A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 0003

Chapter 3

The late afternoon dragged on lazily inside the gas station convenience store, the San Diego sun leaning toward the horizon and painting the fogged windows with warm shades of orange that contrasted with the cool, slightly damp interior. Jack Williams sat behind the weathered wooden counter, his tall, thin body slightly bent over the old cash register, his long, pale fingers counting the bills with mechanical precision—separating the one, five, ten, and twenty dollar bills into neat piles, his dark green eyes half-closed in concentration. The smell of old ink from the bills mingled with the lingering aroma of burnt coffee and snacks that still hung in the air, impregnated in the walls and shelves like an olfactory memory of a full day’s shift.

Each bill was carefully flipped over and double-checked. He couldn’t afford any mistakes, not with Mr. Harlan returning early tomorrow and the constant threat of deductions for any discrepancy in the closing. His narrow shoulders were tense, his back aching slightly from the prolonged posture, but his mind functioned on autopilot—a survival ritual he had mastered in the months of working there, as ingrained in his routine as his own breathing.

The bell above the door rang with that sharp, familiar tinkle, breaking the relative silence of the nearly empty shop. Jack slowly raised his head, his disheveled brown hair falling over his forehead, and his eyes narrowed for a moment at the figure entering with confident, slightly dragging steps.

It was Kevin Harlan, the owner’s son—a young man the same age as Jack, eighteen, but with a completely different presence. Short, about 5’7″, he barely reached Jack’s shoulders. His tousled red hair escaped from under a dark woolen beanie, despite the stifling San Diego heat that made the asphalt outside ripple. He wore a black T-shirt that was too tight on his prominent abdomen, printed with a smiling white skull in the center, covered by a worn denim jacket that definitely didn’t match the temperature. Wide beige pants and a pair of brand new, immaculate All Stars completed the look. His poorly trimmed red beard unevenly covered his chin and cheeks, as if he had given up halfway through. Kevin entered with a wide smile, his brown eyes shining with a mixture of theatrical enthusiasm and chronic sloppiness.

“Great Jack!” he exclaimed, his loud, dramatic voice echoing through the store, his short arms outstretched in an exaggerated greeting. “It’s great to see you here today, mate!”

Jack stopped counting the bills, neatly arranged the stacks on the counter, and raised a thin eyebrow, his hollow face maintaining a neutral and slightly tired expression. His chapped lips moved with the dry, familiar tone of someone who had been through this conversation countless times before.

” I’m here every day, Kevin. You should know that.”

Kevin approached the counter, his smile even wider, his robust body swaying slightly with each step. He rested his elbows on the wood and leaned forward, the faint scent of sweat mixed with something sweet—perhaps fresh marijuana—reaching Jack. His eyes gleamed with that lazy confidence of someone who knew that, one day, all of this would be his.

“You know I don’t care much about work,” Kevin replied, shrugging casually, his beanie slipping slightly off his head.

Jack let out a short sigh and leaned back in the swivel chair, which creaked under his light weight. He crossed his arms over his narrow chest, the plaid flannel stretching slightly over his bony shoulders.

But your father cares. Mainly because one day all of this will be yours.

Kevin gasped, rolling his eyes dramatically, his round face flushing slightly at the mention of his father. The smile didn’t disappear completely, but took on a defensive tone, the corners of his mouth pulling down for a second.

“Not if I have employees like you,” he retorted, winking as if it were a brilliant joke.

Jack frowned, trying to understand where the conversation was going. Before he could answer, Kevin leaned even further over the counter, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone, his brown eyes quickly scanning the empty store.

Could you lend me some money?

Jack’s face hardened immediately. He uncrossed his arms, his thin hands landing firmly on the counter, his fingers tapping once in a sign of suppressed irritation.

No, no, and no. You know very well how your father reacts when I let you take money from the cash register.

Kevin didn’t give up easily. He gave a forced, nervous laugh, running a hand through his beard as he swayed on the heels of his new All Stars.

” But it’s only a little… about two hundred dollars.”

Jack didn’t repeat the words. He simply fixed his green eyes on Kevin’s with a calm intensity that the other seemed unable to absorb—a seriousness that made speech unnecessary.

Kevin sighed dramatically, his robust body sinking against the counter, his face taking on a pleading, almost childlike expression.

” Come on, man, I owe money to a drug dealer. He’s collecting.”

Jack leaned back in his chair, which creaked loudly in the silence of the shop, and ran a hand over his thin face, feeling the dry skin and deep dark circles under his fingers. A wave of disbelief and pity mingled across his expression—his brows furrowed, his mouth pressed into a thin line. How could someone be so irresponsible? His chest tightened slightly with unwanted memories of his own family, destroyed by addiction.

“Didn’t your father put you in a rehabilitation clinic?” he asked, his voice laden with subtle but genuine judgment.

Kevin shrugged again, his smile returning lazily, as if the matter were trivial.

” I applied it, but I stopped using the powder. Now it’s just green. Does that count as an upgrade?”

Jack stared directly at him, his green eyes narrowing with a mixture of exasperation and deep sadness. He saw in him the distorted reflection of everything he detested in his own story: the waste, the weakness, the repetition of toxic cycles. Kevin was the heir to a business that, despite being modest, offered stability. He could be studying, building something. Instead, he was just a young man lost in vices, wearing skull t-shirts and a jacket unsuitable for the San Diego heat.

“Man, it’s impossible,” Jack said finally, his voice low and resolute, shaking his head slowly.

Kevin rested his forehead on the counter for a moment, feigning defeat, before straightening up with an exaggerated sigh.

Okay, okay. I’ll ask my mom. But can I at least grab a few things here and put them on my dad’s tab?

Jack shrugged, resigned. After all, Kevin was the owner’s son. It wasn’t worth fighting over. He made a vague gesture towards the shelves.

Kevin walked through the aisles with heavy steps, grabbing items at random: a vibrant red can with Maeve’s face on the packaging—the same actress Jack had noticed on the new shipment of sodas—a large bag of crispy snacks, some wrapped chocolates, and a box of cookies. He returned to the counter with his arms full, placing everything on the wooden surface with a soft thud.

“Write this down and pass it on to my dad,” Kevin said with a casual smile, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Jack pulled a yellowed notepad from under the counter, and the pen scratched the paper as he jotted down each item in the precise, organized handwriting of someone who had learned that details mattered when the boss checked everything the next day.

Kevin leaned against the counter, his stocky body slightly inclined forward as he plunged his hand into the bag of chips he had opened, the crunchy sound filling the space between the words. Crumbs fell onto the skull printed on his black t-shirt, but he didn’t seem to mind, chewing with lazy enthusiasm, his woolen hat crooked over his red hair and his beard trembling with each bite. His brown eyes gleamed with that nerdy excitement that always surfaced when the subject turned to comic books.

“Did you read the last chapter of Science Dog ?” he asked between bites, his voice muffled by the snack but full of genuine curiosity. “The twist with the dimensional villain was insane, man.”

Jack, who was still organizing the last of the bills in the cash register, stopped completely. He slowly raised his head, his thin eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion, his dark green eyes narrowing as he searched his memory. Science Dog? He couldn’t recall any comic book with that name. His collection was vast, but that title meant nothing to him.

“No… I didn’t read that,” he replied, his voice low and hesitant, running a hand through his messy brown hair. “I was following the new Batman Absolute saga . It’s insane.”

The silence that followed was brief, but heavy. Kevin stopped chewing for a second, the snack stuck between his teeth, and looked at Jack with an expression of pure, almost comical confusion. His round cheeks flushed slightly, his reddish eyebrows arching high as he tilted his head, his beanie slipping even further to the side. The contrast between the two nerds—one tall, thin, and reserved; the other short, stocky, and outgoing—became even more evident in that moment of unexpected disconnection.

” Batman Absolute ?” Kevin repeated, his voice thick with genuine disbelief, as if Jack were speaking another language. “What’s a Batman? A story about a bat-man? I’ve never heard of it.”

The two exchanged confused glances, their eyes meeting for several seconds in a silent impasse. Jack felt a strange shiver run down his spine, the expression on his thin face shifting from surprise to subtle concern. Kevin, who was obsessively in love with Batman—capable of reciting entire arcs of The Dark Knight Returns or Year One from memory—now seemed to have no idea the character existed. The confusion on his friend’s round face was completely genuine: no trace of irony, no sign of joking. Just pure ignorance.

“Batman. Bruce Wayne,” Jack said slowly, observing the other’s reaction with analytical attention, his low voice heavy with disbelief. “That guy at the rehab clinic did something to your head, huh?”

Kevin shrugged, stuffing another handful of chips into his mouth, crumbs falling onto the counter. His smile was casual, but his brown eyes still carried that haze of genuine confusion.

” I don’t know, man. I’m not familiar with that story. If it’s so good, can you show me some issues?”

Jack was completely bewildered, his thin body leaning slightly forward, his long fingers drumming on the counter as he processed the words. His mind, always analytical and observant, raced to find explanations. Kevin without Batman was like the ocean without salt—it simply didn’t make sense. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. Still, the offer came naturally, driven by the routine and loneliness they both shared.

“My shift ends in ten minutes,” Jack said, checking the time on his foldable phone. “The editions are at my apartment. Luckily, I don’t have to take the bus back today.”

Kevin’s face lit up instantly, a wide smile spreading across his face, revealing teeth slightly yellowed from the occasional smoke. He clapped his hands exaggeratedly, his stocky body swaying with excitement.

” Great idea! Can I sleep there tonight?”

Jack hesitated for a second, but finally nodded, his tired expression softening into amused resignation.

” You can, but you’ll sleep on the couch. I don’t want to have to wipe your drool off my pillow again like last time.”

Kevin let out a hoarse laugh, scratching his beard with his chubby hand, his face flushing slightly at the embarrassing memory.

It only happened once, and we had drunk too much that night!

Jack simply nodded again, a slight, ironic smile curving his chapped lips. Kevin, still chewing, pointed to the shelves with renewed enthusiasm.

” Great. The beer’s on me.”

As Kevin made his way to the liquor aisle with heavy, awkward steps, his short body swaying between the antique shelves, Jack murmured softly, almost to himself:

” Of course it’s on you… you don’t pay anyway.”

At that moment, the bell on the back door rang and a man in his thirties entered the reception area. Latino, with slightly caramel-colored skin, short stature—about 1.66 m—short, dark hair, Carlos’s face, marked by premature wrinkles, carried the typical weariness of a family man who never had enough time. He approached the counter with an apologetic smile, adjusting his uniform shirt.

“Buenas tardes, niño,” he greeted in light Spanish, mixed with heavily accented English. “How are you?”

Jack turned around, relieved, and checked the time on his foldable phone.

” I’m so glad you’re here. Ten minutes late, Carlos.”

Carlos raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, his face expressing genuine guilt, his tired brown eyes softening.

” I’m sorry, Jack. I had a problem with my kids, but it’s all sorted out now.”

Knowing his colleague’s honest character, Jack didn’t pressure him. He knew Carlos wasn’t malicious—he was just a man trying to balance work and family in an increasingly tough city.

Okay. The cash register has been checked. See you tomorrow.

Carlos offered a brief, respectful greeting, taking his place behind the counter with a sigh of relief. Jack went to the back, took off his faded red apron, clocked out on the old machine with an electronic beeper, and left through the back door, feeling the warm afternoon air touch his pale skin. He walked around the building and stopped at the main entrance of the convenience store, the setting sun warming his thin face.

A few minutes later, Kevin emerged from the store carrying paper bags full of snacks, chocolates, and other treats, as well as a case of ice-cold beers balanced on his other arm. The glass of the bottles sweated slightly in the heat, droplets running down the labels. The redhead’s round face glistened with sweat and excitement.

“Ready for the night?” he asked, his voice cheerful.

Jack nodded, shoving his hands into the pockets of his worn-out jacket.

Okay.

They walked to Kevin’s vintage Camaro—a well-preserved 1980s model, painted black with impeccable white accents, its body gleaming in the setting sun. Kevin opened the trunk with a metallic click and carefully placed the bags and box inside, slamming the lid shut. He climbed into the driver’s seat, the seat creaking under his weight, while Jack took the passenger seat, stretching his long legs in the cramped space.

The V8 engine roared with power as Kevin turned the key, and the car glided smoothly down the street toward Jack’s dilapidated apartment. Warm wind streamed in through the open windows, ruffling their hair. The radio, initially crackling with irregular static, finally tuned in clearly enough for the local news to fill the car’s interior.

The old Camaro sped down San Diego harbor avenue, its V8 engine cutting through the warm afternoon air that slowly turned to twilight, while the smell of old leather, cold beer discreetly leaking from the cooler in the trunk, and the artificial aroma of the chips Kevin continued to devour voraciously filled the interior. Jack leaned back in the passenger seat, his dark green eyes half-closed as he watched the industrial landscape pass by—graffiti-covered warehouses, prematurely flickering streetlights, the salty ocean horizon in the background. Kevin drove with one hand, the other tucked into the bag of chips, his stocky body settled in the creaky seat, his beanie still crooked over his red hair, and his ill-fitting jacket clinging to his sweaty skin.

Suddenly, the radio tuned in clearly and a deep, urgent announcer’s voice filled the car, the professional tone mixed with a palpable tension that made the air inside the vehicle instantly heavier:

” Attention, San Diego! Breaking news from 97.3 FM! A shooting is in full swing in Logan Heights! I repeat: shooting in Logan Heights! It appears that two rival gangs are exchanging gunfire with automatic weapons — possibly assault rifles. There are reports of explosions and vehicles on fire. San Diego police, along with BOP units, have been called in and are en route. We urge all residents in the area to remain safely inside their homes and avoid going out into the streets. Those returning home should wait for authorization from the authorities. The situation is critical and could escalate rapidly. Stay safe, San Diego. We’ll be back soon with more updates.”

Jack felt a shiver run down his thin spine. He straightened up on the bench, his narrow shoulders visibly tensing beneath the plaid flannel, his green eyes widening as he processed the words. Logan Heights—a neighborhood he knew by reputation, marked by gang violence since the 2000s, with shootings and turf wars that seemed never-ending. It wasn’t the way to his apartment, but the news landed heavy as a bad omen.

“Shit!” Kevin cursed suddenly, slapping his chubby palm on the steering wheel, his round face contorted in a grimace of genuine irritation. His cheeks flushed, his beard trembled as he shook his head, his beanie almost falling off. “Ever since the mayor canceled the contract with Vought, crime has exploded. What was he thinking, man?”

Kevin turned to Jack, his brown eyes filled with frustration and disbelief, expecting a shared reaction. The casual smile from before had vanished, replaced by an expression of deep displeasure, his reddish eyebrows furrowed.

Jack, for his part, was visibly surprised. The word “Vought” slipped from his friend’s mouth with the casualness of something commonplace, but to him it sounded like an echo from another universe. He blinked slowly, his thin body freezing for a second on the bench, his mind racing in search of connections. Vought. He’d heard that name before—on a television series. A superhero company that, in fiction, controlled everything behind the scenes. It made no sense to hear it mentioned as something real, as an agency that had been hired by the San Diego city government. Jack frowned, his chapped lips pressed into a thin line, his pale face reflecting genuine confusion. He didn’t pay much attention immediately—maybe it was local slang, maybe he’d misheard—but the unease lingered, like an itch deep in his mind that he couldn’t quite reach.

”Vought… ” Jack murmured softly, almost to himself, his reserved voice heavy with internal questioning.

Kevin, realizing that the neighborhood they were heading to wasn’t Logan Heights, gasped loudly and changed the station with an impatient turn of the radio dial. The announcer’s urgent voice was replaced by an explosion of heavy rock—distorted guitars, aggressive drums, and raspy vocals that filled the Camaro with chaotic energy. The redhead broke into a wide grin again, his teeth showing through his beard, his eyes gleaming with renewed excitement as he hammered the steering wheel to the rhythm of the music.

“Screw it!” he exclaimed, his voice loud and excited about the music. “Tonight’s the guys’ night!”

Kevin revved the Camaro, the engine roaring in response, and began pounding the dashboard with his fist, his robust body rocking in the seat to the rhythm of the heavy blows.

“Guys’ night! Guys’ night!” he shouted, laughing loudly, sweat dripping down his forehead as the hot wind streamed in through the windows, further ruffling his red hair.

Jack watched his friend with a mixture of restrained amusement and that residual confusion that still lingered in his expression. A slight, ironic smile curved his lips, but his green eyes remained thoughtful, the deep dark circles standing out against the orange twilight. He saw Kevin—the irresponsible heir, the addicted nerd, the unlikely friend—and wondered how their realities seemed to diverge more and more. The heavy rock pulsed in the car, vibrating in the seats and in Jack’s thin chest, as the Camaro cut through the streets toward the miserable apartment in the port district.

The air inside the vehicle was thick: the smell of cold beer, snacks, sweat, and the faint odor of gasoline from the old engine. Jack leaned his head back against the seat, feeling the warm leather against the nape of his neck, and let the music envelop him, though his mind wouldn’t stop spinning. The mention of Vought, the shootout in Logan Heights, ChaosGacha waiting silently on the apartment computer—it all mixed together in a silent whirlwind. Kevin, oblivious or ignoring the tension, continued shouting the improvisation, hammering the steering wheel and laughing, his whole body vibrating with the simple excitement of a night of beer, comics, and escapism.

They passed through quieter neighborhoods, the setting sun painting the sky in intense shades of red and purple that reflected off the peeling facades of old buildings. Jack felt the weariness of the long day in his frail bones, but also a strange spark of expectation he couldn’t name. “Guys’ night” would be, as always, a mix of nerdy nostalgia and disjointed conversations—but there was something in the air, perhaps the accumulated weight of the news, perhaps the unsettling echo of the word Vought coming out of Kevin’s mouth as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, that suggested things were changing in a way he couldn’t yet fully articulate.

Kevin slowed down as he approached Jack’s block, the Camaro purring softly while the redhead still hummed the chorus, a wide smile fixed on his round face. Jack, for his part, looked out the window, his thin face reflected in the glass, his thoughts deep in thought of corporate heroes, real shootouts, and the twenty-sided die that had spun on his computer screen the previous night. The contrast between Kevin’s boisterous excitement and Jack’s quiet introspection filled the car like two opposing forces in precarious balance.

When the vehicle stopped in front of the old, dilapidated building where Jack lived, the heavy rock still blaring from the speakers, the two young men prepared for a night that, unbeknownst to either of them, would mark the beginning of something much bigger than a simple comic book and beer session.