A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 0015

Chapter 15

The dim, yellowish glow of the single lamp hanging in Jack’s cramped room cast long, trembling shadows on the worn linoleum floor, transforming the modest space into something almost sacred under the weight of the first real victory. The air was thick with the mingled aromas of the night: the smell of damp concrete carried by the harbor breeze that entered through the half-open window, the faint metallic scent of gunpowder, the freshness of the stacked notes, and the subtle chemical sweetness emanating from the two vacuum-sealed packets on the coffee table.

Jack sat on the edge of the sunken olive-green sofa, his tall, lean body still vibrating with residual adrenaline, the Neural Synergy of his suit pulsing slightly beneath his skin like a second, vibrant heartbeat. The sweat from the previous exertion had dried in a thin, salty layer on his pale forehead, and his green eyes—penetrating, intense, still carrying the ghost of that predatory focus from the rooftops—reflected the modest pile of spoils before him.

Kevin collapsed beside them, his chubby body sinking into the cushions, his round face flushed with a mixture of exhaustion and pure, unbridled joy. His poorly trimmed red beard glistened with a few beads of sweat, and his brown eyes scanned the table eagerly, wide with the kind of disbelief usually reserved for lottery winners or children discovering hidden treasures. The old sofa creaked under their combined weight—a familiar and comforting sound amidst the electrifying tension that filled the room. For long moments, neither of them said anything. They just looked at each other, letting reality settle in like the cool night breeze drifting through the harbor.

Jack’s long, pale fingers reached out first, almost reverently, picking up one of the thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills. The paper was firm, substantial—real in a way that made his chest tighten with a wave of pure emotion. Fifteen thousand four hundred dollars. He counted again in his mind, the numbers echoing like a mantra. In eighteen years of life, he had never held, much less possessed, anything close to that amount. His breathing slowed, deepened, as if he feared that exhaling too forcefully might make him disappear. The metallic taste of adrenaline still lingered at the back of his tongue, mingling with the faint scent of the dealer’s expensive cologne that had permeated the tactical bag.

“Fifteen thousand four hundred,” Jack murmured, his voice low and hoarse, almost a whisper. He placed the bundle carefully on the table, as if it were fragile glass. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his angular face, easing the constant tension in his jaw. “Never… damn it, Kevin. Never seen so much at once. Not even in my dreams.” His green eyes turned to his friend, seeking confirmation that it was real—that the risk, the silent climb, the breathless entry, the meticulous cleaning, had all been worth it in a way that seemed almost impossible.

Kevin let out a deep, hoarse laugh that echoed from his belly, his chubby cheeks rising as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his thick knees. Beads of sweat still trickled down his temples, reflecting the light from the lamppost. “I told you, man. That paranoid bastard was sitting on a gold mine.” He picked up one of the gold chains, letting it dangle between his thick fingers, the metal gleaming with a dull sheen. “We really did it. First real operation, and nothing went wrong. No alarms, no surprises, just… all clean.”

The words hung between them, laden with the shared memory of the tension that had gripped them in the van—the muffled voices of the communicator, the leap across the rooftops, the controlled landing, the scanning goggles revealing hidden fingerprints, and the safe. Jack felt a wave of genuine satisfaction wash over him, warmer than the lingering heat of the day that still clung to the walls.

The narrow shoulders, once perpetually hunched under the weight of poverty and trauma, straightened a little more within the suit. It wasn’t just money. It was proof. Proof that two nobodies from the port district could fight back against the rot consuming San Diego. Proof that the Ghost Suit wasn’t just a sophisticated outfit—it was the advantage they needed.

But it was the two heavy, compacted blocks in the center of the table that truly dominated the room. Kevin reached for them with a reverent touch, his thick hand pressing lightly against the plastic reinforced with duct tape. The sweet, chemical smell intensified. “Pure. I’m telling you, Jack. This is good stuff. Untouched. Two solid blocks like this… separated and carefully positioned? Forty thousand dollars, easy.” His voice lowered, laden with admiration and a touch of the old street pragmatism acquired through dubious contacts. The excitement in his tone was contagious, making Jack’s pulse quicken again. Forty thousand in product. Adding the money and the jewelry, the total surpassed anything either of them had imagined.

Jack swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple rising and falling as a complex storm of emotions raged within him—euphoria, anxiety, fierce determination. His analytical mind, sharpened by years of fighting for survival and devouring tales of power and strategy, immediately turned to ChaosGacha. This was fuel. Real, substantial value. The kind capable of drastically changing the odds in his favor. “With all this…,” he began, his voice gaining strength, his green eyes fixed on the packages with predatory focus, “the next round… has to be something big. The system feeds on value. We’ve never offered this much before.” A nervous but genuine laugh escaped his lips, rare and hoarse, breaking some of the tension that still lingered.

He ran a hand through his damp blond hair, feeling the cool night air coming through the window brush against his neck. The fear of failure that had hung over every step of the operation—the “what ifs” of the police lights, a hidden guard, or the limitations of the suit—was dissipating before this tangible proof of capability. However, beneath the euphoria, caution persisted. He knew the nature of Gacha. High risk, high reward. Nothing was guaranteed.

Kevin nodded vigorously, his round face breaking into a wide grin that made his sparse beard tremble. He slapped his thick thigh, the dry sound breaking the silence of the room. “Exactly, man. We throw all this stuff at you—money, jewels, cocaine—and the roulette wheel spins hard. No bullshit like cream. This time we’re talking about real power.” His brown eyes gleamed with shared ambition, the loyalty that had kept him by Jack’s side through every grueling training session and risky plan shining through them. The apartment, with its familiar damp walls and the distant sound of the harbor, seemed smaller now, charged with energy—like the nerve center of a rising operation, no longer a hole for two young men struggling to survive.

Jack’s gaze drifted to the final items on the table: the pristine black Glock 17, the two sealed boxes of 9mm ammunition, and the already loaded spare magazine. He picked up the pistol carefully, feeling its perfectly balanced weight in his gloved hand—even without the suit fully activated, Neural Synergy provided an instinctive familiarity. The cold metal, the textured grip, the faint smell of lubricant—everything felt right. Natural. “This one stays,” he said firmly, turning the gun to inspect it in the light. “The suit allows me to use something like this with real precision. The streets are getting worse. Vought is gone, and the vacuum is being filled by worse things every night.” He placed the Glock beside the ammunition, a decisive nod sealing his choice.

The two sat in friendly silence for a while, the weight of the hunt pressing down on the table like an anchor to the new reality. Kevin broke the silence with another low laugh, picking up one of the wads of cash and shaking the bills casually. “Let’s celebrate slowly today, okay? Tomorrow… we’ll feed the beast.” His voice was full of restrained joy—the kind that comes from seeing a plan succeed against all odds. Jack nodded, his satisfied smile returning, more intense this time. The night air carried through the window the faint scent of possibility. The first real victory tasted of sweat, risk, and hard-won loyalty.

The conversation drifted into silent planning, voices low and intense, bodies leaning over the table as they cataloged the potential of each item. Jack’s thoughts lingered on the value of the cocaine, on the precise calculations Kevin had provided based on his knowledge of the network, on the tactical advantage of the Glock in his amplified hands. Emotions swirled—relief at success, the euphoria of sudden resources, the sober awareness of the growing dangers in a city abandoned by corporate “heroes.” Kevin’s impulsive humor occasionally broke the seriousness of the situation, eliciting rare laughs from Jack and strengthening the bond that had become his greatest asset.

As the lamplight began to warm the cold night air, the two young men leaned back—shoulders touching in silent companionship. The table ahead was not just a treasure. It was an impulse. And in the heart of the dilapidated apartment, amidst the restless symphony of the harbor, Jack Williams felt something he hadn’t felt in years: a genuine hope, tempered by the firmness of determination.

The morning light pierced the thin curtains like a blunt knife, turning the cramped apartment into a stifling oven of rancid air. Jack forced his eyelids open, only for his skull to throb in protest—a relentless pulse that radiated from his temples to the base of his neck. His mouth tasted of ash and cheap beer, his tongue thick and dry, while the slight acidity of the previous night’s excesses clung to the back of his throat. He pushed himself up onto the sunken sofa, the old springs groaning under the movement, and the room tilted for a dizzying second before stabilizing.

Sweat already dotted the roots of his hair despite the early hour. The air carried the heavy residue of spilled alcohol and cigarette smoke that had seeped in from the street below, plus the unmistakable smell of excess. His stomach churned, a nauseating memory of how many cans they had opened in celebration. Jack rubbed his face with both hands, feeling his unshaven beard and sticky skin, then looked around in the dark space.

Kevin Harlan was sprawled on the floor like a discarded rag, one arm over his eyes, his plump chest rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths. His shirt had ridden up, exposing a pale strip of belly, and a trickle of saliva glistened at the corner of his mouth. Empty cans and crumpled snack wrappers littered the coffee table and the floor around them—evidence of the reckless night. Jack’s lips curved into a tired smile despite the pounding in his head. They had truly let go. For once, the weight of constant vigilance had been pushed aside in favor of cheap beer and loud laughter. But now the bill had come due.

He swung his long legs off the sofa and stood up, staggering slightly as another wave of dizziness hit him. The wooden floor felt cool beneath his bare feet—a small mercy against the rising heat of the day. Jack walked the short distance and nudged Kevin’s side with his foot, lightly but enough to jolt him. “Kevin,” he growled, his voice rough as gravel. “Wake up, man. We have work today.”

Kevin let out a guttural groan, rolling onto his side with exaggerated reluctance. His brown eyes slit open, red and cloudy, and he looked at Jack, frowning as if the light itself were an enemy. “Damn… five more minutes,” he murmured, his voice thick and hoarse. He tried to bury his face in his bent elbow, but Jack nudged him again, more firmly.

“No. Let’s go. We won this mess, but we’re not going to waste the day sleeping.” Jack’s tone carried a mixture of amusement and urgency. The events of the previous night still buzzed beneath the surface—the silent infiltration, the safe, the satisfying weight of the bag as they sped off in the old van. Victory, raw and real. But that also meant new responsibilities.

Kevin mumbled something unintelligible but finally sat up, rubbing his face with his two fleshy hands. His red beard looked even more disheveled than usual, speckled with crumbs, and his round cheeks were flushed from a hangover. He blinked slowly, his gaze drifting to the coffee table, and his expression shifted from sleepy misery to a spark of remembered triumph. “Shit… we actually did this,” he murmured, a slow smile spreading across his face despite the obvious discomfort. “Look at all this.”

Jack went to the tiny kitchen area, the linoleum sticky underfoot, and pulled two bottles of water from the refrigerator. The cold plastic was comforting in his palms. He twisted the cap off one and drank deeply, the liquid soothing his parched throat even as his stomach protested. Dehydration was pulling at him, making his movements slightly slow, but the water helped clear some of the fog. He picked up the second bottle and tossed it to Kevin, who caught it with reflexes surprising for someone still half asleep.

Kevin opened the bottle and gulped it down desperately, water running down his chin and soaking his shirt. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, letting out a satisfied sigh. “Man… we went hard last night. That beer hit differently after the adrenaline.” His voice was still hoarse, but a spark of energy was returning—the same impulsive loyalty that had led him to help orchestrate the whole operation. He looked at Jack, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of concern and excitement. “Are you feeling as much of a mess as I am?”

Jack leaned against the counter, the edge digging into his hip, and nodded once. “Worse, probably. But I can’t just stand here. That stuff on the table isn’t going to turn into power on its own.” He gestured vaguely toward the loot, his green eyes sharpening with focus. The analytical part of his mind was already churning out possibilities—how much value each piece represented, the risks of feeding drugs directly into the system versus selling them first, the best way to maximize the next round without attracting unwanted attention. The Phantom Suit had given him a taste of what was possible; now they needed to go further.

Kevin grunted off the floor, staggering for a moment before steadying himself. He scratched his messy red beard and went to the stove with surprising purpose given his state. “Okay, okay. I’ll sort it out. Eggs. We need something in our stomachs before we dive into… whatever we’re going to do with all this.” He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a carton of eggs and a pat of butter, the movements deliberate despite his hangover. The sizzle of the butter hitting the hot pan soon filled the apartment, a comforting, domestic sound that cut through the lingering tension.

Jack watched his friend for a moment, a quiet warmth easing some of the pounding in his head. Kevin’s loyalty wasn’t flashy or perfect, but it was solid. The guy had risked his family connections, his freedom, everything, without hesitation. Jack returned to the sofa and sat down, elbows on his knees, staring at the small table. Fifteen thousand four hundred in cash. Jewelry that would easily fetch another six thousand on the right market. And the drugs—forty thousand, more or less, depending on purity and buyers. Added together, they represented more value than he had ever held in his entire life. Enough to fuel the Gacha with something substantial.

His mind raced through scenarios. Feed everything in at once in a high-risk roll? Divide it into smaller exchanges to test the waters and build incrementally? The system didn’t forgive waste, and in this world of corporate “heroes” and escalating chaos, every advantage counted. He felt the pull of possibility—the same electric anticipation that had gripped him during the heist. But there was caution too: the memory of how fragile his body still was outside the suit, the looming threats from Vought, the GDA, and everything else lurking in the power vacuum.

The smell of scrambled eggs beginning to fill the small space brought him back. Kevin worked at the stove with concentrated grunts, flipping the eggs with a spatula, his broad back turned but his posture relaxed in a way that spoke of shared purpose. “Are you thinking about how to feed the system?” Kevin asked without turning around, his voice carrying over the hiss. “We have options now. Really.”

Jack leaned back, the sofa creaking, and ran a hand through his tousled blond hair. “I have it.” His voice was more steady now, the water and the simple act of planning helping to anchor him. The hangover was still there, a dull ache, but it seemed secondary. They had crossed a line the night before—from planning and training to action. Hunters, not prey. “We eat first. Then we figure out the smartest move. No rush.”

Kevin plated the eggs into generous portions for the two of them and brought them with forks. He handed one to Jack before collapsing heavily onto the sofa beside him, the cushions sinking under his weight. They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the hot food settling their stomachs and warding off the worst of the nausea. Kevin’s round face showed concentration as he chewed, but his eyes kept drifting to the table, gleaming with that mixture of nervousness and ambition.

Jack savored a bite, the simple seasoning a small comfort. The apartment, with all its flaws—the damp walls, the distant sounds of the harbor filtering through the window—seemed different now. Loaded. Two young men, battered by life but no longer passive, sat amidst the spoils of their first victory. The road ahead was still uncertain, fraught with dangers far greater than a small-time drug dealer, but for the first time they had momentum. Real momentum.

Kevin wiped his mouth and set his plate aside, leaning forward with renewed energy despite his lingering hangover. “So… what’s the plan? Do we go all in at once, or play it smart?”

Jack met his friend’s gaze, a determination in his green eyes. The weight of the decision settled upon him, but it no longer seemed overwhelming. “Clever,” he said firmly. “But first we test it. Little one.” He reached for the worn notepad he always kept nearby and separated three thousand dollars from the main stack, counting the bills with meticulous precision. The paper was new, slightly rough between his fingers. He carefully folded the remainder and returned it to the pile.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, searching for that same electric sensation, that subtle tingling he had felt the night he had exchanged the package of marijuana. It took longer than he expected. His heart quickened slightly, his breathing deepened, and then it arrived—an almost imperceptible warmth rising through his palm, as if the air around the money were responding to an invisible call.

When he opened his eyes, the banknotes had vanished. A faint metallic clinking echoed on the coffee table, something small and solid tapping against the wood. There, resting among the remaining stacks of money, was a dagger. Simple at first glance, but with a presence that immediately captured attention. The blade displayed a subtle, constant gleam, as if polished by invisible hands, and almost imperceptible runes danced in the light streaming through the window when Jack tilted the object.

A thin holographic interface materialized above her, crisp letters floating in the air. Jack grabbed the notepad quickly, the pen flying across the paper as he copied each line with obsessive precision, his heart racing now not from a hangover, but from controlled anticipation.

Dagger +1 — Origin: Dungeons & Dragons — Type: Magic Weapon — Category: Dagger — Rarity: Uncommon — Attunement: Not Required

Description: At first glance, this weapon appears to be a dagger of excellent quality. The blade displays a subtle and permanent sheen, while nearly invisible runes trace the metal when viewed under direct light. Created by an unknown enchanting artisan, the magic within the weapon increases the efficiency of strikes and improves the user’s ability to hit vital points. Though simple when compared to legendary artifacts, a +1 Dagger is considered a valuable treasure for novice adventurers.

Effects of the Enchantment +1: The user receives +1 to attack accuracy and +1 to damage dealt. The weapon’s magic subtly assists its wielder, correcting minor movement errors and making each strike more efficient.

Properties: Damage: Piercing — Weight: 0.5 kg — Melee Range: Yes — Can be Thrown: Yes — Throwing Range: Short

Durability: The blade has superior strength compared to common weapons. It holds its edge much longer, resists corrosion better, and is more difficult to break.

System Note: “Not every legendary weapon starts out as a relic. Some begin as a simple enchanted blade that refuses to miss its target.”

Jack finished writing, the pen pressing hard enough to leave marks on the paper. He put down the notepad and reached for the dagger, picking it up carefully. The handle fit perfectly in his palm, as if molded specifically for his hand. The balance was impressive—neither too heavy at the tip nor too light at the handle. Unlike any ordinary knife he had held in moments of need on the streets or during impromptu training sessions. There was a fluid, almost living lightness that made the movements intuitive. He rotated his wrist slowly, feeling how the blade cut through the air with a minimal hiss, the sharp edge reflecting the light in precise strokes.

Kevin leaned forward, eyes wide, his hangover momentarily forgotten. He hesitantly extended his hand, as if afraid the object would evaporate. “Man… this is incredible,” he murmured, his hoarse voice full of genuine admiration. He carefully took the dagger when Jack offered it, twirling it between his thick fingers. He read the information on the notepad aloud, repeating passages under his breath, his brow furrowed in concentration. “+1 accuracy and damage… What does that mean in practice? Like, does it hit on its own?”

Jack leaned back on the sofa, feeling the upholstery sink under his weight. He watched his friend handle the weapon, noticing how Kevin tested his balance with clumsy but curious movements. “It’s from an RPG game,” he explained, choosing his words carefully, his mind still processing the implications. “In the real world, without fluctuating numerical attributes, this should translate to something more subtle. The extra precision probably means the blade corrects for small deviations in movement, guiding the blow to where you really want it to go. The increased damage comes from the quality of the blade—sharper, more durable, capable of cutting where a regular knife would fail or bend.”

Kevin nodded slowly, carefully running his thumb along the edge. “So it’s like… a knife that doesn’t miss as often and cuts deeper. Discreet, easy to hide.” He handed back the dagger, wiping his hands on his trousers as if the object carried some magical residue. There was respect in the gesture, but also a slight touch of practical disappointment. “You think three thousand was worth it? We could have bought decent pistols with that. Or extra ammunition for the Glock.”

Jack twirled the dagger between his fingers again, feeling its comforting weight. The weapon felt like a natural extension, comfortable in a way that went beyond the physical. He imagined its potential: precise throws in dark alleys, silent strikes that wouldn’t alert guards. Useful, yes. Lethal in trained hands. But Kevin was right. In the current context, with threats that included metahumans and corporations with unlimited resources, a dagger—even an enchanted one—seemed modest. “It’s useful,” he admitted, his voice low and thoughtful. “Discreet, silent, easy to carry. Better than any ordinary knife I’ve ever held. The edge feels like it will never lose its sharpness, and the balance… it’s almost as if it wants to hit.” He paused, looking at the remaining stacks on the table. “But no. Three thousand wasn’t enough for something truly transformative. We could have better firearms, or more ammunition. This is a step, not the leap we need.”

Kevin let out a long sigh, leaning back and running a hand over his face, massaging his temples. The gesture revealed accumulated fatigue, but also the determination that kept him there, beside his friend. “At least now we know how it works. It’s not entirely random. You can sense what the system considers ‘value.’ We learn from this.” He looked at the notepad, then at the dagger Jack was still holding. There was a new respect in the way he observed the object—no longer just curiosity, but recognition that they were dealing with forces that followed their own rules, even if translated into the real world.

Jack carefully placed the dagger on the small table. The weight of their next decision hung in the air between them. The apartment seemed smaller now, compressed not only by the hangover, but by the gravity of what that first real test represented. Three thousand dollars exchanged for a solid, but not revolutionary, tool. A valuable lesson. The system responded to the price offered, and they would need to calibrate it better next time.

The next few minutes passed, with people quietly discussing and exchanging ideas about their next step. Kevin suggested selling some of the jewelry first to raise capital without reducing the core material, while Jack pondered the balance between risk and return. The conversation flowed naturally, punctuated by pauses for more water and comments about the previous night—the leap between rooftops, the soft click of the safe opening, the race back to the van. It wasn’t just about the item; it was about what that test revealed about their own limitations and the potential they still had ahead of them.

Morning was breaking outside, the distant sounds of the harbor mingling with the occasional rumble of cars on the street. Inside the apartment, two young men—one tall and thin, marked by a hard life, the other shorter and more robust, driven by unwavering loyalty—charted their way forward with renewed caution. The dagger was only the beginning. Its true value would come from the lessons they learned from it. And, for the first time in a long time, Jack felt they were in control—even if they were still groping in the dark, at least they were groping together, with purpose, and with their hands full of concrete possibilities.