. He clicked.

The screen plunged into absolute darkness. For a long instant, only the white cursor blinked rhythmically in the center, like a solitary mechanical heart in the void. Jack blinked, leaning slightly forward in his creaky chair, his nose almost touching the worn monitor. Then, as if the device were awakening from a deep sleep, words and images began to materialize. Lines of code flowed like luminous veins, strange glyphs appeared and disappeared, and what had been just an old, noisy monitor now seemed to pulse with a disturbing, almost organic vitality.

A login screen appeared with minimalist elegance. Without hesitation, Jack’s long, bony fingers danced across the worn keyboard, automatically filling in the fields: email, password, username. The final click of the “Log In” button sounded louder than it should have in the oppressive silence of the room.

His eyes, previously heavy with the weariness of an exhausting day at the post, were now completely glazed over, his dilated pupils reflecting the cold glare of the screen. The interface that appeared was hypnotically simple—clean lines, a deep black background, elegant typography that conveyed a technological sophistication mixed with something mysterious. It didn’t look like an ordinary website. It looked like one of those well-produced indie games he so desperately sought to escape reality.

He navigated the menu with the stuck mouse and clicked on the highlighted option:

ChaosGacha. The more you give, the more you receive.

Jack’s mouth opened in a crooked smile, a rare flash of genuine amusement cutting through his normally exhausted expression. He immediately remembered an old fanfic he’d devoured on Fanfiction.net years ago—a protagonist with a D20-based system. Fun, but amateurish. This seemed like a much more polished version. A promising little game to pass the night.

The tab changed with a smooth transition. A twenty-sided die materialized in the center of the screen, slowly rotating on its axis. Each face glowed with intricate runes that seemed to move, as if possessing a life of their own—ancient symbols blended with impossible digital circuits. Above the die, a simple and inviting text field: World(s) to Choose From .

Jack took a deep breath, feeling the humid, salty air of the harbor fill his nostrils. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second. Then he typed:

The Boys.

In my mind, images of a dark and cynical universe immediately surfaced: heroes treated like rotten celebrities, corporations manipulating the world, absolute power corrupting in an absolute way. Interesting, rich in potential for intrigue. But still… limited. Too closed off.

He paused, his index finger resting on the keys. A wider, almost predatory smile spread across his hollow face. Then he added:

Invincible.

The comic book series he had read with almost religious devotion. The brutal and visceral beginning, the middle that stumbled in some places, but the ending… Mark Grayson ascending, becoming something much greater, the sovereign of a new paradigm. It would be epic within a game. Jack felt a shiver run down his spine as he imagined the possibilities of crossing the two universes in a virtual campaign.

Clicked Confirm .

A small golden hourglass appeared beside the field, spinning with an almost deliberate slowness. Seconds dragged on. The ceiling fan, which had previously been just background noise, now sounded like a helicopter inside the room, its blades cutting through the hot, stuffy air. Jack’s heart pounded against his prominent ribs—pure gamer excitement. Finally, a striking green symbol pulsed on the screen: World Accepted .

Jack let out a low, hoarse, almost incredulous laugh that echoed off the peeling walls of the room.

“Maybe this little game is much more interesting than I imagined…” he murmured to himself, his voice filled with amusement.

The digital clock in the lower right corner showed exactly midnight. He blinked, surprised by the passage of time.

“Shit…” he muttered, running a hand through his messy, greasy hair. “I’m going to be a complete wreck at work.”

He knew he should turn everything off. He should try to squeeze at least four hours of restless sleep out of that narrow, uncomfortable bed. But he couldn’t. The typical curiosity of someone who spent sleepless nights searching for good stories kept him glued to the screen. He glanced quickly at the initial items section, noticed something listed, but decided to explore it more thoroughly later. For now, it was just a game. A welcome distraction from the miserable life he led.

His eyes swept across the dilapidated room: the narrow bed with worn, yellowed sheets, the cracked sink in the corner stained with rust, the constant smell of mold mixed with sea air and diesel from the port seeping in through the half-open window. The life he had built with so much effort after fleeing Huntington—fleeing his chronically alcoholic father, his now-imprisoned addicted mother, his abusive siblings who treated him like dead weight. Years of neglect, constant humiliation, psychological and physical violence that had molded him into someone reserved, observant, resilient… but still painfully fragile.

For the first time in a long time, Jack felt a warm tingling of genuine excitement in his thin chest. It wasn’t anything profound. It was just a new game, a virtual escape to forget, for a few hours, the smell of gasoline, the rude customers, and the loneliness that weighed on his narrow shoulders.

He leaned even further forward, his thin elbows resting on the wobbly table that creaked under his weight, ignoring the fatigue burning behind his eyelids. The cursor continued blinking patiently, awaiting the next command. The virtual universe inside—with its corrupt heroes, colossal threats, and endless possibilities—suddenly seemed alive and inviting. A form of entertainment he deserved after so long struggling just to survive.

Jack Williams, the skeletal boy from San Diego who could barely run a hundred meters without losing his breath, was about to set the wheel of chaos spinning within a simple game.

He whispered to himself, his voice low and light, almost playful:

“Let’s see how much fun this will bring.”

The computer screen shone a little brighter, as if responding to her relaxed tone, casting a light blue reflection on her pale, tired face.

Jack extended his slender finger and clicked directly on the twenty-sided die that was slowly spinning on the screen. The instant the cursor confirmed the action, the die dramatically accelerated, transforming into a luminous blur of rapidly rotating numbers. Below it, in a small rectangular field, letters and symbols began to parade in a dizzying torrent, too fast to discern any specific word or name—just a hypnotic flow of text that created an almost electric sensation of anticipation.

He leaned in even further, his heart racing with the typical excitement of someone opening an expensive loot box in a new game. The ceiling fan hummed loudly in the stuffy room, and the humid port air felt even heavier against his exposed skin.

“I hope something interesting comes out of this…” he murmured aloud, his hoarse tone echoing in the silence of the miserable apartment.

The speed of the die increased even more, almost frantically, the faces now a swirl of colored lights. The text field below became an indistinct mist. Jack held his breath, his eyes glazed, his slender fingers gripping the edges of the wobbly little table. Then, suddenly, everything stopped. The die made one last slow rotation and locked onto a specific face, emitting a digital sound of confirmation—satisfying, definitive.

A new tab expanded on the screen with a smooth transition, revealing the item’s full profile in a clean and professional layout, exactly like the game systems in the isekai fanfics he consumed so much of.

Item Profile — ChaosGacha System

Item Name: Elite Suit (Technological Agent Suit)
Origin / Reference: The Tuxedo (2002)
Internal Classification: Rare (Level 3) — Advanced Technological Support Tactical Equipment

Description: The Elite Suit is an impeccably presented formal suit—classic black jacket, immaculate white shirt, elegant bow tie, and perfectly polished leather shoes—that conceals extremely advanced technology behind its sophisticated facade. At first glance, it appears to be just an expensive, well-tailored suit, suitable for social settings or disguises. Once activated, it transforms the wearer into an elite agent with temporary superhuman capabilities, dramatically increasing their chances of survival in hostile environments.

Enabled Capabilities:

Autonomous Martial Arts: The suit features an integrated AI system that executes advanced combat movements semi-autonomously. It takes partial control of the user’s body, performing complex fighting sequences. Ideal for users without physical training, as it compensates for the lack of skill with programmed precision and impressive fluidity.

Superhuman Reflexes and Agility: Dramatically increases the user’s reflexes, reaction speed, and motor coordination. Allows them to dodge low-speed projectiles, perform impossible acrobatics, and move with superhuman fluidity for short periods. The wearer’s fragile body is protected from the impact of these movements thanks to intelligent cushioning fibers.

Advanced Environmental Analysis: The suit constantly scans the environment, providing real-time data through a discreet neural interface designed into the protective lenses or directly into the user’s vision. It identifies threats, escape routes, enemy weak points, chemical compositions, and even behavioral patterns. It functions as a “mini-tactical brain”.

Stealth Mode: Activates partial optical camouflage and noise suppression. The suit absorbs light and sound, making the wearer extremely difficult to detect in dark or crowded environments. Perfect for infiltration, espionage, and quick getaways.

Additional Costume Bonuses:

Resistance to moderate damage (cuts, low-caliber gunshots, and impacts). Self-cleaning and limited fiber repair. Maintains an impeccable appearance in any situation (useful for preserving social disguise).

Jack was impressed. His eyes scanned each line of the description with eager attention, almost devouring the text. The name The Tuxedo immediately ignited a warm memory in his chest. As a child, amidst the chaos of the destroyed house in Huntington, one of the few comforts he had was watching the 2002 film repeatedly on an old borrowed DVD. Jackie Chan—the actor who shared the name with him, Jack—was a personal hero. That physical humor, the impossible choreography, the way an ordinary man became extraordinary inside a suit… It was nostalgic. Comforting.

A genuine smile spread across his thin, tired face.

“Wow, that’s great…” he whispered, still smiling. “My character will start the game with something interesting. A rare starting item… It’s worth it.”

He read the description again, imagining the cinematic scenes he could create with it in the game. The Elite Suit seemed perfect for a universe like the fusion of The Boys and Invincible —social disguise, combat, stealth. Exactly the kind of tool a smart protagonist would need.

In the bottom right corner of the screen, Jack clicked the illuminated “Next” button , eager to continue exploring the system. It was already past 1 a.m. on May 26, 2026, but it was worth losing a little more sleep for a game that was starting so well.

However, at the moment the click was registered, something strange happened. The screen flickered once and plunged into a deep, absolute black. The desktop icons and taskbar were still visible at the top, as on any normal computer, but where the game should have been there was only a dark void, unresponsive, unloading, nothing.

Jack blinked, confused, moving the mouse in vain. The cursor slid across the black void.

“I can’t believe I wasted so much time on this crap…” he said aloud, frustration rising rapidly in his hoarse voice. “I have to wake up early. Not tomorrow—today!”

He lightly slammed his palm on the table, annoyed.

“Give it.”

With a heavy sigh, Jack rose from the old chair, which creaked in protest. His thin body protested against the accumulated fatigue. He stretched out his long arm and switched off the computer using the power button. The monitor went dark with a soft click, plunging the room into twilight illuminated only by the orange light of a distant streetlamp streaming through the window.

Exhaustion seemed to crash down on him all at once, like a heavy wave. Jack dragged his feet to the narrow bed, falling practically face down onto the worn, yellowed sheets. Because of his height of six feet three inches, his feet hung off the mattress, his heels touching the cold concrete. You didn’t care about that. The familiar smell of mold and sea air filled her nostrils as she closed her eyes.

Within seconds, sleep completely overtook him—deep and exhausted, carrying with him the lingering images of the Elite Suit and the empty promises of a game that had stalled right at the start.

The sharp, insistent sound of the alarm clock cut through the heavy silence of the room like a rusty blade. It wasn’t just any alarm clock—it was an old model that also functioned as a radio, bought at a secondhand store for five dollars. As soon as the wake-up music ended in a metallic hiss, the deep, lively voice of a radio announcer filled the small room, echoing off the peeling walls.

“Good morning, San Diego! This is Mike Reynolds on 97.3 FM, bringing you the best of classic rock to start your day with energy. And listen up, folks: today is going to be one of those hot, sunny days we love. Temperatures reaching 28 degrees Celsius in the afternoon, clear skies, zero chance of rain in the coming weeks. Perfect for going to the beach or simply enjoying the sun. Now, if you need a strong coffee at a price that won’t break the bank, stop by your nearest Starbucks! Today we have a special promotion: arrive smiling and get 5% off your favorite latte. Come on, San Diego, start the day with a smile!”

Jack lay there for a few more seconds, his eyes still closed, gathering strength to face another day. The thin mattress beneath his skeletal body creaked with every slight movement, the worn fabric smelling faintly of cheap soap and dried sweat. Slowly, he opened his eyes, staring at the low ceiling, yellowed by old leaks. A sigh escaped his cracked lips.

With an effort that seemed greater than it should have been, Jack sat on the edge of the bed. His long, thin arms stretched upward, his joints cracking audibly. At six feet three inches, he almost touched the ceiling with his fingertips. A wide yawn escaped, revealing white, but slightly crooked teeth. He scratched his back over his old underwear, feeling the dry skin and the damp air of the room cling to his skeletal body.

The room was tiny, almost claustrophobic, but organized in an almost obsessive way. Despite the glaring poverty, Jack refused to live like a pig. “Poor yes, dirty no,” he repeated mentally like a mantra. The walls, painted a faded beige decades ago, showed signs of dampness near the baseboard. Even so, there were no piles of dirty laundry on the floor—everything folded and put away. A small plywood bookcase, found on the street and reinforced with bent nails, housed his precious collection of yellowed comic books. Each volume perfectly aligned, without accumulated dust. Next to it, the old desktop computer with a CRT monitor hummed slightly even when switched off.

The poster on the wall opposite the bed looked slightly different that morning, but Jack, still sleepy, didn’t notice the subtle change. The dim light streaming through the small window, covered by a thin, faded curtain, revealed the dust dancing in the air. The room smelled of a mixture of old mold, cheap detergent, and the faint scent of incense he occasionally burned to mask the building’s odor.

Getting up, Jack took the few steps to the bathroom, which was practically an extension of the bedroom. The cracked ceramic floor was cold under his bare feet. The old towel, worn at the edges but clean, hung on the rusty shower stall. He turned on the shower and the water came out lukewarm, almost icy for the first few seconds, making him shiver. The uneven jet hit his pale, bony skin, washing away the night’s weariness. He lathered himself with the generic soap, feeling the bones of his hips and ribs protruding under his fingers. After drying himself quickly, he wrapped the towel around his waist and returned to the bedroom.

The radio continued chattering in the background, now in a more serious tone:

“…and in local news, San Diego continues to register a worrying increase in crime. Last year alone, there were five robbery cases in this port area, two of them fatal. Police Chief Harold Simmons will hold a press conference today at 2 PM. Stay tuned to Channel 7 for more details. And listen, folks, there are rumors about a new drug route forming in the city. The police have already assembled a task force, but you know how it is… without outside help, it’s difficult to contain these gangs. Stay alert on the streets!”

Jack ignored most of it, using the sound as background noise as he rummaged through the makeshift wardrobe—actually, a corner of the room separated by a plastic curtain. He grabbed his worn black jeans, a white and red plaid flannel shirt with a few pulled threads, and a worn denim jacket that had seen better days. Under the bed, he found his old black All Stars, with worn soles and a discreet hole in the toe—for which he first slipped on an extra sock.

Dressing slowly, he stopped before the old, cracked mirror on the wall. The reflected image was of a tall, excessively thin young man, with hunched shoulders and tired green eyes that carried the shadows of sleepless nights. The loose flannel shirt hid his narrow chest, the tight belt held his trousers in place, and the worn-out sneakers completed the look of someone whom life had not treated kindly. He ran a hand through his messy brown hair, trying unsuccessfully to tame it.

On the makeshift dresser beside the bed—a piece of plywood he had sanded and painted himself—he picked up his thin faux leather wallet. A few crumpled bills, his ID, and a family photo he hadn’t yet had the courage to throw away. He stuffed everything into his back pocket and cast one last glance around the room.

The space was a silent declaration of resilience. The open-plan kitchen and living room shared the same cramped space. The old, olive-green sofa, its tears patched with duct tape, was impeccably arranged, with a folded blanket draped over the arm. The tube television—a thirty-year-old monster that weighed more than he did—occupied the center of the opposite wall, connected to an old video game console. No dirty dishes in the tiny kitchen sink; the refrigerator hummed softly, but Jack knew it was almost empty—just a bottle of water and leftover stale bread.

He picked up his old foldable cell phone from the sofa, checked the time, and stuffed it in his pocket. There would be no breakfast. The refrigerator confirmed it: nothing. But at the gas station where he worked, he could “borrow” a sandwich or two from the convenience store. Survival was an art he had mastered early on.

Leaving the apartment, Jack locked the door with the rusty key. The fifth-floor hallway smelled of mold, old cigarettes, and fried food. The elevator had been broken for years—the grumpy landlady, the building’s owner, saw no reason to fix something that “still worked by the stairs.” He descended the five flights of narrow stairs, feeling each step creak under his light weight. The cold, sticky metal handrail slid beneath his palm.

As he stepped outside, the San Diego morning sun greeted him intensely. The air was warm, heavy with the salty smell of the nearby port, diesel from trucks, and the faint aroma of street food from some distant cart. The clear blue sky contrasted with the peeling facade of the old building where he lived.

Jack adjusted his jacket on his narrow shoulders, shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, and began walking down the cracked sidewalk, his All Stars clinking rhythmically against the hot concrete.

The five-minute walk to the bus stop felt like an eternity under the already scorching San Diego sun. The cracked asphalt radiated heat, making the air tremble slightly around Jack’s feet. His worn All Stars thumped rhythmically against the ground, each step sending small waves of fatigue through his long, thin legs. The port district exuded the salty smell of the sea mixed with the diesel from the trucks roaring down the main avenue. He kept his head down, shoulders hunched, as if trying to occupy less space in the world.

When he arrived at the stop, an old, noisy bus pulled over with a tired hydraulic squeaker, its doors opening with a metallic sigh. The vehicle looked like it had come straight out of an 80s museum—faded paint, cracked vinyl seats, and an engine coughing up dark smoke. Jack climbed the worn steps, inhaling the strong smell of sweat, cheap cologne, and stale coffee. The bus was already packed with low-income workers: faces etched with fatigue, rumpled uniforms, calloused hands clutching plastic bags or simple cell phones. There were mothers with sleepy children in their laps, laborers with helmets on their knees, and immigrants with distant gazes.

At six feet three inches tall, Jack towered above most heads, like a lone tower in a sea of ​​stooped shoulders. He made his way slowly down the narrow aisle, gripping the cold metal bars that vibrated with the vehicle’s movement. He stopped in the middle, balancing himself as the bus lurched forward. There were no free seats. He stood there, his thin body swaying gently with the curves of the road, his eyes fixed on the fogged-up window.

Jack’s mind wandered in a familiar torpor. Chronic fatigue weighed on his eyelids, creating deep dark circles that marked his pale face. Twelve hours a day on the job, six days a week—almost no days off. His frail body protested silently: back pain, tense shoulders, an exhaustion that went beyond the physical. Everything around him became background noise—murmured conversations, the engine’s rumble, the occasional static from the driver’s radio. He simply watched the city go by outside the window, tall glass and concrete buildings reflecting the golden morning light, the dense traffic, the constant movement of a metropolis that never slept.

In a quick flash, something caught his attention. The bus was sped down a busy avenue when a gigantic poster plastered to the side of a tall building appeared and vanished in a matter of seconds. A man with perfectly styled golden hair, a bright blue suit clinging to his athletic build, and a flowing cape in the colors of the American flag. The pose was heroic: soaring with a confident smile, chin held high, as if the whole world belonged to him. Jack blinked, processing the image for a moment.

“Cheap marketing ,” she thought, with a slight twist of her lips. ” Your banner isn’t going to save this sinking series. Amazon…”

The poster was quickly left behind, swallowed by the bus’s speed. Jack turned his gaze to the horizon, where the blue sky met the distant ocean. A heavy, weary reflection overwhelmed him. How long can I endure this? The rhythmic movement of the bus cradled his thoughts like an uncomfortable cradle. He felt trapped in an endless cycle—wake up, work, survive, sleep. ChaosGacha , that mysterious website he had found the night before, still echoed in the back of his mind like a dangerous spark of hope. But for now, it was just another ordinary day in a life that seemed destined for mediocrity.

Forty minutes later, the bus stopped at the final stop with one last jolt. Jack got off with the group of workers, the fresh morning air touching his face. There were still thirty minutes of walking to the gas station. The streets were becoming more industrial, with old warehouses, mechanic shops, and the constant smell of fuel and hot asphalt. His feet ached inside his worn sneakers, but he kept going, his hands shoved in the pockets of his battered jacket.

The gas station emerged as a relic of the past. Antiquated fuel pumps that seemed to have come straight from the 20th century, neon signs that flickered faintly even in broad daylight, and a small convenience store with windows fogged by the dust of time. The owner, Mr. Harlan, clearly saw no reason to modernize the place. And, strangely, that gave it a peculiar charm. Elderly people came to buy cigarettes and newspapers, reminiscing about their youth. Even millennials showed up from time to time, drawn by the Instagrammable nostalgia—the checkered floor, the shelves full of old candies, the wooden counter polished by time.

Jack entered through the back, using his rusty key on the heavy metal door. The warehouse was organized but cramped—stacked soda crates, packets of chips and motor oil lined up on shelves. He walked in silently, enjoying the cooler, more humid air of the warehouse, and made his way to the manager’s small office.

He knocked twice on the splintered wooden door.

“You may come in,” replied an old, hoarse voice.

Jack opened the door. Seated behind a small desk, surrounded by stacks of papers and a tube computer that hummed like an old engine, was Mr. Harlan. A man of about seventy, with a thick, gray mustache dominating his wrinkled face. He smoked an unfiltered cigarette, the smoke rising in lazy spirals and filling the room with the strong smell of tobacco.

The old man looked up from the screen, frowning.

“You’re late.”

Jack took his foldable phone out of his pocket, checked the time, and shrugged.

“Five minutes.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harlan retorted, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. “I’ll deduct it from my salary.”

“All right,” Jack murmured, his voice low and resigned.

He left the room and went to the small time clock in the hallway. He placed his finger on the worn digital reader, which beeped with an old electronic sound, registering his arrival. He picked up the faded red apron hanging on the hook, put it on over the flannel, and adjusted the straps on his narrow shoulders.

Harlan appeared at the office door, still with the cigarette between his yellowed fingers.

“Aisle 3 needs cleaning. The truck drivers spilled soda again.”

“All right, all right,” replied Jack, too tired to argue.

He went to the materials room, grabbed the long-handled mop, a cracked plastic bucket, and filled it with warm water and cheap detergent. The smell of synthetic pine rose strongly. Walking to the front, he pushed open the door that connected the storage room to the convenience store.

The store’s interior was a time capsule from the 90s. Dark wood shelves, fluorescent lights buzzing on the ceiling, an old soda machine that hissed as it dispensed drinks. The owner clearly saw no reason to modernize—and, strangely, that gave the place a unique charm. Elderly people came to buy cigarettes and newspapers, reminiscing about their youth; even millennials showed up occasionally, drawn by the nostalgia of the checkered floor, the shelves full of old candies, and the wooden counter polished by time.

Jack pushed the bucket to hallway 3, dipped the mop in the water, and began to work. The movements were mechanical, repetitive. As he cleaned the sticky floor, his mind wandered again. This is my life. Cleaning up other people’s messes for a salary that barely covers the rent. The smell of detergent mingled with the fresh coffee from the nearby counter. His thin arms ached from the effort, his back complained of the hunched posture. He thought of the family he had left behind, the traumas he still carried like invisible chains, the distant dream of a different life.

The long day had barely begun.