A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 0006

The living room of the small San Diego apartment felt even more cramped that night. The air was warm and heavy with the lingering smell of cold food and the slight mold emanating from the old walls, but there was something new there too—a faint metallic odor, almost like ozone after a storm, emanating subtly from the Tuxedo Elite. The only light came from a corner lamp and the bluish glow of holographic interfaces that flickered discreetly on the sleeves and collar of the suit, casting strange, soft shadows on the worn linoleum. To make room, they had pushed the sofa and coffee table against the wall, leaving Jack Williams standing in the center of the room like a living sculpture—his lean, always hunched silhouette now surprisingly upright, the dark fabric of the suit adjusting to each breath with a precision that defied any conventional textile logic.

Kevin walked in slow circles around his friend, his wide eyes scanning every seam, every subtle panel that moved with almost organic breath. His eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of fascination and disbelief, his mouth slightly open as if words were insufficient for what he saw. He hesitantly reached out and touched the fabric on Jack’s shoulder—firm yet supple, with a texture unlike anything he knew, neither leather nor conventional Kevlar. A low, almost imperceptible hum emanated from the garment when Kevin got too close, and he instinctively took a step back, as if he had touched something alive. He stood still for a moment, his breathing slightly quickened, before shaking his head slowly and resuming his circles.

“Dude… this is really impressive,” Kevin murmured, his voice hoarse with astonishment. He stopped walking, tilting his head to observe the elegant lines of the tuxedo which, even standing still, conveyed a sense of contained menace. “Are you sure you didn’t steal it from some secret facility and just forgot about it? Because this doesn’t look like anything from a costume shop. Or Vought. Or the GDA.”

Jack let out a long sigh—the twentieth that night, maybe more. His thin shoulders rose and fell within the suit, which reacted to the movement with impressive fluidity, never bunching up, never losing its fit. He scratched the back of his neck with distracted fingers, feeling the cool, comforting material beneath his fingertips, and when he spoke, his voice came out calm but heavy with the accumulated exhaustion of hours repeating the same explanation to the same friend who, with each round, seemed to need to start all over again.

” I’m telling the truth, Kevin. I didn’t steal anything. This came from ChaosGacha.”

Kevin stopped pacing. He backed up to the sofa and let himself fall heavily onto the worn cushions, the old spring groaning under his weight. He rested his elbows on his knees, his chin in his clasped hands, and lay there motionless, his eyes fixed on his suit as if trying to solve an impossible equation. The silence stretched for a few seconds, broken only by the distant sound of sirens in the street below and the constant, low hum of the harbor.

“And what movie is it from?” he finally asked, pointing directly at Jack’s chest. “A movie, actually. Is that it? Because this doesn’t look like the kind of technology we see around here. Not from The Seven, not from the GDA, not from anyone.”

Jack adjusted his posture slightly, and the suit responded with impressive fluidity, almost anticipating the movement. A small holographic interface flashed briefly on his left wrist before disappearing, like a conditioned reflex.

“It’s an action-comedy film called The Tuxedo ,” Jack explained, his voice taking on the almost professorial tone he always adopted when talking about comics or anime, a register in which he felt more secure, more competent. “It’s a parody of a spy film. The suit, in its original context, transforms the wearer into a perfect secret agent. I’d say it functions like a pseudo-super-soldier—enhanced reflexes, increased strength, accelerated tactical processing. But what’s here isn’t a replica or an accessory. It’s the real object, extracted from another universe by ChaosGacha and instantiated in ours.”

Kevin closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing his chin vigorously, as if the physical friction could help his brain process things. When he opened them, there was a spark of practical curiosity in them—the curiosity of someone who begins to accept the impossible and already wants to know how to explore it.

Okay, but how does it work in practice? Theoretically, it’s just film equipment. How does it actually work here?

“I don’t know completely either,” Jack admitted honestly, without hesitation. He’d learned early on that feigning certainty with Kevin was counterproductive. “The ChaosGacha can provide a variety of things. In theory, powers, summons, items, abilities. Somehow it managed to bring this equipment from another universe and instantiate it here. What I know for sure is what I can feel: the reflexes are active, there’s some environmental analysis system running in the background in my head, and the suit seems to react to my intentions even before I consciously move.”

Kevin nodded slowly, absorbing it all. He leaned forward on the sofa, his eyes now shining with that particular mixture of excitement and concern that Jack had learned to recognize in him over the months they had worked together at the gas station.

Is that all he’s going to give you? Because, as impressive as it is… a multiversal force that can bring anything from another universe here should be capable of much more, shouldn’t it?

“Well,” Jack said, shrugging with an involuntary elegance that his attire lent to every gesture, “he’s already altered our entire universe.”

Kevin blinked. His expression changed completely in a second—eyebrows rising, mouth opening in genuine shock, body straightening on the sofa as if the sentence had been an electric shock.

“Yes, and this whole part doesn’t make sense to me either,” he said, his voice now louder, heavy with disbelief. “For me, my whole life has always been about individuals. A catastrophe. Thanking the global heroes every month for saving me. The Seven. The GDA. And now you’re telling me that basically all of this came from comic books, and that you somehow managed to structurally alter our entire universe?”

“Basically,” Jack replied, simply and directly.

The silence that followed was denser than the previous one. Kevin rubbed his face with both hands, exhaling slowly, like someone who had just accepted that the ground beneath his feet was different from what he had always imagined. The Tuxedo Elite emitted a soft, almost comforting glow, contrasting with the tension that still lingered in both their shoulders. Outside, the harbor continued its indifferent rhythm—the distant screech of a tugboat, the wind carrying salt across the half-open windowsill.

“So,” Kevin finally said, his voice low, almost reflective, “everything we thought was real… the heroes flying around, the corporations controlling everything, the global threats… part of it was just… plot? And now you have this”—he pointed to the suit—”and the system you brought. What does this mean for you, Jack? For us?”

Jack didn’t answer immediately. He flexed his fingers inside the gloves of his tuxedo, feeling the superhuman reflexes respond with millimeter precision, like a well-calibrated instrument recognizing the musician’s hand. The material fit perfectly, almost like part of his own body, and there was a strange feeling of contained power—of possibilities that had previously seemed impossible for someone like him, thin, frail, always on the margins.

“It means I have a chance,” he finally said, his voice firm despite the insecurity that still lingered in the corners of his eyes. “A real chance to stop being just the guy at the back of the room. But it also means nothing has become simpler. Every roll has a price. Real value. And ChaosGacha doesn’t forgive mistakes.”

Kevin rose from the sofa with that surprising agility that sometimes emerged from his broad frame, approaching with cautious steps, as if the suit might activate some defense protocol if he moved the wrong way. He stopped at a safe distance, observing the subtle interfaces that blinked in response to his proximity.

“Show me what he does,” she asked, her tone now filled with genuine curiosity, without the initial skepticism. “Not just by talking. Show me.”

Jack hesitated for a second—that old hesitation of someone unaccustomed to taking up space, to being the center of attention for positive reasons. Then he nodded. With focused thought, he activated basic stealth mode. The suit seemed to absorb the surrounding light, the edges of his silhouette becoming slightly blurred, the buzzing sound diminishing to almost zero. Kevin took a half-step back, his eyes wide and bright.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, reaching out again but stopping before touching it. “You look like a ghost of a secret agent.”

Jack deactivated the mode, the suit returning to normal with a soft internal click. He smiled slightly—the first genuine smile of the night, without bitterness, without residual anxiety.

” This is just the beginning, Kevin. ChaosGacha has so much more to offer. But every step has a cost. And I still don’t know how far it will go.”

Kevin stared at him for a long moment, processing. Then he gestured to the sofa next to him.

Tell me everything again. From the beginning. Calmly. I want to understand every detail of this crazy roulette.

And Jack, still wearing the Elite Tuxedo that for the first time in his life made him feel a little less fragile, began to speak. The night stretched on, filled with questions, explanations, and the silent weight of a destiny that neither of them could ignore any longer.

Kevin remained leaning back on the sofa, his broad body slightly inclined forward as if the weight of the revelation were pulling him out of his seat, his eyes—normally cheerful and somewhat distracted—now fixed on Jack with a mixture of fascination and disbelief that hadn’t dissipated even after hours of conversation. The cramped air in the apartment carried the lingering smell of cold food mixed with the faint mold from the old walls of the building near the port, and the ceiling lamp flickered intermittently, casting elongated shadows on the old furniture and the table the two had dragged around during their conversation. Kevin nodded slowly, processing everything his friend had explained in the last few minutes—his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, sweat still glistening on his broad forehead.

“Well… I think I understand,” he finally said, his hoarse, slightly high-pitched voice echoing in the confined space, carrying a tone of genuine, almost reverential astonishment, mixed with the casual informality that had always defined him. “So you’re telling me that this ChaosGacha… this multiversal force that you now possess… works with money? Like, it’s basically a cosmic slot machine that accepts cash as tokens?”

Jack, still standing near the half-open window, felt a subtle tremor of excitement mixed with anxiety run down his spine. The suit hugged his body perfectly now, a sophisticated second skin that seemed to weigh nothing—and which had, somehow, in a way he was still processing, begun to correct years of accumulated bad posture, his muscles responding with a fluidity he had never possessed. He corrected his friend calmly but firmly, his voice clearer and more confident than at any point that night.

Almost. From what I’ve read, it works based on value . Value is the fuel. Anything that has real and measurable value works—gold, money, diamonds…

“And… drugs?” Kevin interrupted, the word coming out almost as a conspiratorial whisper, laden with curiosity and a touch of audacity that was completely typical of him.

Jack paused. He processed the implications—the risk, the tenuous morality the system imposed, the memories that the mere mention of the word always stirred within him. But the cold logic of ChaosGacha was unforgiving, and he had promised himself to be honest.

“Drugs too, I believe,” he replied, nodding slowly. “Anything that has measurable value in the real world can, in theory, be traded with the system.”

Kevin didn’t wait any longer. “Give me five minutes,” he said, rising with surprising agility for someone his size, and out the door before Jack could say another word, his heavy steps making the old wooden floorboards creak in protest as he descended the building’s stairs almost comically, his body swaying. Jack watched him through the half-open window disappear into the dark street below, and although the scene was absurd, he felt no doubt that his friend would return. There was a loyalty there, raw and immediate, that transcended words—the loyalty of someone who had also grown up without belonging anywhere, and who had found in the other, by chance and out of necessity, a reflection of himself.

Alone in the apartment for the first time since donning the suit, Jack felt something profound shift within him. For years, his body had functioned like armor in reverse—curving inward instead of protecting him, his shoulders slumped and his head bowed as a defense mechanism developed against a world that had rarely been kind. Now his spine straightened naturally, his elongated muscles responding with a fluidity he had never experienced, and there was something almost unsettling about this feeling of lightness, as if the suit not only enhanced his attributes but was, stitch by stitch, correcting years of accumulated damage. He walked to the refrigerator with firmer steps, the elegant fabric of the tuxedo moving like liquid silk against his skin, and opened the door—the cool air hitting his face as a refreshing contrast to the humid heat of the Californian night streaming in through the window. He grabbed a bottle of water, drank slowly, feeling the liquid go down his throat, parched from talking so much. The city noises invaded the apartment: the distant rumble of engines, occasional sirens, the constant murmur of the harbor. He leaned against the counter, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the sensations of the suit wash over him—the Neural Synergy pulsing subtly, connected to his nervous system like a silent promise. For the first time in a long time, Jack didn’t feel fragile. He didn’t feel like the skinny, broken boy from Huntington, West Virginia.

The sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairs pulled him from his contemplation. Kevin burst through the door minutes later, breathless, his face red as a ripe tomato, sweat dripping from his temples. In his hands, a large, misshapen package wrapped in plain brown paper. He closed the door with his foot, dragged the coffee table back to the center of the room with visible effort, and placed the package on it with a dull thud.

Jack approached, frowning.

” What is that?”

Kevin, still catching his breath, sat heavily on the sofa, the spring groaning.

“Marijuana,” he answered directly, between gasps of air.

Disbelief swept over Jack like a cold wave. He knew his own limits in this area—the memories of his mother with glazed eyes, the drug dealers knocking on the door in the middle of the night, the acrid smell of burnt heroin clinging to the walls of the house in Huntington. His fists clenched involuntarily along his body, the fabric of his suit responding with a slight protective tension.

“Kevin… you know how much I hate this kind of thing,” she began, her voice rising.

But Kevin raised his hand, still panting, his face red and glistening in the dim light.

“Value,” he said simply, pointing to the package. “Try using the system.”

The realization hit Jack like a punch. Of course. It was a practical demonstration—his friend wasn’t suggesting he use the drug, he was offering something of real value to test how ChaosGacha worked. He felt a complex mix of emotions: gratitude for Kevin’s impulsive loyalty, guilt for judging too quickly, and a nervous excitement about what was to come. He went to the refrigerator once more, grabbed another bottle of ice water, and handed it to his friend’s still trembling hands.

Kevin accepted quickly, opening the lid and swallowing almost the entire thing at once, a trickle of water running down his chin onto his shirt.

“Man… I need to lose weight,” he murmured between sips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Jack couldn’t hold back. A genuine laugh escaped his lips—the first in a long time that carried no bitterness. The sound echoed through the apartment, light and liberating, and their eyes met for a moment in which the friendship between them—forged in difficult circumstances, cemented by shared isolation—seemed stronger than ever.

Jack remained motionless for a moment, his gaze fixed on the package on the coffee table as if it were a dangerous relic. The slightly sweet smell of marijuana subtly escaped from the brown paper, mingling with the humid air of the apartment and the faint salty aroma that entered through the half-open window from the nearby harbor. His suit reacted to the growing tension with an almost imperceptible neural vibration, as if monitoring his emotional state and preparing for any threat, even a purely internal one.

“Why were you carrying so many drugs, Kevin?” Jack asked, his voice low but heavy with genuine concern, his brown eyes—normally reserved—displaying a mixture of disapproval and alarm that he couldn’t, and didn’t try to, hide. “If the police stopped you, you know you wouldn’t spend just one night in jail. And if your father saw this… I highly doubt he’d pay your lawyer.”

Kevin, who had finally regained his normal breathing, leaned back on the sofa with a heavy sigh. His round face was still flushed from the exertion, beads of sweat drying on his broad forehead. He scratched the back of his neck, looking away for a moment, but without showing any real regret—just that casual practicality that had always defined his personality, a trait that Jack found both admirable and exasperating.

“I know,” he replied, his voice hoarse but firm, with a slight shrug that made his shirt stretch over his stomach. “Last weekend they said I could show up at a party if I brought enough drugs for everyone. I got the drugs… but I don’t think I’ll go to that party anymore.”

Jack let out a short, dry, humorless laugh, shaking his head slowly. His long fingers closed at his sides, the suit responding with a light, comforting pressure on his muscles.

“Man, you really like putting yourself at risk, huh,” he murmured, his eyebrows arched in disbelief. The contrast between the newfound confidence the suit lent him and the old emotional wounds was palpable—his heart racing, the familiar anxiety rising in his throat before being softened by the suit’s Cognitive Interface, which slightly accelerated tactical processing to help him maintain control.

He approached the table with silent steps, the floor creaking softly under the weight, and stopped before the package, looking at it as if he needed another second to make the decision.

“Are you sure?” she asked, turning to face Kevin. Her voice held hesitation, her eyes narrowed in a mixture of reluctant gratitude and deep discomfort.

Kevin looked up, his expression now more serious, though the blush on his cheeks still betrayed the recent physical exertion. He gestured with his open hands, palms up, in an open and sincere gesture.

” Well… we have two thousand dollars worth of drugs here. Good quality. So make yourself at home.”

Jack blinked, processing the number.

“Two thousand dollars?” he repeated, his voice rising slightly in surprise, his head tilting as he studied his friend’s face. “Where did you get that money?”

The silence that followed was brief, but heavy. Kevin looked away for a second, biting his lower lip, clearly uncomfortable with the question. When he answered, his voice came out lower, almost defensive.

” Dude… I tried to get it from you earlier today, but you weren’t helpful.”

Jack felt a tightness in his chest. Guilt mixed with frustration. He crossed his arms, the fabric of the tuxedo adjusting perfectly to the movement.

” I can’t go to your father’s cash register, Kevin. You know that.”

“I understand,” Kevin replied quickly, raising his hands in surrender, his heavy body leaning forward on the sofa, the old leather creaking. “But now I owe money to a drug dealer.”

Jack’s expression turned to pure disbelief. His eyes widened, his brows furrowed, his mouth dropped open in a mixture of shock and disapproval as he ran a hand across his face, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. How could someone so loyal be so irresponsible? The family trauma returned like a tide—the fights at home, the endless debts, the constant fear of losing what little they had. The suit detected the emotional tension, the Cognitive Interface slightly speeding up tactical processing to help him avoid exploding.

Before she could unleash the reprimand that was forming in her throat, Kevin intervened, his voice firmer and more reassuring, his body straightening up on the sofa with an expression of forced confidence—but his fingers betraying his anxiety as they drummed nervously on the arm of the sofa.

Don’t worry. I’ll talk to my mother. My family is rich. So rich that my father only works because he enjoys it. So that’s not really the problem.

Jack was completely stunned. He shook his head forcefully, running his fingers through his hair in a gesture of frustration, the smell of marijuana now stronger, invading his nostrils and bringing a familiar emotional nausea. Kevin’s blind loyalty moved him deeply—and the idiocy behind it exasperated him in equal measure, with that particular mix that only the truly important people in someone’s life can provoke. The air in the apartment seemed heavier, the distant hum of traffic outside contrasting with the tense silence that had settled between them.

”Kevin…” he murmured, his voice heavy with restrained emotion. There was gratitude there — deep and sincere — but also exhaustion. Years of family instability had made him hypervigilant against unnecessary risks, someone who calculated every step twice because he had learned early on, the hard way, the cost of not doing so. He took a deep breath, feeling his chest expand against the impeccable fabric of his suit, and forced a tired smile. ” Okay. Let’s focus.”

The two stared at each other for a long moment. Kevin, his face still flushed and his expression cautiously relieved, offered a shy smile, like someone who knows he’s crossed a line and is waiting to see if the ground will give way. Jack, on the other hand, felt the weight of the impending decision settle in with all its concreteness. The package on the table represented more than drugs—it represented the first real test of ChaosGacha, the fuel needed to turn the wheel of destiny. Two thousand dollars might seem small in the grand scheme of things, but it was what they had now, and the system didn’t care about context, only value.

Outside, the San Diego night continued its chaotic course—distant sirens, waves crashing against the piers, the wind carrying ocean salt through the half-open window. Inside the dilapidated apartment, however, the air was thick with tension, loyalty, and the electric promise of change. Jack slowly reached for the package, feeling the pulse of the suit in his nervous system, while Kevin watched him, leaning slightly forward, like someone who already understood that the next step would alter everything.

ChaosGacha awaited. And with it, the price of power.