A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 0019

Chapter 19

The blade glided precisely over Jack’s damp skin, removing the last patches of stubble that still clung to growth. The small, stuffy bathroom, with its cracked tiles and mirror fogged by the steam from the shower he’d just finished, retained heat in a way that made the air almost solid. Jack rinsed his face with cold water, feeling the liquid run down his chin and neck in icy strands that contrasted sharply with the temperature of his skin. He looked up at the mirror.

He stood still.

The reflection staring back at him wasn’t the same as three weeks ago. It wasn’t the young man with persistent acne, sunken purple under-eye circles, and that dull skin that betrayed years of poor diet, chronic stress, and sleepless nights. The surface of his face was now smooth as fine porcelain, uniformly white, with a glow that the yellowish bathroom light made almost unreal. Every imperfection had vanished—no marks, no scars, no enlarged pores. His green eyes, always analytical, seemed brighter now, framed by eyelashes that stood out against his flawless skin. His blond hair, still wet and tousled, fell over his forehead in a way that wasn’t exactly calculated but wasn’t accidental either.

Jack turned his face slowly from side to side. His long, pale fingers touched his own cheek, feeling its soft, almost silky texture. The cream hadn’t lied. Daily regeneration, progressive evenness, elimination of blemishes—it was all there, visible and undeniable, inscribed on his own face as proof that the system worked in ways far beyond what he had imagined the night he had opened that little white porcelain jar with disbelief. A smile slowly spread across the corner of his mouth, his teeth contrasting with his flawless skin.

There was something unsettling about it—not the result, but the process. The fact that such a profound change was occurring while he slept, night after night, silently and completely, without pain, without effort, simply happening. As if the world were settling an old debt that no one had asked to incur.

She wiped her face with the old but clean towel, wrapped it around her waist, and left the bathroom. The hallway air was fresher, and the contrast after the steam made her skin tingle. The apartment, despite its damp-stained walls and linoleum creaking under bare feet, seemed less oppressive that morning. The smell of fried eggs and freshly brewed coffee wafted from the makeshift kitchen, mingling with the herbal scent that still clung to Jack’s skin and the slight saltiness of the harbor water that seeped in through the half-open window.

Kevin was in the kitchen, fully engaged in activity.

The pile of fried eggs on the cracked plate was absurd—more than thirty, golden and glistening with grease, stacked in the center of the dish as if they were the only thing separating Kevin from collapse. He ate with a voracity belonging to another category of creature: fork and knife working at a frenetic pace, cheeks puffed out, chin glistening with fat, broad chest rising and falling with heavy breaths between bites. His body, denser since the transformation, demanded fuel with an urgency that admitted no negotiation. The smell of eggs, melted butter, and salt hung thick in the air, mixed with the moist, continuous sound of voracious chewing.

Jack stopped in the kitchen doorway. His green eyes widened slightly. Kevin had eaten a lot earlier—it was a fact of his friend’s existence—but this was another matter. A hungry pig would be envious. Jack crossed his arms over his bare chest, feeling the cool air pinch his freshly trimmed skin, and let out a low, hoarse laugh.

“Man, you have an appetite from another world today.”

Kevin looked up from his plate, his mouth full, bits of egg stuck in his poorly trimmed red beard. He swallowed with effort, the Adam’s apple rising and falling, and wiped his mouth with the back of his thick hand, leaving an oily trail. His brown eyes gleamed with a mixture of satisfaction and urgency that was almost animalistic.

“Ever since I ate that fruit, man… my hunger exploded,” he explained, his voice deeper than before, still carrying that rough timbre that the transformation had left as a permanent mark. He stuffed more eggs into his plate, the yellow yolks running across the surface. “It’s like my body burns everything in seconds. I’ve never felt so hungry in my life. I feel like I could eat a whole pig and still have room.”

“Be careful what you compare,” Jack said, serving himself five eggs on a smaller plate—almost modest compared to his friend’s mountain—and sitting on the makeshift counter. The warmth of the food rose, and for a moment the room had that strange familiarity of something domestic and normal, completely at odds with everything that had happened in the last forty-eight hours.

They ate in relative silence for a few minutes, the clinking of cutlery and the continuous sound of Kevin chewing filling the space. Jack watched his friend out of the corner of his eye, that practical concern settling in the back of his chest. Power had a cost. Kevin’s appetite was the most immediate and concrete proof of that—the Buta Buta no Mi had rewritten his friend’s physiology, and the new biology was taking its toll in calories, space, and strength that could no longer be contained in the apartment without consequences.

The chair lay in pieces in the corner of the room. The bedroom door was a gaping hole. The plaster in the hallway had a new crack that ran from the floor almost to the ceiling.

Jack finished his eggs, put his fork down on the plate, and went to his room to get dressed. A simple white t-shirt, a flannel shirt over it—comfortable, practical—and worn jeans. He glanced in the small mirror in his room for a second, touched his own face with his fingertips, and turned away.

Kevin was still in the kitchen wiping his plate with a piece of bread when Jack returned and sat down. The remaining ten thousand dollars were in the envelope on the coffee table, next to the compass and the dagger. The money had remained untouched—a decision made before dawn, when Jack had been staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, calculating.

“So,” Kevin said, tossing the piece of bread into his mouth and chewing, “what are you going to do with the remaining ten thousand?”

Jack crossed his arms over the flannel, his fingers tapping lightly on his forearm. His green eyes fixed on his friend with that pragmatic determination that had grown along with everything else since the beginning of all this.

“I decided not to risk everything this time. We’ll save that part.” He paused briefly, letting the silence do its work. “With ten thousand we can plan better: more decent training equipment, maybe a new base. We can’t stay in this apartment forever. The place is a risk, and we’re growing too fast to fit here.”

Kevin pushed the empty plate aside with his forearm, the porcelain scraping against the worn wood of the table in a dry sound that echoed in the momentary silence. Outside, a port truck rumbled in the distance, and the old walls of the building creaked in response. He shrugged his broad shoulders, feeling his muscles tense with a force that seemed disproportionate to the space around him.

“Yes. This hole is turning into a trap.” The voice came out deep and hoarse, with that rough tone the fruit had left as a permanent mark. “Today I lightly touched the bedroom wall and the plaster cracked from floor to ceiling. To me, this place is made of cardboard. One stronger sneeze and I’ll go right through.”

“Stronger, no,” Jack said. “You’ve already gone through the door.”

Kevin pointed his finger at him as if to retort, but there was no possible argument. He lowered his finger. “Period.”

Jack stood up, walked to the window, and gazed at the harbor below. Cargo ships glided slowly through the dark water, cranes creaking in the distance with that metallic sound that was the constant soundtrack of the apartment. The morning was still cool, the saltiness of the air more pronounced before the day’s heat settled in. He remained like that for a few seconds—not for lack of things to say, but because some decisions needed careful consideration before being verbalized.

“If the neighbor calls the police because of another noise, or if someone in the building starts asking inappropriate questions, it will be difficult to contain. A bigger accident and we lose any advantage we have.”

Kevin stood up as well, the chair creaking with relief as his weight was lifted. He crossed his arms, the fabric of his t-shirt stretching across his shoulders. ‘I might have a way out. My father has a friend who deals in real estate. Not just family homes. Old warehouses, closed-down depots, factories that stopped operating years ago. I can call today and see if there’s anything available. A bigger, more secluded place where I can move around without fear of the ceiling collapsing on my head.’

Jack turned around. His sharp gaze fixed on his friend’s face for a few seconds, his mind already mapping out risks and possibilities while Kevin was still talking. The smell of fried eggs still lingered in the air, mixed with the damp salt that came in through the window.

“It might be feasible,” he said finally, his voice low and calculated. “But it involves someone from your father’s network. If he starts snooping, or if his friend mentions it to someone, we could attract unwanted attention. We’re dealing with things that nobody else understands. A large warehouse isn’t something two guys like us can rent overnight without raising suspicion.”

Kevin sniffed, scratching the back of his neck vigorously. “I know. But I can ask for something under the table. You know how it is… when you have enough money, people find ways to not declare anything. Properties in the name of companies that don’t really exist, land that doesn’t appear on official paperwork. My father and his friends do this all the time to evade taxes. It’s nothing official. It’s the kind of thing that’s kept hidden precisely so it doesn’t show up in any searches.”

Jack turned back into the room, walking slowly back to the table. His eyes went to the envelope with the ten thousand, then to the compass, then to Kevin. “So you’re talking about a place that doesn’t exist on paper. No record, no contract, no trace connecting it back to his family.”

“Exactly,” Kevin confirmed, leaning against the sink, his arms still crossed. “I’ll call, say it’s for a private, discreet project. No name, no explanation. If there’s something that works, we’ll see it in person. Better than sitting here waiting for me to accidentally drill a hole in the wall.”

Jack fell silent. It was the kind of silence that didn’t need filling—he was processing, weighing variables, constructing scenarios. The logic had its flaws, but it also had its merits. Isolated space meant freedom to practice, to test the limits of Kevin’s fruit without the constant threat of the downstairs neighbor calling the police or the caretaker showing up at the wrong time. It meant being able to plan the next rolls without interruptions, without the permanent risk of the wrong person hearing the wrong thing at the wrong time.

The apartment creaked around them as if agreeing that it was time to leave.

“Okay,” Jack said. “Let’s go in that direction. Carefully. No extra details. We’ll only ask what’s necessary, see the place, assess the risks. If it works, we’ll work out the logistics later.”

Kevin nodded, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “No problem. I’ll make the call.”

They spent the rest of the morning organizing what remained of the money and aligning priorities in hushed voices, like two people who had learned that thin walls have ears. Jack put part of the ten thousand in a discreet envelope while Kevin mentally listed the contacts he could use without raising any red flags. The conversation flowed practically and concisely: how much space they would need, basic security, distance from the city center to avoid prying eyes. Kevin mentioned a specific warehouse he had heard his father talk about years ago—a reinforced structure, close enough to the port for logistics, isolated enough not to attract attention. Jack questioned cameras, possible hidden owners, how to camouflage what they would be doing inside.

Each exchange of words revealed new layers of the problem. Kevin spoke with the experience of someone who grew up listening to backstage conversations about shady deals; Jack filtered everything with the cold pragmatism of someone who learned early on that excessive trust had a cost. The sun rose, warming the apartment and making the air heavier, but the energy between them remained focused. There was no room for hesitation. The incident of the previous night had served as a warning: the power they had accumulated demanded infrastructure to match, or it would become a problem before it became an advantage.

As the clock struck almost noon, Kevin grabbed his old cell phone and headed out into the hallway, away from prying ears. Jack stayed in the kitchen washing the last dishes, the hot water running through his fingers as his mind worked through his next steps. The apartment creaked around him, as if agreeing that it was time to go.

Kevin returned minutes later, still with the phone in his hand.

“He said he has something that might work. An old warehouse, about fifteen kilometers outside the city. Good structure, no close neighbors. He’ll send the coordinates and instructions on how to get in without drawing attention. No contract, no name. Exactly what we need.”

Jack dried his hands on the dish towel, a short nod confirming his understanding. ‘So that’s it. We’ll see the place tomorrow.’

The two exchanged a brief glance—no grand declarations, no phrases that mark a cinematic moment. Just the silent understanding that the next step had been taken. The apartment, with its cracked walls and low ceiling, seemed even smaller now. But the path ahead lay concrete and dangerous, exactly as it needed to be.