A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 0016

Chapter 16

Doug paced down the narrow hallway of the apartment, his heavy footsteps echoing on the worn floorboards like the ticking of a clock marking his ruin. Six feet tall, a height that had always commanded respect on the streets of San Diego—but now his silhouette seemed to shrink with each turn, his shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of panic that gripped his chest. His nails, bitten until they bled, left red marks on his palms as he clenched and clenched his fists incessantly. Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck, sticking his dark shirt to his skin, and his heart pounded erratically, each pulse a stab that reminded him how close he was to the abyss.

“How did this happen? How on earth could this have happened?”

His voice came out hoarse, almost a growl that got lost in the stuffy air of the apartment. He had gone out for his usual nightly route—a quick circuit of familiar spots, packages delivered to regular customers, money collected, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that justified returning to find hell.

The safe built behind the gold frame in the room, the one he religiously checked every night, was empty. Not a single bill. Not the Glock he kept for emergencies. The thick gold chains, the flashy rings, the designer watch he flaunted to impress his subordinates—all vanished. But the worst part, what truly turned his stomach and sent cold sweat down his spine, were the two large blocks sealed with duct tape. Forty thousand dollars worth of pure product. The payment his boss had given him as a bonus for loyalty and sales volume. Gone.

Doug stopped abruptly in front of the open safe, his eyes fixed on the metallic interior as if he could summon its contents back by sheer willpower. His chest rose and fell in short breaths, the air heavy with the smell of old cigarettes and the expensive cologne that still lingered in the room. Who would have dared? Who would be crazy enough to invade his territory, break into a reinforced safe, and clean everything out without leaving any obvious sign of forced entry? The bosses didn’t forgive this kind of damage.

He’d heard the stories before—drug dealers losing large shipments and showing up days later with their knees wrecked, or simply disappearing, becoming a laughingstock in the alleys of Logan Heights. Panic rose like bile in his throat. He imagined the boss with those cold eyes and the smile that never quite reached his eyes, receiving the news. There would be no excuses. Forty thousand wasn’t just money; it was broken trust, a hole in the chain that someone would pay for with blood.

He staggered to the kitchen, his legs trembling, and grabbed the crumpled pack of cigarettes from the counter. His fingers trembled so much he could barely light the first one. The lighter’s flame danced erratically, illuminating for a second his face, marked by deep dark circles under his eyes and an uneven beard.

The first drag was deep, the smoke burning his lungs and filling the air with a dense cloud that mingled with the smell of sweat and fear. He pulled as if the cigarette could clear his head, expel the terror that gripped his ribs. Fragmented plans emerged and dissolved: fleeing the city that very day, disappearing into Mexico or some hole in the countryside. But where to? With what car? Bosses had eyes everywhere. He tried to remember faces, names, someone who might have betrayed him—the delivery man who had passed by earlier, the girl he used for errands, some gang rival who knew about the safe. Nothing. Just a frustrating emptiness that fueled the paranoia.

The second cigarette was already lit when the sharp sound of the doorbell cut through the silence like a knife. Doug froze, the cigarette held between his lips, the ash falling unnoticed onto the counter. His heart pounded violently, almost painfully. He approached the door with silent steps, sweat now streaming freely down his face, dripping from the tip of his nose.

Through the peephole, he saw two men in the hallway. Discreet black clothes, leather jackets that seemed to absorb the dim light of the hall, sunglasses even at that hour of the morning. They weren’t the boss’s men—he knew their style, the visible tattoos, the arrogant manner of those who ruled the streets. These were different. Colder. More professional. Panic tightened his throat. Were they responsible for the robbery? Had they returned to ensure he wouldn’t talk?

He stepped back from the door slowly, as quietly as possible, his heart pounding so hard it seemed to echo in his chest. He leaned his back against the wall beside him, breathing through his mouth to avoid making a sound, his eyes fixed on the doorknob as if it could move on its own. He wouldn’t open it. He wouldn’t answer. Maybe they would leave. He couldn’t stay there all day, but he couldn’t risk it either. The minutes dragged on, each second an agony. On the other side of the door, low voices murmured something indecipherable—a deep, controlled tone, too casual for ordinary intruders.

Then came the metallic click. The doorknob turned.

Doug felt his stomach clench. The door was thick, reinforced, with a security lock he himself had installed years ago after a minor burglary. Impossible to break into without noise, without tools. But the wood groaned, the lock snapped shut with a dry sound of metal giving way, and the security chain flew off when the door was pushed open with brute, precise force. Two men entered.

The first was tall—easily six feet three inches—with a presence that filled the doorway like a living shadow. The second, shorter, around five feet seven, was thin but with agile and controlled movements. They closed the door behind them with a soft click, as if they had all the time in the world. Doug felt the air leave his lungs. He tried to scream, to open his mouth to alert the neighbors, to call for help, anything that could break the nightmare. But before the sound could come out, the tall man moved—a blur of impossible speed—and the large, strong hand closed on Doug’s neck like a steel press.

The scream died in a muffled gurgle. Doug felt his feet leave the ground, his body lifted with terrifying ease. The grip was relentless, fingers pressing precisely into the right spots to cut the air and the blood. His face flushed red, then turned purple in a matter of seconds. His eyes widened in pure panic, veins bulging on his forehead, his vision beginning to darken at the edges. He kicked his legs in vain, his bitten nails scratching the attacker’s forearm to no avail.

“No, no, no,” said the tall man, his voice deep, calm, and almost polite, as if he were reprimanding a child. A thin smile curved his lips as he pressed them together slightly. “We don’t want any trouble.”

Doug tried to fight, tried to scratch, tried anything, but the world was already dissolving into dark blotches. The last image he registered was the man’s strong arm and that cold, confident, almost satisfied smile. Then darkness swallowed him entirely, his body softening like a bag of bones.

Doug’s body collapsed like a bundle of soft flesh as the tall man opened his hand, his fingers releasing the purplish neck with a casual, almost bored gesture. The drug dealer hit the floor with a dull thud, the impact reverberating through the cheap floorboards of the apartment, and lay motionless there, except for his chest which still rose and fell in shallow, irregular breaths. The air around seemed heavier now, laden with the acrid smell of burnt cigarettes, the rancid sweat of pure terror, and the faint metallic odor of fear that still emanated from the unconscious man’s damp skin.

The tall man—an imposing figure of almost two meters, enveloped in the somber elegance of a suit that clung perfectly to the contours of his body—wiped his palm on his trousers with a slow motion, as if removing an insignificant stain. His dark, cold, and calculating eyes swept over the fallen body without a trace of remorse, only a practical assessment, like that of a craftsman inspecting a tool he has just used.

“Be quick,” he said, his deep, controlled voice cutting through the oppressive silence of the apartment. There was a contained urgency there, not of panic, but of military precision. “We have five minutes before the day gets complicated.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, the fabric of his suit stretching slightly with the movement, and tilted his head to the side, observing his partner with a mixture of impatience and unwavering confidence. Sweat still glistened on his pale forehead, a remnant of the adrenaline from the approach, but his posture remained erect, dominant, as if the weight of everything they had done that night—and what they would still do—didn’t affect him in the slightest.

The shorter, thinner, and more agile one let out a theatrical sigh, the corners of his mouth curving into an ironic smile that did little to ease the tension in his narrow shoulders. “Oh, oh, oh… always so impatient,” he murmured, his hoarse voice laden with a dark humor that masked the accumulated weariness in the lines around his eyes.

He approached Doug’s body with light, almost dancing steps, a stark contrast to the brutality of moments before. He knelt beside the unconscious drug dealer, his knee pressing into the cold ground, and extended a slender finger, pressing it against the man’s sweaty forehead. He closed his eyes for a moment, his face furrowing in deep concentration, as if listening to something invisible, feeling the weak pulse of life that still clung to him. “Done,” he announced at last, opening his eyes with restrained satisfaction, his chest rising in a lighter breath, as if he had completed a routine but necessary task.

From inside his black coat, he pulled out a thin, matte, rectangular box that seemed to absorb the dim light of the room. His nimble fingers opened the clasp with a soft click, revealing the lined interior: a large, clinically-looking, ruthless syringe, next to a small ampoule containing a vibrant blue liquid, almost luminous in the light streaming through the half-open window. The thin man picked up the syringe with deliberate care, inserted the needle into the ampoule, and sucked all the blue contents into the cylinder, the liquid glistening like living poison as it was inhaled.

His brown eyes, normally filled with impulsive loyalty, now held a cold determination, mixed with a slight unease—not because of the act itself, but because of the gravity of what it represented. He pulled Doug’s limp arm, exposing the vein in his forearm, and plunged the needle in with surgical precision. The plunger descended slowly, injecting each drop of the blue substance into the drug dealer’s bloodstream.

The reaction was almost immediate and visceral. The veins at the injection site darkened, turning black like spilled ink under the skin, and the darkening spread rapidly up his arm, up his neck, and branched out across his chest like poisonous roots. Doug’s body, until then limp and inert, suddenly convulsed.

His chest heaved violently, rising and falling in desperate hyperventilation, as if the air had turned acidic in his lungs. His mouth opened in a silent scream at first, teeth grinding, his face contorted into a mask of pure agony—eyes rolling back, veins bulging on his forehead, sweat beading in thick drops that trickled down his temples. The tall man reacted instantly, kneeling and covering the drug dealer’s mouth with his large, strong hand, muffling any sound that might escape and alert the neighbors. “Quiet,” he murmured, his voice low but firm, the muscles of his forearm tense as he held the struggling man.

Doug, even unconscious, fought against the chemical invasion. His limbs trembled uncontrollably, his heels pounding the ground in an irregular rhythm, his entire body writhing as if being torn apart from the inside. Muffled roars vibrated against the tall man’s palm, his eyes—when they opened for fractions of a second—filled with animal terror, pupils dilated to the extreme.

Sweat soaked his shirt now, mingling with the metallic smell of something burning inside. The process lasted five long, agonizing minutes, each second stretched by the intensity of the convulsions. The thin man watched with clinical attention, his body leaning forward, his fists clenched on his knees, a mixture of fascination and discomfort visible on his furrowed brow. “The first of the day,” he finally commented, as the contractions began to subside, his voice heavy with genuine astonishment. “And you managed to get through the process? Impressive. They improve the formula every day.”

The tall man maintained the pressure on his mouth until Doug’s body finally calmed, falling into an almost deathly inertia, his chest still rising and falling in shallow, irregular breaths. He slowly released his hand, wiping the saliva and sweat from his pants with a practical gesture, his face impassive except for a slight glint of satisfaction in his green eyes. “Let’s see how many will still be alive at the end of the day,” he said, turning to his partner in an almost casual tone, as if commenting on the weather. “Want to bet?”

The thin man stood up, wiping his hands on the sides of his coat, a crooked smile curving his lips despite the gravity of the scene. His lean body trembled slightly with residual adrenaline, but loyalty and purpose kept his posture firm. ‘There’s this one here,’ he replied, pointing with his chin at Doug. ‘I believe two is the pace of the process.’ There was a glint of stubborn optimism in his voice, mixed with the stark reality they both faced—the knowledge that not everyone survived that forced transformation.

The tall man let out a low, deep laugh that echoed briefly in the silent apartment. “I believe in only one.” He extended his hand, sealing the bet with a firm handshake, the two exchanging a look that carried years of complicity forged in the fire of shared risks. Doug was just another piece, a vector for something bigger, a living test of the formula that could balance the scales.

They moved with coordinated efficiency. The thin man tucked the black box back into his coat, checking one last time the inert body on the floor—the chest still moving, the black veins now stabilized beneath the skin, a sign that the process, however brutal, had been successful. The tall man adjusted his suit, straightening his broad shoulders, and cast one last glance at the apartment, memorizing details as if he might need them later. Without unnecessary words, they made their way to the fire exit, avoiding the elevator and the main corridors. The metal staircase creaked under their steps as they descended, the fresh morning air hitting their faces and dissipating some of the smell of impending death that lingered behind.

In the side alley, a black van awaited them, hidden in the shadows between the buildings. They quickly entered, the doors sliding shut with a muffled click. The engine hummed softly as the vehicle pulled away, cutting through the back streets of San Diego toward their next objective of the day. Inside the van, the silence was comfortable, punctuated only by the hum of the tires on the asphalt. The tall one looked out the window, his profile hard against the rising sun, while the thin one checked something in the inside pocket of his jacket, his mind already projecting the next steps. The bet hung between them like a light distraction amidst the darkness of the mission—a human reminder that, even in the chaos they were creating, they were still just two young men forging their way through a world that didn’t forgive weakness.

Doug lay on the apartment floor, alive but transformed, his body convulsing from time to time in residual spasms as the blue substance rewrote his physiology from within. His dreams, if they still existed, would be of agony and power—a prelude to what was to come. The city awoke around them, oblivious to the fact that yet another life had been ripped from the old chessboard and thrown into the new game that Jack and Kevin were beginning to master.