A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 0011

Chapter 11

The constant hum of the fluorescent lights on the convenience store ceiling seemed more oppressive on that gray afternoon. Jack Williams sat in the cracked swivel chair behind the worn wooden counter, his tall, still lean body slightly forward, his elbows resting on the worn surface. His green eyes, shadowed by dark circles that not even a week of intense training had managed to completely erase, were fixed on the small, old television mounted on the opposite wall. The volume was low enough not to attract the attention of occasional customers, but loud enough that every word the journalist spoke echoed in his mind like a grim warning.

On the screen, grainy images showed streets of San Diego that Jack recognized well—Logan Heights, the port, alleys he himself had traversed countless times. Smoke rose from burning cars, sirens cut through the air in frantic loops, and shadowy figures exchanged gunfire behind rusting shipping containers. “Since the mayor rescinded the contract with Vought, crime has exploded to alarming levels,” the reporter said, her heavily made-up face contrasting sharply with the chaos in the background. “Gangs, once contained by the presence of corporate heroes, now act with unprecedented audacity. Police sources claim that the absence of ‘visible’ patrols has created a power vacuum that no one seems capable of filling.”

Jack tightened his grip on the hand grip Kevin had lent him days before. The rubber and metal equipment creaked rhythmically in his right hand, his long, pale fingers working tirelessly, feeling the muscles in his forearm burn with the repetitive effort. He seriously doubted that Vought’s former “heroes” had made a real difference. They were more propaganda than protection—perfect smiles on billboards while the real power resided in control and profits. Now, without that mask of corporate surveillance, ordinary people—or rather, the worst of them—were becoming bolder. The collective fear that maintained the precarious balance had evaporated, revealing the rot that had always been there, just below the surface.

He let out a long, low sigh, his thin chest rising and falling beneath the faded red shirt of his uniform. It had been exactly a week since training had truly begun. The hardest week of his entire life. Waking up at four-thirty in the morning with his body still protesting from the previous session, running through the dark streets alongside Kevin, who was panting like an old engine. The exercises in the park—pull-ups where he could barely complete three repetitions, knee push-ups that left his arms trembling, sit-ups that felt like they were tearing his weak core in two. Every muscle ached in a deep, constant way that went beyond physical exhaustion and touched something more primal: the realization of how fragile he had always been.

And Kevin practically lived in the apartment now. The old sofa, once a forgotten piece of furniture, had become his friend’s makeshift bed. Every night, the smell of sweat mingled with the aroma of Maomao cream that still permeated the cracks in the damp walls. Every morning, the ritual repeated itself. Kevin, faithful as always, would show up with grocery bags full of food that Jack had never imagined he could buy regularly—eggs, chicken breast, brown rice, fresh vegetables, even basic supplements that his friend managed to “negotiate” with the family’s money. The hearty breakfast after training was almost a sacred ritual—proteins and carbohydrates that nourished the aching muscles and provided energy for the exhausting day at the gas station.

Jack tightened his grip on the hand grip, feeling the sweat begin to accumulate on his palm. His thoughts returned to the screen. Gang wars were escalating. Reports of summary executions, territories fought over with gunfire, innocents caught in the crossfire. San Diego, far from a peaceful city, was rapidly transforming into a cauldron about to explode. And, in the midst of this chaos, Jack saw a dark opportunity. The power vacuum could be exploited. The suit, carefully stored in the apartment, awaited the right moment. A small, discreet first target—street gangs, low-level drug dealers—could generate the necessary value for ChaosGacha without attracting the immediate attention of the GDA or Vought.

The doorbell rang, bringing Jack back to the present. A regular customer entered, murmuring a weary greeting. Jack responded with mechanical efficiency, his hand grip tucked under the counter, his fingers still working discreetly. As he registered the purchase, his mind raced. Kevin was doing his part.

Much of his friend’s childhood and adolescence had been spent with dubious people—bad parties, shady contacts, the kind of network a bored, rich kid unintentionally builds. Now, this was proving useful. Kevin moved through the darkest circles with relative safety, treated simply as “just another rich junkie” looking for merchandise. No one suspected his true intentions. He gathered information on territories, supply routes, weak points in smaller operations—nothing big enough to raise red flags.

Jack, however, cared. Always. While attending to the customer, he imagined his chubby friend in some dark alley, talking to people who wouldn’t hesitate to stick a knife in someone’s ribs for a crooked look. Kevin was loyal, impulsive, and brave in a way that Jack deeply admired, but he was also human. Vulnerable. The idea that his friend risked his life for him weighed like lead on his thin chest.

When the customer left, silence returned, broken only by the hum of the television. Jack turned up the volume slightly. The journalist continued: “Anonymous sources report a fifty percent increase in armed confrontations this week alone. The population is clamoring for protection, but authorities say Vought will not return without a new billion-dollar contract. Meanwhile, ordinary citizens are paying the price.”

Jack clenched his teeth, tightening his hand grip until his knuckles turned white. Things were deteriorating rapidly. And this, as terrible as it was, was a window of opportunity. A chance for two nobodies to start accumulating power. He thought of the apartment’s whiteboard, now covered in detailed notes—names of smaller gang leaders, delivery schedules, less-guarded routes. Kevin spent his nights researching, cross-referencing newspaper articles, street rumors, and his own connections. His friend had an astonishing talent for it—the same nerdy curiosity that had united them in comic books now served to map the underworld.

The shift dragged on, but Jack’s mind wouldn’t stop. He relived the last seven days with painful clarity. The morning runs, his body protesting with every stride, the sweat burning his eyes. Kevin panting behind him, complaining but never giving up. The shared meals, his friend insisting he eat more, “to gain mass, damn it.” The nights of planning, the hoarse laughter cutting through the tension when one of them made a bad joke about the workout. For the first time in years, Jack didn’t feel completely alone. The apartment, once a cold and isolating hole, now pulsed with shared purpose.

He flexed his fingers around the hand grip, feeling a slight burning sensation that, strangely, brought satisfaction. His body was still fragile, but it responded. His shoulders ached less at the end of the day. His posture was a little more upright. Small victories that accumulated. And Kevin… Kevin was also transforming. His friend was slowly losing weight, his face less swollen, his breathing a little less labored during races. His loyalty was pure fuel.

When Carlos finally arrived to cover his shift, Jack felt a profound relief. He changed clothes in the back of the store, his dirty uniform stuffed in his backpack, and went out into the street. The late afternoon air still carried the heat of the day, but a sea breeze brought relief. He walked to his apartment with firmer steps, his mind already projecting the next day’s training session and the evening conversation with Kevin about the first target.

As he opened the door, the familiar smell of food greeted him. Kevin was in the makeshift kitchen, stirring a pot, his face sweaty but focused. He turned with a tired smile. “You’re here, man. The chicken’s almost ready. And I got some more information today…”

Jack closed the door behind him, feeling the weight of the day dissipate a little. The whiteboard awaited in the living room, the suit stored in the bedroom, the ChaosGacha hovering like a dangerous promise. San Diego bled outside. But there, amidst sweat, muscle aches, and an unlikely friendship, something new was being born. They were no longer just prey. They were becoming hunters.

…

The cramped apartment’s living room seemed even smaller that night, with the sofa pushed against the back wall and the coffee table moved to the opposite corner, freeing up minimal maneuvering space in the center of the room. The air was heavy, laden with the smell of fresh sweat and the lingering aroma of Maomao cream still clinging to the cracks in the damp walls, mixed with the faint salty scent that drifted in through the half-open window along with the distant murmur of the harbor.

The yellowish lamp hanging from the ceiling cast long, dancing shadows on the worn linoleum floor, illuminating the tall, thin figure of Jack Williams in the center of the makeshift space. Kevin Harlan sat on the sofa, his chubby body sunk into the old springs, his brown eyes fixed on his friend with a mixture of fascination, concern, and shared exhaustion.

Jack, dressed in his full suit, moved with a fluidity that still surprised him. The black satin fabric clung perfectly to his slender body, the subtle iridescent sheen catching the dim light of the lamp with every movement. He had decided that daytime sessions in the park weren’t enough. At night, when the weariness of the workday combined with accumulated exhaustion, he summoned the suit and pushed his body to its absolute limit.

The suit’s Neural Synergy responded as a perfect extension of his will, amplifying strength, balance, and reflexes, but also demanding that he overcome barriers that, without the equipment, would be impossible. The suit identified with clinical precision the point of muscular or articular rupture, never allowing serious injuries, but always pushing Jack to the brink of exhaustion—where every fiber of his body trembled and protested.

At that moment, Jack was upside down, his feet almost touching the low ceiling of the apartment, supporting his entire body weight only with his outstretched arms. Sweat poured profusely down his pale face, dripping in thick drops onto the floor below, forming small, irregular puddles that reflected the yellowish light. The muscles in his shoulders and forearms burned with fierce intensity, the veins prominent beneath the stretched skin.

With impressive control, he slowly withdrew his right arm, balancing only on his left. His entire body trembled with the effort, his legs descending in a controlled arc while his single arm maintained a vertical position. His balance was put to the ultimate test—the slightest deviation and he would fall, but the suit compensated with precise micro-adjustments, forcing Jack’s nervous system to adapt in real time.

Kevin watched in silence, his round face still glistening with the residual sweat from his morning workout, his breathing a little heavy even just from observing. He scratched his poorly trimmed red beard, his eyes half-closed in concentration, following his friend’s gradual transformation. “Dude… this is insane,” Kevin murmured, his hoarse voice cutting through the silence punctuated only by Jack’s controlled breathing.

Without immediately responding, Jack switched arms with a fluid movement, now supporting his weight on his right while his left extended to the side. His legs moved slowly and controlled, testing his dynamic balance. Sweat continued to trickle down his neck, soaking the collar of his white suit shirt. After long seconds in this extreme position, he began to walk on his hands—an inverted shift in the confined space—his long, pale fingers pressing into the cold linoleum, his inverted body moving with surgical precision. Each step on his hands sent waves of fatigue through his shoulders and core, but the suit allowed no pause. It forced him. Always pushing beyond what Jack imagined he was capable of.

Finally, with an explosive thrust of his arms, Jack spun through the air, his body tracing a perfect arc before landing on his feet in the center of the room with a soft thud. Sweat dripped from his chin, his chest rising and falling in deep, rhythmic breaths. He ran his hands through his damp blond hair, his lean face etched with genuine exhaustion, but also with a fierce determination that shone in his green eyes. “Man, this is truly incredible,” he said, his voice hoarse and broken. “And exhausting too. As much as my arms and body ache, the suit keeps pushing me to the limit. I only stop when the entire workout is over.”

Kevin nodded slowly, leaning forward on the sofa, his elbows resting on his thick knees. “It’s tough, huh? But it’s working. You’re already different, man. More stable.” His friend observed every detail—Jack’s posture a little more upright, his shoulders less hunched from chronic fatigue, the muscles in his forearms more defined even in such a short time.

Jack walked to the corner of the room where the makeshift equipment was set up. He picked up a pair of rustic weights—bags of rice and beans that Kevin had brought, each weighing around twenty kilos. “Now, load. If you want to get strong, you have to break at least one hundred and twenty repetitions today,” he said, his voice firm despite his fatigue. Kevin simply nodded silently, agreeing, knowing that his friend wouldn’t accept less.

But the nighttime workout wasn’t limited to push-ups and forced sit-ups. Jack positioned himself in a corner of the room while Kevin, on the opposite side, held an old baseball. The space was tiny, dangerous for such exercise—but it was exactly what they needed. Jack closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trusting in the suit’s Neural Synergy. His senses were amplified—he could hear Kevin’s breathing, the slight creaking of the sofa, the distant rumble of sirens in the city. “Go,” he murmured.

Kevin concentrated, aimed, and threw with moderate force. The ball cut through the thin air of the room, flying straight for the back of Jack’s neck. At the last instant, his hand moved like lightning—a black blur from his suit—intercepting the ball mid-air with supernatural precision. He held it firmly for a second before returning it to Kevin with controlled speed. His friend caught it without difficulty, a tired smile curving his lips.

“It seems like the suit pushed to its limit in this particular session,” Kevin commented, twirling the ball between his thick fingers, sweat still glistening on his forehead.

Jack opened his eyes, nodding, his chest still heaving. “We have to find something more challenging.” His voice carried determination, but also a clear awareness of his own current limitations. The suit was a blessing, but his body still needed to keep up. Each nightly session left him on the verge of total exhaustion—muscles trembling, mind clouded by fatigue, but also sharper, more prepared for what was to come.

Kevin grumbled as he got up from the couch, stretching his arms. The week had also taken its toll—the morning runs, the workouts in the park, the tireless research on potential targets on the streets. His dubious contacts in the underworld provided valuable crumbs: routes of smaller gangs, vulnerable times, spots where surveillance was weak. He didn’t raise suspicions—just another rich, addicted kid looking for merchandise. But Jack worried about that. His friend’s loyalty was unwavering, but the risk was real and growing.

The two lingered for a few more minutes, catching their breath, the sweat slowly drying on their skin as they discussed their next steps. The whiteboard on the wall, covered in notes and interconnected arrows, bore witness to the meticulous planning. San Diego seethed outside with escalating violence—daring gangs, a power vacuum left by Vought, opportunities born from the chaos. Jack felt his body aching, but alive in a new way. His suit pulsed subtly against his skin, ready for more.

The night wore on, and with it the certainty that every drop of sweat, every forced repetition, every calculated risk brought them closer to their first real move. They were no longer just survivors. They were forging themselves into something dangerous. And the world outside, with all its threats, would soon feel the weight of this transformation.

Jack wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand and exchanged a firm look with Kevin. The silence between them was comfortable, dense with shared purpose. Tomorrow would be another day of brutal training, another night of preparation. And soon, the first real test would arrive.