A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 0014

Chapter 14

Kevin Harlan’s calloused, sweaty hand gripped the worn steering wheel of the old van tightly enough to leave his knuckles white. The engine hummed softly, almost a hoarse whisper lost in the oppressive silence of the quiet street. It was the dead of night, and the darkness seemed denser there, far from the city’s main lights—a stretch of cracked asphalt flanked by low, silent buildings, where the air carried the damp smell of concrete wet from the fine drizzle that had fallen earlier, mixed with the distant stench of accumulated garbage and old exhaust fumes. The residual heat of the day still rose from the ground, clinging to the skin like a second sticky layer.

In the passenger seat, Jack Williams remained motionless, his tall, lean body now enveloped in his suit. The glossy black fabric absorbed the little light available, gaining that subtle iridescent sheen that only appeared at specific angles. A black balaclava completely covered his face, leaving only his green eyes visible—eyes that, even in the dim light, betrayed the tension that gripped his chest like a spring about to snap. His heart pounded against his ribs, each pulse echoing in his ears. It was his first real operation. No more training in the cramped apartment, no more planning on the whiteboard. Real blood. Real risk.

Kevin, standing beside him, was dressed entirely in black: a baggy sweatshirt, old tactical pants, a beanie pulled up to his eyebrows, and a white surgical mask covering the lower half of his face. His friend’s brown eyes, normally full of impulsive humor, were now narrowed and focused on the street ahead. He was also sweating—drops trickling down his visible temple—but his posture was one of brutal determination, his chubby body leaning slightly forward as if he wanted to push the van with his own will.

“Are you sure?” Jack asked, his voice muffled by the balaclava, hoarse with nervousness. He flexed his fingers inside his suit gloves, feeling the Neural Synergy respond with an almost comforting pulse, amplifying his senses. The smell of old plastic from the van’s interior, the slight creaking of the seats, the soft hum of static electricity in the glasses he hadn’t yet fully put on.

Kevin turned his head slowly. The invisible smile beneath the surgical mask shone through in the gleam of his eyes.

“Yes. He went out tonight to make sales. The nightclub is the starting point. He’ll be gone for hours. Keep a cool head, Jack. We planned this.”

Jack nodded slowly, swallowing hard. The metallic taste of adrenaline filled his mouth. “And where did you get that van?” he asked, his voice lower.

Kevin let out a low, hoarse laugh that broke some of the tension inside the vehicle. The air was heavy, thick with sweat and anxiety, an almost surreal contrast to the smell of oil and dust in the van.

“It’s an old van that used to sit parked in one of my dad’s parking lots. A few years ago we used it to deliver food to farms around San Diego. Now it’s retired. Nobody will miss it today. I changed the license plate. The worst that can happen is the police stop us… and honestly, in this part of town they have much bigger problems than an old van with tinted windows.”

Jack looked out the side window. The dark glass prevented any view from the outside in. The street was much calmer—a relatively wealthier enclave, with less surveillance, where the fervor of crime that consumed Logan Heights hadn’t yet swallowed everything. Larger houses, more spaced-out lampposts, few pedestrians. But they both knew it was temporary. The vacuum left by Vought’s departure was spreading like poison.

“I understand,” Jack murmured, adjusting his balaclava with a nervous gesture. The suit clung perfectly to his movements, like a living second skin. He felt the weight of responsibility. Kevin was risking everything—family money, contacts, his own freedom—out of pure loyalty. And he, Jack, the skinny kid who could barely do three pull-ups a week ago, was now leading the first operation.

Kevin extended his clenched fist. Jack bumped his against his friend’s, the firm contact conveying more than words.

“Good luck, brother.”

Jack opened the van’s side door with an almost silent click. The night air rushed in, fresher, carrying the distant scent of the harbor and the muffled murmur of a city that never truly slept. He stepped out, closing the door carefully, and immediately plunged into the shadows of the dark alley beside him. The darkness enveloped him like a cloak. His heart still pounded, but the suit responded—amplifying his balance, silencing his footsteps, making his movements fluid and predatory.

He adjusted his tactical goggles over his balaclava. Kevin’s voice reached his ear clearly through the integrated communicator:

“Are you listening to me?”

“Listening,” Jack replied, his voice firm now, his nervousness pushed to the back. “Let’s get to work.”

He walked down the alley, pressing his body against the damp wall. The cold concrete against his suit, the smell of old urine and mold. He activated camouflage mode—the fabric blended into the dark tones and uneven textures of the surroundings, making him virtually invisible against the dirty wall. With precise movements, he began to climb. His fingers found gaps highlighted by the suit, his muscles responding with amplified force. In a few minutes he reached the rooftop, the night wind blowing stronger up there, carrying distant sounds of sirens and muffled music from some nightclub.

The target building was right ahead. Four meters of space between the terraces. Jack retreated to the opposite edge, feeling the blood pounding in his veins. The training of the last few weeks, the sweat poured into the apartment, the grueling repetitions—it all converged in that moment. He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs, and ran.

The footsteps were silent and powerful. The push off the edge of the terrace, the body launching into the void. For a second, only air and the potential fall. Then it landed on the other side in a controlled roll, absorbing the impact silently and rising with feline grace.

A wave of genuine satisfaction washed over him. The smile was invisible beneath the balaclava.

“Easy,” he murmured, his voice low and confident into the communicator. “Are you listening, Kevin?”

The reply came immediately, filled with relief and restrained excitement: “I’m listening, brother.”

Jack crouched on the edge of the new terrace for just a few seconds—long enough to let his breathing stabilize and his goggles complete their initial perimeter scan. The San Diego night spread below, a river of shadows interrupted by lampposts that spilled yellowish puddles onto the asphalt. The seven-story white building rose ahead, with no fire escape visible on that facade. Only a half-open window on the top floor, a sliver of warm light escaping like an involuntary invitation.

He took a running start and leaped—his stomach clenching, the air cutting his face beneath the balaclava. He gripped the open windowsill with surgical precision, his body rotating smoothly into the apartment without a sound. He landed crouched on the soft carpet, the absolute silence around him contrasting starkly with the roar of blood in his ears.

The air inside was fresher, thick with a subtle scent of expensive air freshener—synthetic lavender mixed with new leather and polished wood. Jack stood slowly, his green eyes scanning the space through his thin-rimmed tactical glasses.

The place was a stark contrast to the building’s modest facade. The living room boasted deep Italian leather sofas, a giant television embedded in the main wall, thick Persian rugs underfoot, and minimalist designer light fixtures that cast warm, indirect light. Even the kitchen, visible behind a granite countertop, seemed too luxurious for a street dealer: dark wood cabinets, brushed steel appliances. Jack didn’t suppress the grin that spread across his face beneath his balaclava—sharp, predatory, full of dark satisfaction. The son of a bitch lives in luxury while the city bleeds outside.

“Kevin, can you hear me?” he murmured, his voice low and controlled by the integrated communicator.

Before his friend could respond, the glasses reacted on their own. The lenses lit up with a subtle holographic overlay, projecting layers of information onto reality. Environmental scanning activated. The apartment had been recently cleaned—microscopic microfiber cloth marks still visible on the polished surfaces. Old liquid stains—probably blood or drink—hidden in the fabric of the main sofa. A complete map of fingerprints gleamed in shades of blue, most belonging to the apartment owner, concentrated in frequently touched areas. Jack blinked, impressed. The suit never ceased to amaze him—each day revealing a new layer of capability.

“Jack? Is everything alright there?” Kevin’s voice came through the communicator, tense with concern.

“Yes, Kevin,” Jack replied, his tone growing confident as he walked silently around the room. “Apparently this suit has a scanning mode. Let’s see if it’s as useful as it looks.”

He swept the living room and kitchen with precise movements, his glasses highlighting details that ordinary eyes would never notice: traces of white powder in a drawer—probably cocaine—but nothing of immediate value to ChaosGacha. The apartment, despite its generous size by neighborhood standards, was compact enough that the search would be quick. Without hesitation, he went straight to the master bedroom.

The half-open door revealed an even more ostentatious scene. A king-size bed dominated the space, covered with black silk sheets and a bedspread that looked absurdly expensive. Another giant television hung on the opposite wall, with a built-in surround sound system, and a stronger smell of expensive men’s cologne permeated the air. Jack felt a pang of contempt mixed with excitement. While people like me can barely eat properly, this guy sleeps in silk.

He opened the closet first. Rows of luxury brand sneakers—Jordan, Yeezy, Gucci—lined up like trophies. Drawers overflowing with designer clothes, imported perfumes in heavy glass bottles. All valuable, no doubt. But Jack shook his head. Items too bulky, difficult to transport discreetly, and he wasn’t sure if the system would recognize clothes and perfumes as having enough “value” to justify the risk. Not today.

Returning to the bedroom, the glasses blinked again. Fresh fingerprints on the gold frame above the bed. Jack smiled beneath his balaclava. Bingo. He carefully removed the frame, revealing a safe embedded in the wall—larger than expected for an apartment like this, with a steel door about fifty centimeters wide and a four-digit electronic lock.

“I found it, Kevin,” he whispered, his voice heavy with restrained triumph.

“Great!” Kevin replied immediately, his excitement clear even through the communicator. “What is it?”

“A safe. A big one.”

“That’s where things get complicated…”

“But I can open it,” Jack interrupted confidently. “The glasses recorded exactly which buttons he pressed. It’s a four-digit code. Knowing the exact numbers he uses every day, the possible combinations are reduced to just twenty-four. I have plenty of time.”

He began testing the permutations with precise fingers, the suit amplifying his dexterity. On the tenth attempt, the display turned green with a soft click: 7903. Jack opened the heavy door, his heart racing.

The interior was a treasure trove. The safe was deep, embedded deep in the wall, revealing stacks of dollar bills arranged in sealed blocks, a finely decorated luxury watch in a velvet case, thick gold chains, heavy rings with assorted pendants, and, at the bottom, two large blocks sealed with duct tape—cocaine or something equally valuable. Beside them, a pristine black Glock 17, accompanied by two sealed boxes of 9mm ammunition and an extra magazine already loaded. Jack felt a warm wave of satisfaction. Gun, ammunition, and money—exactly what they needed to take the next step.

With trained speed, he emptied everything into a tactical bag he had brought folded inside his suit. Money, jewelry, watch, drugs, the Glock, the ammunition boxes and the loaded magazine—nothing was left behind. He replaced the frame exactly as he had found it, erased any microscopic trace with a cloth from his own suit, and left the same way: window, controlled jump back to the other building, silent descent through the shadows.

The van was waiting in the alley. Jack opened the side door and settled inside, closing it with a muffled thud. The heavy bag landed between them.

Kevin, still masked, turned around — his eyes gleaming with adrenaline.

“How it was?”

Jack pulled his balaclava up, revealing an exhausted but radiant smile, sweat glistening on his pale forehead.

“Better than we imagined.”

Kevin let out a hoarse, genuine laugh, tapping the steering wheel before starting the engine. The old van roared to life with a low rumble, cutting through the San Diego night. City lights streamed through the tinted windows as the two young men—united by sweat, risk, and an unlikely loyalty—felt the weight of their first real victory settle upon them in a way they had never anticipated. It wasn’t a clean triumph. It was heavy, ambiguous, laden with awareness of what they had been through. But it was also concrete, tangible, and entirely theirs.

The road ahead seemed more open. The future, less bleak. And that night—small, discreet, far from any noisy celebration—would be remembered as the moment they ceased to be just two survivors and began, in fact, to play.