A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 0010

The yellowish light from the lamp hanging from the ceiling of the cramped apartment pulsed faintly, casting elongated shadows that danced across the damp walls. The air carried the lingering scent of Maomao cream—fresh herbs and dried flowers seeping into the cracks in the wall, mingled with the smell of old mold and sea salt seeping in through the half-open window. Jack Williams and Kevin Harlan stood side by side, shoulders almost touching, their eyes fixed on the chaotic threat map they had constructed throughout the night on the whiteboard covered in frantic notes.

Jack felt the weight of the entire world pressing down on his narrow shoulders. The suit, carefully stored in his room, represented power—but also a cruel reminder of his present limitations. He tilted his face, his long, pale hand resting on his chin, his fingers drumming slowly against skin still marked by deep dark circles under his eyes. His green eyes, normally dull with exhaustion, now burned with a dark, almost feverish determination. There was no turning back. The traumatized boy who had fled Huntington no longer existed—or rather, could no longer exist. In that cruel universe, where corporate heroes smiled for cameras while flying monsters and shadowy agencies hunted anomalies, only two options remained: prey or hunter. And Jack had chosen the latter, even if it meant facing Viltrumites, masked psychopaths, and the very abyss of ChaosGacha.

“How are we going to get the resources?” he murmured aloud, his hoarse voice cutting through the heavy silence. The words came out heavily charged—a mixture of frustration and urgency that tightened his throat. He ran a hand through his tousled blond hair, still damp from his previous shower.

Kevin, standing beside him, blinked slowly. His normally relaxed brown eyes narrowed in deep concentration. Without a word, he stood with a low grunt and walked to the board, picking up the black marker as he went. The strong smell of fresh ink filled the space as he wrote in large, decisive letters: “Immediate Resources – Suit + Black Market” .

Kevin took a step back, tapped the marker on the edge of the board with a sharp click, and turned to Jack. A sly smile curved his lips despite the seriousness in his gaze. “Simple. You now own a suit.” He pointed with his thumb toward the room where the suit was kept like a sacred artifact. “Capable of transforming you into an elite secret agent in seconds. Perfect to start with. You take down a bunch of thugs, we rob them. Money, drugs, gold… anything of value for Gacha.”

Jack considered the suggestion, his brow furrowed. He crossed his arms over his thin chest, feeling the worn fabric of his old t-shirt stretch against his skin. The idea had merit—the suit gave him superhuman reflexes, stealth, amplified strength. But the harsh reality of his frail body weighed like lead. He let out a long sigh. “I agree with the reasoning, Kevin. The suit makes me an agent. But it’s not viable now. I’m still… vulnerable.” He gestured to himself, his long fingers tracing the skeletal outline of his own arms. “The fabric can withstand low-caliber bullets, but my body can’t. Fifteen minutes of use at most before collapsing. Strength, stamina, speed—I lack them all. If I go now, I’ll overload myself. I’ll become dead weight.”

The silence that followed was brief, punctuated only by the distant rumble of sirens at the harbor and the occasional crackling of the lamp. Kevin observed his friend with a mixture of brotherly concern and practical determination—taking in Jack the tall, thin figure, six feet three inches of bones and stretched skin, shoulders hunched by chronic fatigue. “You’re too skinny,” he said, his hoarse voice laden with blunt honesty. He gave his own prominent abdomen a light slap, the muffled sound echoing through the room. “So it’s time for us to build that body. It’ll be slow, but we’ll start today. Although… if we could find something in your Gacha that skipped this step, it would be much easier.”

Jack nodded slowly, a tired but genuine smile appearing on his pale lips. “Don’t even get me started. I’ve already spent my entire salary on quality food to begin my training. Protein, fresh vegetables, whatever I could find cheaply at the market.” He paused, his expression hardening for a second as he remembered the empty refrigerator shelves and the effort of carrying the bags upstairs.

Kevin approached, placing a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder. The contact was firm, comforting—conveying that unwavering loyalty that Jack had learned to value like gold. “I’ll help you. Remember I have money. My parents aren’t going to give me two, ten thousand dollars a day to play Gacha… but I can. Quality food, supplements, whatever it takes.” His round face lit up with a wide smile, his teeth showing through his light beard. “And I wanted to lose weight no matter what.” He patted his own stomach, laughing lightly, the hoarse sound filling the apartment and relieving some of the dense tension that hung in the air.

Jack looked at his friend, his eyes gleaming with a rare emotion—pure hope mixed with fierce determination. The weight on his shoulders seemed to lessen slightly. “Then let’s do this.” He stood up, hearing the sofa springs creak, and the two stared at the board again. The arrows connecting Vought, GDA, Viltrumitas, and ChaosGacha itself seemed less oppressive now. There was a plan. A way, however dangerous it might be.

The conversation stretched on for hours, dense and interwoven. Jack detailed the suit’s limitations with clinical precision, describing how Neural Synergy amplified each movement but demanded a body capable of withstanding the feedback. Kevin listened attentively, scribbling new notes on the board: “Daily training – nutrition + Gacha boosts.” The smell of fresh marker mingled with the herbal aroma of the cream, creating an almost surreal atmosphere of strategic planning amidst the misery of the port.

They discussed risks—detection by the GDA, Vought psychopaths, the danger of assaulting armed gangs without full preparation. Jack gestured as he outlined strategies: nighttime infiltration using Ghost Mode, low-profile targets at first, accumulating value for better rolls. Kevin contributed street pragmatism, suggesting dubious contacts and ways to launder dirty money. For every idea discarded, another emerged—the board accumulated arrows, circles, and overlapping notes until it became a living organism of possibilities and threats.

As the night wore on, the apartment seemed to shrink around them, but the bond between the two solidified. Jack felt a tightness in his chest—not just from fear, but from purpose. He wouldn’t go back to his old life: the exhausting job, the chronic hunger, the family trauma echoing like chains. Here, with Kevin by his side and the ChaosGacha as his weapon, he would become the hunter. The world of false heroes and cosmic threats would give him no respite, but he would face it head-on.

The night wind carried the distant sound of waves crashing in the harbor, mingled with the rumble of trucks. Inside, the two young men continued tracing lines on the board, their minds sharpened by their shared urgency. The road ahead would be long, arduous, fraught with dangers that could devour them. But for the first time, Jack Williams didn’t feel alone. And that, more than the legendary suit or the miracle cream, was the true beginning of his rise.

The San Diego sky still carried the last vestiges of night when the two young men emerged from the dilapidated building, the cool morning air carrying a faint scent of sea salt mixed with the damp asphalt and distant diesel fumes of the port. It was five in the morning—an unthinkable time for Jack Williams just a few days before. His feet tapped rhythmically against the cracked pavement, his tall, thin body moving with forced determination, each breath burning in his lungs like liquid fire. His simple sweatshirt already clung to his pale skin, soaked with sweat despite the cold.

Kevin Harlan was panting a few meters behind, his face scarlet, thick beads of sweat running down his forehead and his poorly trimmed red beard. His gray sweatshirt clung to his prominent abdomen, marking the brutal effort of each stride. “Damn… Jack… wait a minute, for fuck’s sake,” he gasped, his voice hoarse and broken, his fat hands pressing against his knees for a second before forcing his body to continue.

Jack turned his head slightly, sweat dripping from his thin chin. His green eyes, half-closed with exhaustion, still held that stubborn glint. He also felt his own body protesting—his lean chest rising and falling rapidly, his legs trembling with unprecedented exertion, his slender muscles burning in a way he had never experienced. Years of malnutrition, sleepless nights, and a life of pure survival were taking their toll. Even so, he didn’t slow down. “Keep going… almost there,” he replied between gasps, his voice low and determined.

They ran through the still-sleeping streets of the port district, the sound of their footsteps echoing against the peeling facades of the buildings. The sky was beginning to lighten in soft shades of pink and orange on the horizon, illuminating the outlines of the ships anchored in the distance. Each block was an ordeal: the cold air entering their lungs like blades, the sweat burning their eyes, their hearts pounding against their ribs. Kevin visibly swayed, his heavy body rocking with each step, his face contorted in a grimace of pure suffering.

Finally, the small park appeared ahead—a modest oasis of uneven grass, scattered trees, and worn-out public equipment. They slowed to a stop near a rusty drinking fountain, their bodies hunched, hands on their knees. Jack drank first, the cold water going down his parched throat like a balm, trickling down his chin and soaking the collar of his sweatshirt. Kevin almost threw himself over the fountain, drinking in large, noisy gulps, water dripping down his chest.

Kevin collapsed onto a cracked wooden bench, his heavy body making the structure creak. He tilted his head back, eyes half-closed, his broad chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. “Man… is this even worth it?” he asked, his voice hoarse and heavy with genuine doubt. There was profound exhaustion there, but also a rare vulnerability—shoulders hunched, trembling hands resting on his thick thighs.

Jack stood for a moment, catching his breath, sweat trickling down his neck and disappearing under the collar of his clothes. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, feeling the muscles in his arm tremble slightly. His eyes met his friend’s, steady despite the fatigue. “It’s the first day. You can’t give up so easily.” His voice was low but full of conviction, a tone that didn’t allow for backing down. He sat down next to Kevin, the bench creaking under their weight, and gave his friend a light pat on the shoulder.

Kevin let out a weak laugh, almost a groan, leaning forward with his hands on his stomach. “I’m practically spitting out my lungs here, and you want me not to give up?” He turned his face away, his brown eyes gleaming with a mixture of dark humor and genuine exhaustion. Drops still clung to the tips of his beard, and the strong smell of exertion emanated from him in waves.

Jack shook his head slowly. He had never pushed himself so hard in his life. In the chronic poverty of Huntington and later in San Diego, his body was merely a tool for survival—for work, escape, and enduring. There was no reason for more. Training? Running? That was a luxury for someone who didn’t have to worry about the next meal or overdue rent. Now, everything had changed. ChaosGacha, the threats piled on the whiteboard—everything demanded more of him. “Enough… enough of this complaining,” he murmured, more to himself than to Kevin, his voice hoarse but resolute. He stood up, stretching his thin arms, feeling his shoulders protest.

The two walked slowly to the park’s equipment area—nothing sophisticated, just rusty pull-up bars, an improvised bench press, and open space on the ground. Jack stopped in front of the bar, looking up with determination. The cold metal contrasted with the heat of his sweaty body. “Do you want to start with push-ups on the floor or on the bar?” he asked, turning to Kevin.

Kevin stared at the bar with evident doubt, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ll stick with the push-up,” he replied, his voice heavy with practical resignation. He positioned himself on the floor, knees bent, and began the incline push-ups—his body descending slowly, his arms trembling with the effort, his face furrowed in concentration. Each repetition was a small victory, sweat dripping onto the concrete.

Jack jumped, gripping the bar with his long, pale hands. His thin arms tensed immediately, his lean muscles jutting out beneath his damp skin. He managed to pull himself up on the first repetition, then the second. The third failed miserably—his arms aching, his body hanging with his knees bent to avoid touching the ground. He hung suspended for a few seconds, breathing deeply, feeling the pull on his shoulders and forearms. “Shit…,” he murmured softly, before letting go and falling to his knees slightly bent. Without complaining, he followed Kevin’s example and began push-ups with his knees on the ground, his body rising and falling with controlled effort.

They finished the set almost simultaneously, breathless, their bodies trembling. Jack gave them no rest. “Now… sit-ups,” he announced, his voice cracking. They lay down on the uneven grass, their backs against the dew-soaked ground. The first repetitions came with difficulty—short sit-ups, their weak cores protesting. They managed ten, no more. Kevin rolled onto his side, groaning, his face buried in the grass. Jack lay on his back, his chest rising and falling, staring at the increasingly bright sky.

“Let’s… go back home,” Jack finally said, breathless, forcing his body to stand. Every muscle protested, but there was a strange satisfaction in the exhaustion—his body, despite everything, was responding.

Kevin raised his head, indignant. “Are we going to have to run back?” He sat down on the sweat-soaked grass, his face a mask of disbelief. “Next time we’ll come by car, damn it.”

Jack simply nodded silently, a tired smile curving his lips. He hadn’t thought about going back. Neither of them had. But the silence between them was one of agreement—the price was being paid, step by step, drop by drop of sweat.

The return trip was even more arduous. Kevin grumbled at every block, his heavy body feeling twice as large as it was, but he kept pace alongside Jack. The rising sun painted the streets gold, illuminating the sweat that glistened on both their skin. Jack felt each breath as a victory. It was only the beginning—painful, humiliating in its simplicity, but necessary. Kevin, despite his complaints, didn’t stop. His loyalty shone brighter than his exhaustion.

When they finally caught sight of the building, the two were walking more than running, their bodies battered but their minds sharp. Jack paused for a moment at the door, looking at his friend. “It’s worth it,” he said simply. Kevin, still breathless, nodded firmly. Inside the apartment, the familiar smell of mold and cream greeted them. The day had barely begun, and it had already forged something new within them.

They dragged themselves inside, the sweat drying slowly on their skin, their hearts still racing. The plan continued. The body would be forged. And the world outside, with all its threats, would not catch them unprepared.