A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 001

The old chair creaked under Jack Williams’ weight, a long, weary groan that echoed the precarious state of everything around him. The worn upholstery, salvaged from the trash behind the gas station where he worked, had uneven holes that let out yellowish tufts of crumpled foam. He leaned back, feeling the loose springs press against his thin back, but it was the most comfortable he could get in that life. 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, damp sea salt, and the faint odor of diesel that seeped in through the half-open window. The only light came from the old computer 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, yet weighing only about seventy pounds—an elongated skeleton enveloped in pale skin and almost nonexistent muscles. He wore only worn-out boxer shorts, the only garment that offered him any comfort on that hot, stifling night. 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 contemptuous looks from his older brothers or the sour smell of alcohol from his father. Only the silence broken by the hum of the ceiling fan, which spun lazily.

His long, slender fingers danced 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 immersing himself in films that took him away, even if only for a few hours, 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 been asleep. Tomorrow his shift at the gas station started early, 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 discussion about the ending of The Boys series was raging. 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.

“Didn’t you read the comics? The director became 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 got this. Pathetic.”

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

“Damn… These guys think they understand comics. They want to force their ideology on us and don’t realize they’re destroying something that thousands of people deeply love.”

He frowned, anger mixed with deep sadness. Comics, anime, games—they were his only escape. The only place where he felt in control, where the world made sense. And now they were even trying to contaminate 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, navigating to a webnovel site. He read a few chapters of mediocre stories, full of clichés, but still better than the garbage Hollywood was producing.

That’s when he appeared.

In the bottom right corner, a flashy advertisement blinked like a lure. A gacha game, one of those addictive ones, with eye-catching artwork 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 computer screen suddenly plunged into utter 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 itself were awakening from a deep sleep, words and images began to materialize from the darkness. Lines of code flowed like luminous veins, strange glyphs appeared and disappeared, and what had once been just an old, worn 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 fatigue after an exhausting day at the gas station, 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 sense of 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 his rusty mouse and clicked on the highlighted option:

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

Jack’s mouth curled into 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. That was fun, but amateurish. This seemed like a much more polished version. A promising little game to pass the night, perfect for distracting the mind before the infernal shift the next day.

The tab shifted smoothly. A twenty-sided die materialized in the center of the screen, spinning slowly 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 his mind, images of a dark and cynical universe immediately surfaced: heroes treated like rotten celebrities, corporations manipulating the world, absolute power corrupting absolutely. Interesting, full of potential for intrigue. But still… limited. Too closed off.

He paused, his index finger hovering over the keys. A wider, almost predatory grin spread across his gaunt face. Then he added:

Invincible.

Ah, yes. 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 ruler of a new paradigm. That 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.

He clicked “Enter” .

A small golden hourglass appeared beside the field, spinning with an almost deliberate slowness. Seconds dragged on. The ceiling fan, which had previously been mere 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 bright, satisfying green checkmark flashed across 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.

“Damn it…” he muttered, running a hand through his disheveled, greasy hair. “I’m going to be a complete mess at work tomorrow.”

He knew he should shut everything down. I should try to squeeze at least four hours of restless sleep out of that narrow, uncomfortable bed. But I 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, noticing something listed, but decided he would explore it more thoroughly later. For now, it was just a game. A welcome distraction in his miserable life.

His eyes slowly scanned 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 salt and port diesel seeping through the half-open window. The life he had painstakingly built after fleeing Huntington—fleeing his chronically alcoholic father, his now-imprisoned addicted mother, his abusive siblings who treated him like a dead weight. Years of neglect, constant humiliation, psychological and physical violence that had shaped him into someone reserved, observant, resilient… but still painfully fragile.

For the first time in a long time, Jack felt a warm tingle of genuine excitement run through 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. A chance to live epic adventures without leaving his cramped room.

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 world 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 spin the wheel of chaos within a simple game.

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

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

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

Jack stretched out his thin 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 accelerated dramatically, transforming into a luminous blur of numbers spinning at high speed. Below it, in a small rectangular field, letters and symbols began to rush by in a dizzying torrent, so fast that it was impossible to discern any specific word or name—just a hypnotic flow of text that created an almost electric sense of anticipation.

He leaned forward even further, his heart pounding 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 air of the port felt even heavier against his exposed skin.

“I hope something interesting comes of it…” he murmured aloud, his hoarse voice 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 a complete blur. Jack held his breath, his eyes glazed, his slender fingers gripping the edges of the wobbly table. Then, abruptly, everything stopped. The die made one last slow spin and locked onto a specific face, emitting a satisfying digital sound of confirmation.

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

 Item Profile – ChaosGacha System

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

Description: The Tuxedo Elite is an impeccably presented formal suit—classic black suit, immaculate white shirt, elegant bow tie, and perfectly polished dress shoes—that conceals extremely advanced technology behind its sophisticated facade. At first glance, it appears to be just an expensive, well-tailored suit, perfect 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 can take 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 dodging low-speed bullets, performing impossible acrobatics, and moving with superhuman fluidity for short periods. The fragile body gains protection against the impact of these movements thanks to intelligent shock-absorbing fibers. Advanced Environmental Analysis: The suit constantly scans the environment, providing real-time data via a discreet neural interface (projected inside the goggles 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 sound suppression. The suit absorbs light and noise, making the wearer extremely difficult to detect in dark or crowded environments. Perfect for infiltration, espionage, and quick escapes.

Additional Costume Bonuses:

Resistance to moderate damage (cuts, low-caliber gunshots, and impacts). Self-cleaning and limited fiber repair. Always maintains an impeccable appearance (useful for maintaining 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 in a suit… It was nostalgic. Comforting.

A genuine smile spread across his thin, tired face.

“Damn, that’s awesome…” he whispered, still smiling. “My character in the game will at least have something interesting right off the bat. A rare item to start with… This is going to pay off.”

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

In the bottom right corner of the screen, Jack clicked the glowing “Next” button , eager to continue exploring the rest of 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 glided across the black void.

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

He lightly slammed his palm on the table, annoyed.

“Fuck 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 with 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, practically falling face-first 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 floor. He didn’t even care. The familiar smell of mold and sea filled his nostrils as he closed his eyes.

Within seconds, sleep completely claimed him, deep and exhausted, carrying with it the residual images of the Tuxedo Elite 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, one of those that also functioned as a radio, bought at a thrift 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 from 97.3 FM, bringing you the best of classic rock to start your day with energy. And listen up, folks: today’s 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 hitting the beach or just enjoying the sun. Now, if you need a strong coffee at a price that won’t break the bank, head to 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 Williams lay there for a few more seconds, his eyes still closed, gathering strength to face another day. The thin mattress beneath his gaunt 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 chapped 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 audibly cracking. At 6’3″ tall, he could almost touch the ceiling with his fingertips. A wide yawn escaped, revealing white but slightly crooked teeth. He scratched his backside over his old underwear, feeling the dry skin and the damp air of the room cling to his skeletal body. His 70 pounds barely filled the space of the small bed.

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. However, there were no piles of dirty laundry on the floor. Everything was folded and put away. A small plywood bookcase, found on the street and reinforced with crooked nails, held his precious collection: yellowed comic books. Each volume perfectly aligned, without accumulated dust. Next to it, an old desktop computer with a CRT monitor hummed softly even when switched off.

The poster on the wall opposite the bed looked slightly different today, 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 aroma of incense he occasionally burned to mask the building’s odor.

Getting up, Jack walked 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, frayed at the edges but clean, hung in 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 the local news, San Diego is still registering a worrying increase in crime. Last year, there were five robbery cases in this port area alone, two of them with fatalities. Police Chief Harold Simmons will hold a press conference today at 2 PM. Stay tuned to Channel 7 for more details. And look, folks, there are people talking about a new drug route forming in the city. The police have already set up a task force, but you know how it is… without outside help, it’s difficult to confront these gangs. Stay alert on the streets!”

Jack ignored most of it, using the sound as background noise as he rummaged through the makeshift closet—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 Converse All Stars, with worn soles and a discreet hole in the toe of the extra sock he put on first.

Dressing slowly, he stopped before the old, cracked mirror on the wall. The reflected image was of a tall, overly thin young man with slumped shoulders and tired green eyes that held 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 his hand through his disheveled brown hair, trying unsuccessfully to tame it.

On the makeshift dresser beside the bed—a piece of splintered wood that he himself had sanded and painted—he picked up his thin faux leather wallet. A few crumpled dollars, his ID, and an old family photo that he hadn’t yet had the courage to throw away. He stuffed everything in his back pocket and took one last look 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, with tears patched with duct tape, was impeccably arranged, with a folded blanket on the arm. The tube television, a 30-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 flip phone from the sofa, checked the time, and put it in his pocket. There was no breakfast today. The refrigerator confirmed it: nothing. But at the gas station where he worked, he could “borrow” a sandwich or two from the on-site convenience store. Survival was an art he had mastered from a young age.

Leaving the apartment, Jack locked the door with the rusty key. The fifth-floor hallway smelled of mold, stale 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 on 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 bright 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 Star sneakers slapping rhythmically against the hot concrete.

….

The five-minute walk to the bus stop felt like an eternity under the already hot San Diego sun. The cracked asphalt radiated heat, making the air tremble slightly around Jack’s feet. His worn-out Converse 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 past on 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 up with a tired hydraulic squeak, 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, feeling the thick smell of sweat, cheap cologne, and stale coffee invade his nostrils. The bus was already packed with low-wage workers: faces marked by exhaustion, crumpled uniforms, calloused hands clutching plastic bags or simple cell phones. There were mothers holding sleepy children, laborers with hard hats in their laps, and immigrants with distant stares.

At 6’3″ (1.90 m), Jack towered above most heads, like a solitary tower in a sea of ​​hunched shoulders. He made his way slowly down the narrow aisle, gripping the cold metal bars that vibrated with the bus’s movement. He stopped in the middle of the vehicle, balancing himself as the bus lurched away. There were no empty 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 at the gas station, 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 pass by 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 sped down a busy avenue when a gigantic poster plastered to the side of a tall building appeared and disappeared in a matter of seconds. A man with perfect golden hair, a bright blue suit clinging to his athletic body, 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 marketing page isn’t going to save this failing 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 deep, weary reflection took hold of him. How much longer 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’d found days 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 its final stop with a final jolt. Jack got off along with the crowd of workers, the fresh morning air touching his face. He still had another thirty minutes’ walk 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-out sneakers, but he kept going, his hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jacket.

The gas station emerged as a relic of the past. An old fuel pump that seemed to have come straight from the 20th century—antiquated pump designs, neon signs flickering faintly even during the day, and a small convenience store with windows fogged by the dust of time. The place attracted long-distance truckers and nostalgic seniors who preferred the dated charm to the coldness of the large modern chains. There was a certain retro appeal: the jingle of the bell on the door, the smell of burnt coffee and fried donuts, the worn linoleum floor that told stories of decades.

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

He knocked twice on the splintered wooden door.

“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 flip phone out of his pocket, checked the time, and shrugged.

“Just five minutes.”

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

“It doesn’t matter,” 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 in the doorway of the room, still with the cigarette between his yellowed fingers.

“We need a cleanup in aisle 3. The truck drivers spilled soda again.”

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

He went to the tool 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 stockroom to the convenience store.

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

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 mess 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 was only just beginning.