A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 0004

Chapter 4

Jack emerged from the tiny, damp bathroom of the apartment, the steam still hanging in the air like a thick, warm mist smelling of cheap supermarket soap and the mold clinging to the cracked walls. The old towel, worn at the edges but clean, was loosely wrapped around his thin waist, revealing his skeletal torso, prominent ribs, and pale skin marked by years of poor diet and constant stress. His brown hair was wet and stuck to his forehead, drops of water trickling down the nape of his neck as he walked barefoot across the cold, cracked ceramic floor. His 6’3″ frame seemed even more frail without the layers of worn clothing, his narrow shoulders hunched with the accumulated fatigue of the long day at the gas station. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the sparse beard that needed trimming, and observed the combined living room and kitchen, where Kevin had already transformed the coffee table into a veritable feast of unhealthy food.

The chubby friend was there, as always, in his generous and peculiar chaos: his short, imposing body leaning over the table, distributing snacks in various plastic containers he himself had found in Jack’s decrepit cupboards. Two cans of ice-cold beer were already sweating on the worn surface of the small table, droplets trickling down and forming small damp circles on the splintered wood, while the rest of the box probably rested in the old refrigerator that hummed noisily in the corner. The spread was impressive for just two guys: bright red powdered spicy potato chips, bright orange Cheetos, nacho cheese-flavored Doritos, roasted peanuts, bags of sweet and salty popcorn, and even some chocolates half-melted by the day’s heat. The salty, greasy, and artificial smell filled the stuffy air of the apartment, mingling with the subtle mold on the walls and Jack’s still-fresh soap on his skin.

Jack watched the scene for a moment, a slight, tired smile curving his chapped lips. At least that night he wouldn’t have to worry about dinner—the nearly empty refrigerator offered nothing but water and old leftovers, and his thin stomach rumbled in anticipation despite knowing it was all pure caloric junk. He shook his head slightly, feeling the cold drops trickle down his bony back, and walked unhurriedly to the tiny room.

The room remained exactly as he had left it that morning: neatly organized, with the narrow bed made, the comic books lined up on the makeshift shelf, and the poster on the wall slightly different from what he remembered—a detail he had dismissed that morning, sleep still weighing on his eyes. Nothing else had changed: not the musty smell, nor the thin curtain swaying in the warm breeze that streamed in through the window. Jack dressed quickly, ignoring the hollow reflection in the cracked mirror: a long-sleeved black t-shirt that hid his thin arms and a loose gray sweatshirt that hung on his narrow hips. The soft fabric was a small luxury against his still-damp skin, comforting muscles aching from the repetitive day’s work. He ran his fingers through his wet hair, trying unsuccessfully to tame it, and returned to the living room.

As he sat on the old, olive-green sofa, patched with duct tape, Jack felt the upholstery sink under his light weight, the worn fabric rubbing against his back. His green eyes swept across the coffee table and stopped abruptly on one of the beer cans in front of him. He reached out his long, pale hand, picked up the icy can that burned cold against his palm. The impact was immediate. His thin face froze in an expression of utter surprise, his thin eyebrows arching high, his mouth slightly open as he slowly swirled the can under the yellowish light of the old lamp.

Emblazoned on the glossy label was a tall, muscular, imposing man, wearing a vibrant yellow and blue suit that perfectly accentuated his athletic physique. His face vaguely resembled George Washington—noble features, square jaw, serious and authoritative expression—but it was unmistakable: a real, flesh-and-blood representation of Immortal, the hero of the Invincible series . It wasn’t 2D comic book art, but a real actor posing with that aura of raw power and immortality. Jack didn’t recognize the face of any well-known Hollywood name. The confusion was profound, mixed with a strange feeling of detachment from reality—first the soda cans with Homelander, now this. The universe of comics and series seemed to be slowly leaking into the world around them.

Kevin, sitting across the small table with his short legs stretched out, devoured french fries voraciously, his mouth full making wet sounds as he took long gulps of his beer. Drops trickled down his bearded chin, falling onto his t-shirt. He noticed Jack’s glazed look and let out a hoarse laugh, his round face glistening with fat and amusement.

“Stop making that face and drink your beer already!” Kevin teased, pointing with his chubby, salt-stained finger, his brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “If you keep staring at Immortal like that, I’m going to think you’re in love with him, man!”

Jack shrugged slowly, the subtle movement causing his black T-shirt to slip slightly off his bony shoulders. A slight blush of embarrassment crept up his pale neck, but he disguised it with a wry smile, bringing the can to his lips and taking a long, refreshing swig. The icy liquid went down his throat, relieving the day’s accumulated heat and leaving a bitter, malty taste in his mouth. He picked up one of the bowls of spicy potato chips in front of him, his slender fingers dipping into the crispy contents, and began to eat slowly, the loud crunch contrasting with the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic outside.

As he chewed, Jack let his mind wander. He needed to start thinking about how to eat better—that greasy, sodium-laden junk food would end up destroying what little health he had left. His skeletal body already protested daily: constant fatigue, aching bones, low immunity. But a sarcastic question echoed internally: Health? What health? With the life he led—exhausting shifts, a precarious apartment, a family history of addiction and poverty—it seemed almost funny to worry about food. He took another sip, the coldness of the can contrasting with the heat rising from his chest, and watched Kevin devour the snacks with uncomplicated joy, his chubby friend oblivious to the existential worries that tormented Jack.

The cramped room seemed smaller with Kevin’s expansive presence: the smell of snacks mixed with the odor of beer and the slight mildew on the sofa, the yellowish light casting long shadows on the peeling walls, the distant sound of sirens echoing through the half-open window. Jack felt a strange mixture of comfort and unease—comfort from the unlikely company of his only friend, unease from the growing feeling that the world around him was changing in subtle and disturbing ways. The cans, the car radio, the name Vought slipping from Kevin’s mouth as if it were commonplace… everything connected in Jack’s analytical mind like pieces of a larger puzzle he couldn’t yet fully assemble. The Immortal on the label seemed to return his gaze—a vivid, or perhaps not so vivid, reminder that nothing was exactly as he remembered it.

Kevin, still with his mouth full of crunchy snacks, bright orange crumbs stuck to his shaggy red beard, turned to Jack, his brown eyes gleaming with childlike excitement. He swallowed loudly, wiped his greasy hands on his beige pants before raising his short, chubby arms in an exaggerated, almost theatrical gesture, his plump body swaying on the sofa as if he were about to burst with anticipation.

“Dude, when are we going to start reading the comics?” he asked, his voice loud and full of expectation. “The way you talked about Batman, it sounds like an incredible story! Traumatized billionaire, psychopathic villains, the whole city dark… I’m dying to see it, man!”

Jack, who was in the middle of bringing a spicy french fry to his mouth, stopped abruptly, his slender fingers frozen in mid-air. His dark green eyes blinked slowly, as if he needed to remember the reason for that night of beer and snacks. His pale, bony face softened for a moment with a long, resigned sigh, his narrow chest rising and falling beneath his long-sleeved black t-shirt.

He completed the gesture, biting into the potato chip with a loud snap, chewing slowly as the pungent flavor spread across his tongue, and then downed the rest of the ice-cold beer in one long gulp. The empty can clinked on the small table with a hollow, metallic sound. Without saying a word, Jack placed the bowl of chips on the sofa beside him, stood up with the characteristic creak of the worn upholstery, and walked to the small room.

He noticed nothing different around him—not the peeling beige walls with old damp stains, not the slightly altered poster, not the obsessive organization he maintained despite the poverty. His bare feet trod silently on the cold floor as he crouched in the corner of the room, his bony knees creaking softly. His long, pale hands lifted an old, heavy cardboard box, reinforced with yellowed tape, filled to the brim with the most precious treasure he possessed: his comic books. The familiar weight pressed against his frail arms, but he carried the box back into the room with determined steps, the smell of old paper and ink mingling with the greasy aroma of snacks.

Jack made room on the crowded table, carefully pushing the bowls of snacks and cans of beer to the edges, and set the box down with a soft thud.

“Make yourself at home and watch,” he said, his voice low and casual, already grabbing another bowl of snacks and devouring a generous handful, the crunchy sounds filling the momentary silence.

Kevin, as excited as a child on Christmas morning, threw himself upon the box with awkward enthusiasm. His stocky body leaned forward, his brown eyes wide with genuine passion as he rummaged through the contents. For him, comic books were the only addiction that truly aligned with his feelings—unlike drugs, which only brought him trouble and hospitalizations, and women, who always seemed inaccessible to a short, chubby nerd like him. Comics were loyal. Comics didn’t judge. He pulled out volume after volume, piling them onto the already overflowing table: colorful covers gleaming under the yellowish light of the lamp, the rustling of pages echoing in the cramped apartment.

When the box was completely empty, Kevin sat back down on his heels, his round face sweaty and confused, crumbs still clinging to the skull printed on his black t-shirt.

“Dude, where’s Batman?” he asked, his voice thick with genuine disappointment, his red eyebrows furrowed.

Jack, still with his mouth full of snacks, swallowed quickly and gestured towards the pile.

— There you go.

“No, man, I already emptied everything!” exclaimed Kevin, his voice rising as he pointed to the overturned box. “The box is completely empty, I didn’t find anything!”

Jack set the bowl of snacks down on the sofa and approached, kneeling beside his friend, his thin knees pressing against the cold floor. His green eyes scanned the scattered volumes, and in that instant, his heart gave a sharp, violent thud in his narrow chest, as if suffering a sudden arrhythmia. The blood seemed to freeze in his veins, a cold wave rising up his thin spine and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He picked up one volume after another, his hands slightly trembling as he leafed through the covers.

Nothing belonged to him.

The comic books he knew so well—Batman, X-Men, Spider-Man, Superman, Invincible —had completely disappeared. In their place, strange titles, with vibrant but disturbingly out-of-place covers. He immediately recognized the Man in Blue with the cape in the colors of the American flag: Homelander, posing in mid-flight with a wide, unsettling smile, the title in bold letters: Homelander: The Hero of the Morning . It was the first time he had seen the character in classic 2D comic book art, not just on soda cans. The art was impeccable—but wrong. Everything was wrong.

Jack lowered the comic book slowly, his chest tight, and continued his search. There was an anthropomorphic dog wearing a red suit with a utility belt, aviator goggles, and weapons— Science Dog , probably the same title Kevin had mentioned that afternoon. Other volumes featured heroes he vaguely recognized from the news and the tins, but none of his classics. The rare Batman editions Kevin had begged to buy on previous visits—which Jack had refused because he knew he could sell them for more in the future—had vanished as if they had never existed. He remembered perfectly: Kevin offering considerable sums, his eyes gleaming with desire, and Jack refusing with the quiet certainty of someone who knows the value of what he possesses. Now, nothing. Not a single familiar volume.

“This isn’t mine…” Jack murmured, his voice low and hoarse, almost a broken whisper. His thin face was pale, his green eyes wide with pure shock, his trembling hands clutching a cape that didn’t belong to his collection.

Kevin blinked, confused, wiping his mouth with the back of his chubby hand.

” What’s wrong, man? All the nights I spent here begging you to buy these stories… Of course they’re yours! If you want to give them to me, you can do it now.”

Jack didn’t answer immediately. He looked deep into Kevin’s brown eyes, searching for some anchor of normalcy. The feeling that had accompanied him throughout the day—the strange subtleties, the altered poster, the radio announcer mentioning Vought as something real, the themed cans, the Batman that Kevin was completely unfamiliar with—was now crystallizing into a terrifying truth.

Something was profoundly wrong. It wasn’t just the usual misery weighing more heavily that day. It wasn’t the frailty of his skeletal body, nor the family traumas. The world around him had changed—or perhaps he himself had changed along with him. ChaosGacha , the mysterious website, shone in his mind as the only possible explanation, but even that seemed insufficient to encompass the scale of what he was perceiving.

“Something’s happening,” Jack said finally, his voice low but heavy with gravity, his green eyes fixed on Kevin’s with a rare, almost desperate intensity. His thin body trembled slightly, his narrow shoulders hunched under the weight of the revelation. “Kevin… something is very wrong.”

The apartment, once an organized haven of escapism, now resembled a distorted scene. The smell of snacks and beer still lingered densely, but the air was heavy with a new, palpable tension. Kevin stopped eating, his round face shifting from confusion to worry, while Jack remained kneeling among the misplaced comic books, his heart pounding in his fragile chest. The guys’ night, which should have been filled with laughter and nostalgia, had transformed into the moment Jack Williams’ reality began to crack.

The visceral memory of that moment would forever be etched in Jack Williams’ mind. Still kneeling on the cold, uneven floor of the apartment, surrounded by unfamiliar comic books scattered like relics of a world that was no longer his, he felt his rigid spine straighten completely—a steel rod forcing his posture upward almost painfully.

His narrow, bony shoulders straightened stiffly, the thin muscles of his neck contracting as an intense shiver ran down his spine. His green eyes, normally tired and sunken from sleepless nights, were now wide with pure shock, his pupils dilated in the dim, yellowish light of the room. His breathing, once rhythmic despite the confusion, became shallow and shaky, his narrow chest rising and falling in visible spasms beneath his long-sleeved black t-shirt.

“Kevin… what day is it?” Jack asked loudly, his tone trembling and hoarse, almost a broken whisper that carried the weight of growing dread. His long, pale hands trembled slightly over the colorful covers of the wrong comic books, his slender fingers closing involuntarily as if trying to grasp some anchor of reality.

Kevin, still stunned by his friend’s intense reaction, stopped eating altogether. The handful of chips he was holding hung in the air for a second before falling back into the bowl with a soft thud. His round face, normally flushed with excitement or alcohol, turned slightly pale, his chubby cheeks losing color as his reddish eyebrows furrowed with genuine concern. He wiped the greasy residue from his mouth with the back of his hand, his stocky body leaning forward on the sofa, his beanie slipping further to the side of his head.

“Today is January 11th,” Kevin replied, his voice cautious, as if he feared that any wrong tone could worsen the already delicate situation.

Jack swallowed hard, his parched throat scraping, and persisted, his heart already pounding against his prominent ribs:

What year?

Kevin blinked, clearly not understanding where the question was going, scratching his beard with salt-stained fingers as he tried to process the gravity etched on his friend’s thin face.

“2002…” he said hesitantly, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world.

The impact was like a punch to the gut. Jack felt a crushing pressure on his back, as if invisible hands were pushing his fragile spine against the floor. The hairs all over his body—arms, neck, legs—stood on end violently, creating a wave of cold that contrasted with the suffocating heat of the apartment. His heart pounded tremendously in his narrow chest, an irregular rhythm that echoed in his ears, threatening a real arrhythmia. Last night, when I went to sleep, it was 2026. The discrepancy hit him like a lightning bolt. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it.

She jumped to her feet, her tall, thin body moving with an awkward urgency that made her knees crack. She turned abruptly, almost tripping over the scattered comic books, and grabbed the foldable cell phone that was on the arm of the olive-green sofa. Her trembling hands struggled to open the device, her long fingers slipping on the worn plastic. When the small screen lit up, her chest tightened again with a sharp pain that squeezed her fragile heart. The date was there, clear and relentless: January 11, 2002, 8:08 PM .

Jack snapped his phone shut, his hands trembling so much the device almost fell. He swallowed the saliva that had accumulated in his parched mouth, tasting the bitter beer mixed with pure fear. Without saying a word, he began walking toward the bedroom, his bare feet pounding heavily on the cold floor, each step laden with a terror that grew like an avalanche inside. Kevin watched him in silence, his round face now etched with confusion and genuine worry, his mouth slightly open, unsure what to say.

Jack pushed the bedroom door open forcefully, and what he had ignored that morning—and again upon arriving home, too exhausted to pay attention—hit him like a brutal blow. He nervously turned on the light, the switch clicking loudly in the silence. The walls, once his sanctuary of escapism, had been completely altered. The classic posters that Kevin had mocked so much over the years—dark Batman, Spider-Man swinging between buildings, Invincible flying with brute force, the imposing Wonder Woman, and even Mark Grayson himself—had vanished. In their place, new posters dominated the small, claustrophobic space.

One enormous image showed a muscular man in a vibrant yellow and blue uniform, flying with a determined and noble expression—the Immortal. Another depicted a speedster in a red suit blurred by absurd speed—Red Rush. There was also an imposing redhead woman, in gleaming armor and a sword pointed forward in a heroic pose. Everything seemed to have been there forever, as if reality had been rewritten around him overnight. Jack gasped for air, his thin body visibly trembling as he absorbed the images. The familiar musty smell of the room now seemed laden with something sinister, oppressive.

But what truly sent a chill down his spine lay on the old desk. He approached slowly, his steps hesitant, his heart pounding so hard it ached. A brown leather briefcase, elegant and sophisticated, rested there like an object from another world. Jack hesitated, fear tightening his throat. He knew that the moment he opened it, everything would become irrevocably concrete. Still, his trembling hands reached the sides, his fingers brushing the soft, expensive material. The golden clasp gleamed in the light—an absurd contrast to the poverty around him. With a soft click, he lifted the lid.

What lay inside unleashed a wave of conflicting emotions that overflowed from his fragile chest. A deep, icy dread mingled with an intense, almost painful excitement—feelings he barely knew he was still capable of experiencing. There, stored in custom-made compartments lined with black velvet, was the suit.

A sophisticated watch rested in a small, perfectly positioned niche; a pair of gleaming black shoes, priceless in appearance alone; ties and a bow tie aligned with military precision, along with thin-rimmed, gold-framed glasses. And in the center, folded with impeccable elegance, the complete ensemble: a classic and sophisticated black tuxedo, with an immaculate white shirt, discreet cufflinks, and a cut that exuded power and mystery.

Jack stood there, silent, his mouth dry and without saliva, staring at everything. His green eyes swept over every detail—the subtle sheen of the fabric, the perfect stitching, the aura of advanced technology he sensed even without touching it. He looked around the room, searching for signs of a prank, but he knew, deep down, it wasn’t. He vividly remembered the previous night: the ChaosGacha website , the frantic scrolling, the “item” he had received. The Elite Suit. The tech agent suit that promised autonomous martial arts, superhuman reflexes, environmental analysis, and stealth mode.

“This… this is real,” she murmured, her voice trembling, almost inaudible. A single tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracing a path down her pale face. It wasn’t just a costume. It was the first concrete proof that something had fundamentally changed in her miserable existence. Her frail body, weighing little more than thirty kilos, trembled, not only with fear, but with a dangerous and overwhelming hope that barely fit within that narrow chest.

Kevin appeared in the doorway of the room, his round face still marked by confusion, but now also by curiosity—his brown eyes fixed on his tall, thin friend who seemed on the verge of collapse.

“Jack? What’s going on, man?” he asked, his voice low and worried.

Jack didn’t answer immediately. He reached out with a trembling hand and touched the fabric of the tuxedo, feeling the impossible quality beneath his calloused fingers. The contrast with his reality—the dilapidated apartment, the life on the fringes, the family traumas carried like invisible chains—was brutal and almost cruel in its clarity. But there, before him, was the promise of ChaosGacha materializing in leather, velvet, and technology that shouldn’t exist in 2002. The world had changed. The date on the cell phone, the posters, the comics, the suit, Kevin himself without his Batman memory—everything pointed to a reality rewritten while he slept.

And amidst this whirlwind of emotions, Jack Williams, the fragile and reserved young man from San Diego, felt for the first time in years something that went far beyond mere survival: the true and terrifying spark of control over his own destiny.