A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 003

The late afternoon dragged on lazily inside the gas station convenience store, the San Diego sun sloping toward the horizon and painting the hazy windows with warm orange hues that contrasted with the cool, slightly damp interior. Jack Williams sat behind the weather-polished wooden counter, his tall, thin body slightly bent over the antique cash register.

His long, pale fingers counted the bills with mechanical precision, separating the one, five, ten, and twenty dollar notes into neat piles, his deep green eyes half-closed with concentration. The smell of old ink from the money mingled with the lingering aroma of burnt coffee and fried snacks that still hung in the air.

Each note was carefully flipped over, checked twice—he couldn’t afford any mistakes, not with Mr. Harlan returning early tomorrow and the deduction that would follow for any discrepancy. His narrow shoulders were tense, his back aching slightly from the prolonged posture, but his mind functioned on autopilot, a survival ritual he had mastered over the months working there.

The bell above the door rang sharply and familiarly, breaking the relative silence of the nearly empty shop. Jack slowly raised his head, his disheveled blond hair falling over his forehead, and his eyes narrowed for a moment at the figure entering with confident, slightly dragging steps.

It was Kevin Harlan, the owner’s son, a young man the same age as Jack—eighteen years old—but with a completely different presence. Chubby, about 1.70m tall, he barely reached Jack’s shoulders. His disheveled red hair escaped from under a dark wool hat, despite the sweltering San Diego heat that made the asphalt outside tremble.

He wore a black shirt that was too tight on his prominent abdomen, printed with a smiling white skull in the center, covered by a worn denim jacket that definitely didn’t match the temperature. Loose beige pants and a pair of brand new, impeccable All Stars completed the look. His poorly trimmed red beard unevenly covered his chin and cheeks, as if he had given up halfway through. Kevin entered with a wide smile, his brown eyes gleaming with a mixture of feigned excitement and chronic sloppiness.

“Great Jack!” he shouted, his loud, theatrical voice echoing through the store, his short arms outstretched in an exaggerated greeting. “It’s great to see you here today, mate!”

Jack stopped counting the bills, leaving the stacks neatly arranged on the counter, and raised a thin eyebrow, his gaunt face maintaining a neutral and slightly tired expression. His chapped lips moved with the dry, familiar tone of someone who had been through this conversation countless times before.

“I’m here every day, Kevin. You should know that.”

Kevin approached the counter with an even wider smile, his chubby body swaying slightly with each step. He rested his elbows on the wood, leaning forward, the faint scent of sweat mixed with something sweet—perhaps fresh marijuana—reaching Jack. His eyes gleamed with that lazy confidence of someone who knew that, one day, all of this would be his.

“You know I don’t care about work,” Kevin replied, shrugging casually, his beanie slipping slightly off his head.

Jack let out a short sigh, leaning back in the swivel chair that creaked under his light weight. He crossed his arms over his narrow chest, the plaid flannel stretching slightly over his bony shoulders.

“But your father cares. Especially because one day all of this will be yours.”

Kevin snorted, rolling his eyes dramatically, his round face flushing slightly at the mention of his father. The smile didn’t disappear completely, but it took on a defensive tone, the corners of his mouth pulling down for a second.

“Not if I have employees like you,” he retorted, winking as if it were a brilliant joke.

Jack frowned, trying to understand where the conversation was going. Before he could answer, Kevin leaned further over the counter, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone, his brown eyes quickly scanning the empty store.

“Would you donate a few dollars to me?”

Jack’s face hardened immediately. He uncrossed his arms, his thin hands landing firmly on the counter, his fingers drumming once in a sign of suppressed irritation.

“No, no, no. You know very well how your father reacts when I let you take money from the cash register.”

Kevin didn’t give up easily. He laughed, a forced and nervous sound, running a hand through his stubble as he swayed on the heels of his new All Stars.

“But it’s only a few… just a few hundred dollars.”

“Jack didn’t repeat himself, his voice firm, though low, laden with a weary resignation. His green eyes fixed on Kevin’s with quiet intensity, conveying a seriousness that the other seemed unable to absorb.”

Kevin sighed dramatically, his chubby body sinking against the counter, his face taking on a pleading, almost childlike expression.

“Come on, man, I owe a drug dealer money. He needs me to pay.”

Jack leaned back in the chair, which creaked loudly in the silence of the shop, and ran a hand over his thin face, feeling the dry skin and the deep dark circles under his eyes. A wave of disbelief and pity mingled across his expression—his brows furrowed, his mouth pressed into a thin line. How could someone be so reckless? he thought, his chest tightening slightly with unwanted memories of his own family destroyed by addiction.

“Didn’t your father put you in rehab?” she asked, her voice laden with subtle but genuine judgment.

Kevin shrugged again, his smile returning lazily, as if the matter were trivial.

“Yes, but I stopped using the powder. Now I’m only using the green one. Could that be considered an upgrade?”

Jack looked directly at his round face, his green eyes narrowing with a mixture of exasperation and deep sadness. He saw there the distorted reflection of everything he hated in his own story: the waste, the weakness, the repetition of toxic cycles. Kevin was the heir to a business that, despite being modest, offered stability. He could be studying, building something. Instead, he was just a fat, nerdy kid lost in vices, wearing skull t-shirts and a jacket unsuitable for the heat. If he were like his older brothers, maybe he would be studying medicine or law. But no. Kevin chose the easy path of self-destruction.

“Man, I can’t,” Jack said finally, his voice low and resolute, shaking his head slowly.

Kevin rested his head on the counter for a moment, feigning defeat, before straightening up with an exaggerated sigh.

“Okay, okay. I’ll ask my mom. Maybe I can get a little candy?”

Jack shrugged, resigned. After all, Kevin was the owner’s son. One day, all of this would be his. It wasn’t worth fighting over nonsense. He gestured vaguely towards the shelves.

Kevin walked through the aisles with heavy steps, grabbing items at random: a bright red can of soda with a Mave-themed label—the actress Jack had seen earlier in the new shipments—a large bag of crunchy snacks, some wrapped chocolates, and a package of cookies. He returned to the counter with his arms full, placing everything down with a soft thud on the wood.

“Write this down and pass it on to my dad,” Kevin said with a casual smile, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Jack pulled a yellowed notepad from under the counter, the pen scratching the paper as he jotted down each item in precise, organized handwriting. His thoughts raced as he wrote: Kevin’s irresponsibility.

Kevin remained leaning against the polished wooden counter, his chubby body slightly inclined forward as he reached into the bag of chips he had just opened, the crunchy sound filling the space between his words. Crumbs fell onto the skull emblazoned on his black shirt, but he didn’t seem to mind, chewing with lazy enthusiasm, his woolen hat crooked on his red head and his stubble trembling with each bite. His brown eyes gleamed with that nerdy excitement that always arose whenever the subject turned to comic books, a light glistening of sweat glistening on his forehead from the San Diego heat, which his ill-fitting jacket only exacerbated.

“Did you read the latest chapter of Science Dog ?” he asked between bites, his voice muffled by the snack, but full of genuine curiosity. “The plot twist with the dimensional villain was insane, man.”

Jack, who was still organizing the last notes in the cash register, was completely taken aback. He slowly raised his head, his thin eyebrows furrowing in genuine confusion, his deep green eyes narrowing as he searched his memory. His lean shoulders tensed slightly, his tall, slender body leaning back in the creaky chair. Science Dog? He couldn’t recall any comic book with that name recently. His collection was vast, but that title didn’t ring a bell.

“No… I didn’t read that,” Jack replied, his voice low and hesitant, running a hand through his disheveled brown hair. “I was following the new saga that came out, Batman Absolute . It’s insane.”

The silence that followed was brief, but heavy. Kevin stopped chewing for a second, the snack stuck between his teeth, and looked at Jack with an expression of pure, almost comical confusion. His round cheeks flushed slightly, his reddish eyebrows arching high as he tilted his head, his beanie slipping further to the side. The contrast between the two nerds—one tall, thin, and reserved; the other short, chubby, and outgoing—became even more evident in that moment of unexpected disconnection.

“Batman Absolute ?” Kevin repeated, his voice thick with genuine disbelief, as if Jack were speaking another language. “What’s a Batman? A story about a bat-man? I never… I didn’t expect you to like that kind of story.”

The two exchanged confused glances, their eyes meeting for several seconds in a silent standoff. Jack felt a strange chill down his spine, the expression on his thin face shifting from surprise to subtle concern. Kevin, who was absurdly obsessed with Batman—capable of reciting entire arcs of The Dark Knight Returns or Year One by heart—now seemed to have no idea about the character. The confusion on his friend’s round face was utterly genuine: no trace of irony, no wink of someone joking. Just pure ignorance.

“Yeah, Batman. Bruce Wayne,” Jack said slowly, observing the other’s reaction with analytical attention, his low voice heavy with disbelief. “That guy from the rehab clinic really did something to you, huh?”

Kevin shrugged, stuffing another handful of chips into his mouth, crumbs falling onto the counter. His smile was casual, but his brown eyes still showed that haze of genuine confusion.

“I don’t know, man. I’m not familiar with that story. If it’s that good, could you show me some editions of it?”

Jack was completely confused, his thin body leaning forward, his long fingers drumming on the counter as he processed the words. His mind, always analytical and observant, raced for explanations. Kevin didn’t play with Batman. It was almost a religion for him. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. Still, the offer came naturally, driven by the routine and loneliness they both shared.

“Well, my shift ends in ten minutes,” said Jack, checking the clock on his flip phone. “If you want, the editions are at my house. Good thing I don’t have to take the bus home today.”

Kevin’s face lit up instantly, a wide smile spreading across his face and revealing teeth slightly yellowed from the occasional smoke. He clapped his hands exaggeratedly, his chubby body swaying with excitement.

“Great idea! Would you let me sleep at your house tonight?”

Jack hesitated for a second, but eventually nodded, his tired expression softening into amused resignation.

“Yeah, but remember: sleep on the couch. I don’t want to have to clean your drool off my bed like last time.”

Kevin let out a hoarse laugh, scratching his stubble with his chubby hand, his face flushing slightly at the embarrassing memory.

“It only happened once, and we drank too much that night!”

Jack simply nodded again, a slight, ironic smile curving his chapped lips. Kevin, still chewing, pointed to the shelves with renewed enthusiasm.

“Great. The beer’s on me.”

As Kevin hurried toward the liquor aisle with heavy, clumsy steps, his short body swaying between the antique shelves, Jack murmured softly, almost to himself:

“Of course it’s on your own… you don’t pay.”

At that moment, the bell on the back door rang and a man in his early thirties entered the reception area. Latino, with slightly caramel-colored skin, short stature—around 1.66m—and short dark hair, Carlos carried the typical weariness of a family man on his face marked by premature wrinkles. He approached the counter with an apologetic smile, adjusting his uniform shirt.

“Buenas tardes, niño,” she greeted in light Spanish, mixed with heavily accented English. “And how are you?”

Jack turned around, relieved, and checked the time on his flip phone.

“Glad you finally arrived. Ten minutes late, Carlos.”

Carlos raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, his face expressing genuine guilt, his tired brown eyes softening.

“I’m sorry, Jack. I had a problem with my kids, but it’s all sorted out now.”

Knowing Carlos’s honest character, Jack didn’t pressure him. He knew his colleague wasn’t ill-intentioned—just a man struggling to balance work and family in an increasingly harsh city.

“Okay. The cash register has been counted and checked. See you tomorrow.”

Carlos gave a brief, respectful greeting, taking his place behind the counter with a sigh of relief. Jack went to the back, removed his faded red apron, clocked in on the old machine with an electronic beep, and left through the back door, feeling the warm afternoon air touch his pale skin. He walked around the building and stopped at the main entrance of the convenience store, the setting sun warming his thin face.

A few minutes later, Kevin emerged from the store carrying paper bags full of snacks, chocolates, and other junk food, as well as a crate of ice-cold beers balanced on his other arm. The glass of the bottles sweated slightly in the heat, droplets running down the labels. The redhead’s round face glistened with sweat and excitement.

“Ready for the night?” he asked, his voice animated.

Jack nodded, shoving his hands into the pockets of his worn jacket.

“Ready.”

They walked to Kevin’s vintage Camaro, a well-maintained 1980s model, painted black with impeccable white accents, its body gleaming in the sun. Kevin opened the trunk with a metallic click and carefully stowed the bags and crate inside, slamming the lid shut. He climbed into the driver’s seat, the seat creaking under his weight, while Jack took the passenger seat, stretching his long legs in the cramped space.

The V8 engine roared powerfully as Kevin turned the key, and the car sped smoothly down the street, speeding toward Jack’s run-down apartment. Warm wind streamed in through the open windows, ruffling their hair. The radio, initially crackling with static, began to tune erratically. The two young men enjoyed the music, tapping their fingers to the rhythm as the local news played on the station.

The old Camaro purred down San Diego’s harbor avenue, its V8 engine cutting through the warm afternoon air that slowly turned to twilight, while the wind streamed in through the open windows and ruffled Jack’s tousled brown hair. The car’s interior smelled of old leather, cold beer subtly leaking from the crate in the trunk, and the artificial aroma of the snacks Kevin was still voraciously chewing.

Jack leaned back in the passenger seat, his long, thin legs stretched as far as possible in the cramped space, his deep green eyes half-closed as he watched the industrial landscape pass by—graffiti-covered warehouses, prematurely flickering streetlights, and the salty ocean horizon in the distance. Kevin, at the wheel, drove with one hand, the other tucked into a bag of chips, his chubby body nestled in the creaking seat, his woolen hat still crooked over his red hair, and his ill-fitting jacket clinging to his sweaty skin.

Suddenly, the radio, which until then had been crackling with irregular static, tuned in clearly. A deep, urgent radio announcer’s voice filled the car, its professional tone mixed with a palpable tension that made the air inside the vehicle feel heavier:

“Attention, San Diego! Breaking news from 97.3 FM! A shooting is in full swing in Logan Heights! I repeat: shooting in Logan Heights! Apparently, two rival gangs are engaging in heavy gunfire—automatic weapons, possibly assault rifles. We have heard reports of explosions and vehicles on fire. San Diego police, along with BOP units, have been dispatched to the scene and are en route. I urge all residents in the area to remain safe inside their homes and avoid going out into the streets. Those returning home are asked to wait until authorized by the authorities. The situation is critical and could escalate rapidly. Stay safe, San Diego. We will return with more updates shortly.”

Jack felt a shiver run down his thin spine. He straightened up on the bench, his narrow shoulders visibly tensing beneath the plaid flannel, his green eyes widening in surprise as he processed the words. Logan Heights—a neighborhood he knew by reputation, known for its gang violence since the 2000s, with frequent shootings and turf wars that never seemed to end. It wasn’t the way to his dilapidated apartment, but the news still weighed like a bad omen.

“Damn it!” Kevin cursed suddenly, slamming his fat palm against the steering wheel, his round face contorted in a grimace of genuine irritation. His cheeks flushed, his stubble trembling as he shook his head, his beanie almost falling off. “Ever since the mayor canceled the contract with Vought, we’ve had a significant increase in crime. What was he thinking, man?”

Kevin turned to Jack, his brown eyes filled with frustration and disbelief, expecting a shared reaction. The casual smile from before had vanished, replaced by an expression of deep displeasure, his reddish eyebrows furrowed.

Jack, for his part, was visibly surprised. The word “Vought” came out of his friend’s mouth casually, like something commonplace, but to him it sounded like an echo from another universe. He blinked slowly, his thin body freezing for a second on the bench, his mind racing in search of connections. Vought? He’d heard that name before—in a TV series.

A superhero company that, in fiction, controlled everything behind the scenes. It made absolutely no sense to hear it mentioned as something real, as an agency that had been hired by the city hall. Jack frowned, his chapped lips pressed into a thin line, his pale face reflecting genuine confusion. He didn’t pay much attention immediately, perhaps attributing it to local slang or a mishearing, but the unease lingered, like an itch in the back of his mind.

— Vought… — Jack murmured softly, almost to himself, his reserved voice laden with internal questioning.

Kevin, noticing that the neighborhood they were heading to wasn’t Logan Heights, snorted loudly and changed the station with an impatient turn of the radio dial. The urgent voice of the radio announcer was replaced by an explosion of heavy rock—distorted guitars, aggressive drums, and raspy vocals that filled the Camaro with chaotic energy. The redhead grinned widely again, his teeth showing through his stubble, his eyes gleaming with renewed excitement as he rhythmically pounded the steering wheel.

“Fuck it!” he exclaimed, his voice loud and excited over the music. “Tonight’s going to be the boys’ night!”

Kevin revved the Camaro, the engine roaring in response, and began pounding the inside of the hood with his fist, his chubby body rocking in the seat to the rhythm of the heavy pounding.

“Boys’ night! Boys’ night!” he shouted, laughing loudly, sweat dripping down his forehead as the warm wind streamed in through the windows, further ruffling his red hair.

Jack watched his friend with a mixture of restrained amusement and that residual confusion still lingering in his expression. A slight, ironic smile curved his lips, but his green eyes remained thoughtful, the deep dark circles standing out against the orange light of dusk. He saw Kevin—the reckless heir, the addicted nerd, the unlikely friend—and wondered how their realities seemed to diverge more and more. The heavy rock pulsed in the car, vibrating in the seats and in Jack’s thin chest, as the Camaro cut through the streets toward his miserable apartment in the port district.

The air inside the vehicle was thick: the smell of cold beer, snacks, sweat, and the faint odor of gasoline from the old engine. Jack leaned his head back in the seat, feeling the warm leather against the nape of his neck, and allowed the music to envelop him, though his mind wouldn’t stop spinning. The mention of Vought, the shootout in Logan Heights, ChaosGacha waiting silently on his flip phone… it all mixed together in a silent whirlwind. Kevin, oblivious or ignoring the tension, continued shouting the improvised chorus, punching the steering wheel and laughing, his whole body vibrating with the simple excitement of a night of beer, comics, and escapism.

They drove through quieter neighborhoods, the setting sun painting the sky in intense shades of red and purple, reflecting off the peeling facades of old buildings. Jack felt the weariness of the long day in his frail bones, but also a strange spark of expectation. “Boys’ night” would be, as always, a mix of nerdy nostalgia and disjointed conversations, but something in the air—perhaps the news, perhaps the accumulated weight of his marginalized life—suggested that things were changing.

Kevin slowed down as he approached Jack’s block, the Camaro purring softly while the redhead still hummed the chorus, a wide smile plastered on his round face. Jack, for his part, gazed out the window, his thin face reflected in the glass, deep in thought about corporate heroes, real shootouts, and the power he could gain with ChaosGacha. The contrast between Kevin’s boisterous excitement and his quiet introspection filled the car like two opposing forces in precarious balance.

As the vehicle pulled up in front of the old, dilapidated building where Jack lived, the heavy rock still blaring, the two young men prepared for a night that would inadvertently mark the beginning of something much bigger than a simple comic book and beer session.