A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 004

Jack emerged from the small, damp bathroom of the apartment, the steam still hanging in the air like a thick, warm mist smelling of cheap supermarket soap and mold clinging to the cracked walls. The old towel, frayed at the edges but clean, was loosely wrapped around his thin waist, revealing his skeletal torso, prominent ribs, and pale skin marked by years of poor diet and constant stress.

His blond hair was wet and stuck to his forehead, drops of water trickling down the nape of his neck as he walked barefoot across the cold, cracked ceramic floor. His 6’3″ frame seemed even more frail without the layers of worn clothing, his narrow shoulders hunched with the accumulated fatigue of the long day at the gas station. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the sparse beard that needed trimming, and looked at the open-plan living room and kitchen, where Kevin had already transformed the coffee table into a veritable feast of unhealthy food.

The chubby fellow was there, as always, in his chaotic yet generous surroundings: his short, imposing body leaning over the table, distributing snacks in various plastic containers he himself had found in Jack’s dilapidated cupboards. Two cans of cold beer were already sweating on the worn surface of the small table, drops trickling down and forming small damp circles on the splintered wood, while the rest of the crate probably rested in the old refrigerator that hummed noisily in the corner.

There was an impressive array of food for just two young men: spicy potato chips with a bright red powder, the most expensive and intensely colored orange Cheetos, nacho cheese-flavored Doritos, roasted peanuts, bags of sweet and salty popcorn, and even some chocolates half-melted by the day’s heat. The salty, greasy, and artificial smell filled the stuffy air of the apartment, mingling with the subtle mold on the walls and the lingering scent of Jack’s soap. Kevin chewed noisily, his round cheeks puffing out with each bite, crumbs falling onto his black skull-print shirt as he tidied everything up with almost childlike enthusiasm, his beanie still crooked and his jacket carelessly thrown over the arm of the worn olive-green sofa.

Jack watched the scene for a moment, a slight, tired smile curving his chapped lips. At least that night he wouldn’t have to worry about dinner—the nearly empty refrigerator offered nothing but water and old leftovers, and his thin stomach rumbled in anticipation despite knowing it was all pure garbage. He shook his head slightly, feeling the cold drops trickle down his bony back, and made his way to the tiny room without haste.

The room remained exactly as he had left it that morning: tidy to the point of poverty, with the narrow bed made, the comic books lined up on the makeshift shelf, and the slightly altered poster on the wall. Nothing had changed—not the musty smell, not the thin curtain swaying in the warm breeze that streamed in through the window. Jack dressed quickly, ignoring his gaunt reflection in the cracked mirror: a long-sleeved black shirt that concealed his thin arms and loose gray sweatpants that hung on his narrow hips. The soft fabric was a small luxury against his still-damp skin, comforting the aching muscles from the repetitive workday. He ran his fingers through his wet hair, trying unsuccessfully to tame it, and returned to the living room.

As he sat on the old olive-green sofa, its tears patched with duct tape, Jack felt the upholstery sink under his light weight, the worn fabric rubbing against his back. His green eyes scanned the coffee table and stopped abruptly on one of the beer cans in front of him. He reached out with his long, pale hand, picking up the icy can that burned coldly against his palm. The shock was immediate. His thin face froze in an expression of complete stunned silence, his thin eyebrows arching high, his mouth slightly open in stunned silence as he slowly swirled the can under the yellowish light of the old lamp.

Emblazoned on the glossy label was a tall, muscular, and imposing man, wearing a vibrant yellow and blue suit that perfectly accentuated his athletic physique. His face vaguely resembled George Washington—noble features, square jaw, serious and authoritative expression—but it was unmistakable: a perfect cosplay of Immortal, the hero of the Invincible series . It wasn’t a 2D animated drawing, but a real actor, in flesh and blood, posing with that aura of immortality and raw power.

Jack’s brain froze for several seconds, his heart racing in his tight chest as he processed the image. Why the hell would a beer company sponsor an Amazon animated series? He thought, his green eyes fixed on the label as if it could reveal answers. He didn’t even know there would be a live-action version, much less with an actor cast in the role. Who was that man? He didn’t recognize the face of any big Hollywood name. The confusion was profound, mixed with a strange feeling of detachment from reality—first the soda cans with Homelander, now this. The universe of comics and series seemed to be slowly leaking into the world around him.

Kevin, sitting across the small table with his short legs stretched out, was gorging himself on potato chips voraciously, his mouth full making wet slurps as he took long gulps of his own beer. Drops trickled down his bearded chin, falling onto his shirt. He noticed Jack’s glazed look and let out a hoarse laugh, his round face glistening with fat and amusement.

“Stop making that gay face and drink your beer already!” Kevin taunted, pointing with a chubby, salt-stained finger, his brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “If you keep staring at Immortal like that, I’m going to think you’re gay, man!”

Jack shrugged slowly, the subtle movement causing his black shirt to slide off his bony shoulders. A slight blush of embarrassment crept up his pale neck, but he disguised it with a wry smile, bringing the can to his lips and taking a long, refreshing gulp. The icy liquid went down his throat, relieving the day’s accumulated heat and leaving a bitter, malty taste in his mouth. He picked up one of the bowls of spicy potato chips in front of him, his thin fingers dipping into the crunchy contents, and began to eat slowly, the loud crunch contrasting with the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic outside.

As he chewed, Jack let his mind wander. He needed to start thinking about a way to eat better—those greasy, sodium-laden junk foods would end up destroying what little health he had left. His 70-kilogram skeletal body already protested daily: constant fatigue, aching bones, low immunity. However, a sarcastic question echoed internally: Health? What health? With the life he led—exhausting shifts, a precarious apartment, a family history of addiction and poverty—it seemed almost funny to worry about dieting. He took another sip, the coldness of the can contrasting with the heat rising from his chest, and watched Kevin devour the snacks with uncomplicated joy, his chubby friend oblivious to the existential worries that tormented Jack.

The cramped room seemed smaller with Kevin’s expansive presence: the smell of snacks mingling with the odor of beer and the slight mildew on the sofa, the yellowish light casting long shadows on the peeling walls, the distant sound of sirens echoing through the half-open window. Jack felt a strange mixture of comfort and unease—comfort from the unlikely company of his only friend, unease from the growing feeling that the world around him was changing in subtle and disturbing ways. The cans, the car radio, the name Vought… everything connected in his analytical mind like pieces of a larger puzzle.

The Immortal in the can seemed to watch him back, a living—or perhaps not so living—reminder that nothing was quite as he remembered it. And, deep down, Jack felt that this night would only be the beginning of something much bigger.

….

Kevin, his mouth still full of crunchy snacks, bright orange crumbs clinging to his scruffy red beard, turned to Jack, his brown eyes gleaming with childlike excitement. He swallowed noisily, wiping his greasy hands on his beige trousers before raising his short, chubby arms in an exaggerated, almost theatrical gesture, his plump body swaying on the worn sofa as if about to burst with anxiety.

“Dude, when are we going to start reading the comics?” he asked, his voice loud and full of expectation. “From the way you talked about Batman, it really sounds like an incredible story! Like, the Dark Knight, the traumatized billionaire, the psychopathic villains… I’m dying to see it, man!”

Jack, who was in the middle of bringing a spicy potato chip to his mouth, stopped abruptly, his thin fingers frozen in mid-air. His deep green eyes blinked slowly, as if he needed to remember the reason for that night of beer and snacks. His pale, bony face softened for a moment with a long, resigned sigh, his narrow chest rising and falling beneath his long-sleeved black shirt.

He completed the gesture, biting the potato chip with a loud snap, chewing slowly as the pungent flavor spread across his tongue, and then downed the rest of the ice-cold beer in one long gulp. The empty can clinked against the coffee table with a hollow, metallic sound. Without a word, Jack placed the bowl of chips resting on his lap on the already crowded table, rose from the olive-green sofa with a creaking of the worn upholstery, and walked to the tiny bedroom.

He noticed nothing around him—not the peeling beige walls with old damp patches, not the slightly altered poster, not the obsessive organization he maintained despite his poverty. His bare feet trod silently on the cold floor as he crouched in the corner of the room, his bony knees creaking softly. His long, pale hands lifted an old, heavy cardboard box, reinforced with yellowed duct tape, filled to the brim with the most prized treasure he possessed: his comic books. The familiar weight pressed against his frail arms, but he carried the box back into the living room with determined steps, the smell of old paper and ink mingling with the greasy aroma of snacks.

Jack made space on the crowded coffee table, carefully pushing bowls of chips and cans of beer aside, and gently thumped the box down.

“Ah, make yourself at home and look,” he said, his voice low and casual, already grabbing another bowl of chips and devouring a generous handful, the crunch filling the momentary silence.

Kevin, as excited as a child on Christmas morning, jumped onto the box with clumsy enthusiasm. His chubby body leaned forward, his brown eyes wide with pure passion as he rummaged through the contents. For him, comic books were the only addiction that truly resonated with his feelings—unlike drugs, which only brought him trouble and hospitalizations, and women, who always seemed out of reach for a short, chubby nerd like him. Comics were loyal. Comics didn’t judge. He pulled out volume after volume, stacking them on the already overflowing table: colorful covers gleaming under the yellowish light of the lamp, the rustling of pages echoing in the cramped apartment.

When the box was completely empty, Kevin sat back on his heels, his round face sweaty and confused, crumbs still clinging to the skull on his black shirt.

“Dude, where’s the Batman story?” he asked, his voice thick with genuine disappointment, his red eyebrows furrowed.

Jack, his mouth still full of potato chips, swallowed quickly and gestured toward the pile.

“It’s in there.”

“No, man, I already emptied everything!” exclaimed Kevin, his voice rising as he pointed to the overturned box. “The box was completely empty, I didn’t find anything!”

Jack placed the bowl of chips beside him on the sofa—the coffee table couldn’t hold anything else—and approached, kneeling beside his friend, his thin knees pressing against the cold floor. His green eyes scanned the scattered volumes, and at that moment his heart gave a sharp jolt in his narrow chest, as if suffering a sudden arrhythmia. The blood seemed to freeze in his veins, a cold wave rising up his thin spine and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He picked up one volume after another, his hands trembling slightly as he leafed through the covers.

Nothing belonged to him.

The comic books he knew so well—Batman, X-Men, Spider-Man, Superman, Invincible —had completely disappeared. In their place, strange titles appeared, vibrant but disturbingly out-of-place covers. He immediately recognized the Man in Blue with a cape emblazoned with the colors of the American flag: Homelander, posing in mid-flight with a wide, unsettling smile, the title in bold letters: Homelander: The Hero of the Morning . For the first time, he saw the character in classic 2D comic book art, not just on soda cans. The artwork was impeccable, but wrong. Everything was wrong.

Jack slowly lowered the comic book, his chest tight, and continued searching. There was an anthropomorphic dog wearing a red suit with a utility belt, aviator goggles, and weapons— Science Dog , probably. Other volumes featured heroes he vaguely recognized from the news and the tins, but none of his classics. The rare Batman issues that Kevin had begged to buy on previous visits… vanished. He remembered perfectly: Kevin offering substantial sums of money, his eyes gleaming with desire, and Jack refusing because he knew he could sell them for more in the future. Now, nothing. Not a single familiar volume.

“This isn’t mine…” Jack murmured, his voice low and hoarse, almost a broken whisper. His thin face was pale, his green eyes wide with pure shock, his trembling hands clutching a cape that didn’t belong to his collection.

Kevin blinked, confused, wiping his mouth with the back of his chubby hand.

“What’s up, man? All those nights I spent at your house, begging you to sell me this story… Of course it’s yours! If you want it, I can have it now.”

Jack didn’t answer immediately. He looked deep into Kevin’s brown eyes, searching for some anchor of normalcy. The feeling that had accompanied him all day—the strange subtleties, the altered poster, the radio announcer mentioning Vought as something real, the themed cans, the Batman that Kevin didn’t know—was now crystallizing into a terrifying truth.

Something was profoundly wrong. It wasn’t just his usual misery weighing more heavily today. It wasn’t just the poverty, the frailty of his skeletal body, or the family traumas. The world around him had changed, or perhaps he had changed along with it. ChaosGacha, the mysterious website, gleamed in his mind as the only possible explanation, but even that seemed insufficient.

“Something’s happening,” Jack said finally, his voice low but heavy with gravity, his green eyes fixed on Kevin’s with a rare, almost desperate intensity. His thin body trembled slightly, his narrow shoulders hunched under the weight of the revelation. “Kevin… something is very wrong.”

The apartment, once an organized haven of escapism, now seemed like a distorted scene. The smell of snacks and beer still lingered densely, but the air was heavy with a new, palpable tension. Kevin stopped eating, his round face shifting from confusion to worry, while Jack remained kneeling among the wrong comic books, his heart pounding in his fragile chest. The boys’ night, which should have been filled with laughter and nostalgia, had transformed into the moment when Jack Williams’ reality began to crack.

A visceral memory of that moment would forever be etched into Jack Williams’ mind. Still kneeling on the cold, uneven floor of the apartment, surrounded by unfamiliar comic books scattered like relics of a world that was no longer his, he felt his spine stiffen completely, becoming a taut steel rod that forced his posture upright.

Her narrow, bony shoulders lined up almost painfully, the thin muscles of her neck contracting as an intense chill ran down her spine. Her green eyes, normally tired and sunken from sleepless nights, were now wide in sheer shock, her pupils dilated under the dim, yellowish light of the room. Her breathing, once rhythmic despite the confusion, became shallow and shaky, her narrow chest rising and falling in visible spasms beneath her long-sleeved black shirt.

“Kevin… what day is it?” Jack asked loudly, his tone trembling and hoarse, almost a broken whisper that carried the weight of growing dread. His long, pale hands trembled slightly over the colorful covers of the wrong comic books, his slender fingers clenching involuntarily as if trying to grasp some anchor of reality.

Kevin, still startled by his friend’s intense reaction, stopped eating altogether. The handful of potato chips he was holding hung in the air for a second before falling back into the bowl with a soft thud. His round face, normally flushed with excitement or alcohol, paled slightly, his chubby cheeks losing color as his reddish eyebrows furrowed in deep concern. He wiped the greasy residue from his mouth with the back of his hand, his chubby body leaning forward on the sofa, his crooked hat slipping even further down his head.

“Today is January 11th,” Kevin replied, his voice cautious, as if he feared that any wrong tone could worsen the already awkward situation.

Jack swallowed hard, his dry throat scratching, and persisted, his heart already pounding against his prominent ribs:

“What year?”

Kevin blinked, clearly not understanding the direction of the question, scratching his stubble with salt-stained fingers as he tried to process the gravity on Jack’s thin face.

“2002…” he said hesitantly, as if the answer were the most obvious in the world.

The impact was like a punch to the gut. Jack felt a crushing pressure on his back, as if invisible hands were pressing his frail spine against the floor. The hairs all over his body—arms, neck, legs—stood on end violently, creating a wave of cold that contrasted with the suffocating heat of the apartment. His heart pounded with tremendous force in his narrow chest, an irregular beat that echoed in his ears, threatening a true arrhythmia. ” Last night, when I went to sleep, it was 2026.” The discrepancy hit him like a lightning bolt. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it.

He jumped to his feet, his tall, thin body moving with an awkward urgency that made his knees crack. He turned abruptly, almost tripping over the scattered comic books, and grabbed the old flip phone that was on the arm of the olive-green sofa. His trembling hands struggled to open the device, his long fingers slipping on the worn plastic. When the small screen lit up, his chest heaved again, a sharp pain squeezing his fragile heart. The date gleamed there, clear and merciless: January 11, 2002, 8:08 PM .

Jack snapped his phone shut, his hands trembling so much the device almost fell. He swallowed the saliva that had accumulated in his dry mouth, tasting the bitter beer mixed with pure fear. Without saying a word, he began to walk tremblingly toward the bedroom, his bare feet hitting the cold floor heavily, each step laden with a terror that grew like an avalanche inside him. Kevin watched him in silence, his round face now etched with confusion and genuine concern, his mouth slightly open, unsure what to say.

Jack slammed the bedroom door open, and what he had ignored that morning—and again upon returning home—hit him like a brutal punch. Nervously, he turned on the light, the switch clicking loudly in the silence. The walls, once his sanctuary of escapism, had been completely altered. The classic posters that Kevin had so often ridiculed—dark Batman, Spider-Man swinging between buildings, Invincible flying with brute force, the imposing Wonder Woman, and even Mark Grayson himself—had vanished. In their place, new posters dominated the small, claustrophobic space.

A huge poster showed a muscular man in a vibrant yellow and blue uniform, flying with a determined and noble expression—the Immortal. Another depicted a sprinter in a blurred red suit, running at an absurd speed—Red Rush. There was also an imposing redhead woman, with gleaming armor and a sword pointed forward in a heroic pose. Everything seemed to have been there forever, as if reality had been rewritten around him overnight. Jack felt breathless, his thin body visibly trembling as he absorbed the images. The familiar, musty smell of the room now seemed laden with something sinister, oppressive.

But what truly chilled his soul lay upon the old desk. He approached slowly, his steps hesitant, his heart pounding so hard it ached. An elegant, sophisticated brown leather briefcase rested there like an object from another world. Jack hesitated, fear tightening his throat. He knew that the moment he opened it, everything would become irrevocably concrete. Even so, his trembling hands reached for the sides, his fingers brushing the soft, expensive material. The golden clasp gleamed in the light, an absurd contrast to the poverty around him. With a soft click, he lifted the lid.

What he saw inside triggered a wave of conflicting emotions that overflowed from his fragile chest. A deep, icy dread mingled with an intense, almost painful excitement—feelings he didn’t even know he was still capable of experiencing. There, stored in custom-made compartments lined with black velvet, was the tuxedo.

A sophisticated watch rested in a small, perfectly positioned niche; a pair of gleaming black shoes, priceless for their appearance alone; ties and a bow tie aligned with military precision, as well as glasses with thin, gold frames. And in the center, folded with impeccable elegance, the complete suit: a classic and sophisticated black tuxedo, with an immaculate white shirt, discreet cufflinks, and a cut that exuded power and mystery.

Jack stood there, speechless, his mouth dry and without saliva, staring at the whole thing. His green eyes scanned every detail—the subtle sheen of the fabric, the perfect stitching, the aura of advanced technology he felt even without touching it. He looked around the room, searching for signs of a trick, but knew, deep down, it wasn’t one. He vividly remembered the previous night: the ChaosGacha website, the frantic scrolling, the “item” he’d received. The Tuxedo Elite. The tech agent suit that promised autonomous martial arts, superhuman reflexes, environmental analysis, and stealth mode.

“This… this is real,” he murmured, his voice trembling, almost inaudible. A single tear escaped the corner of his eye, tracing a path down his pale face. It wasn’t just a suit. It was the first concrete proof that something had fundamentally changed in his miserable existence. His frail 70-kilogram body trembled, no longer just with fear, but with a dangerous and overwhelming hope.

Kevin appeared in the doorway of the room, his round face still marked by confusion, but now also by curiosity.

“Jack? What’s going on, man?” he asked, his voice low and worried, his brown eyes fixed on his tall, thin friend who looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown.

Jack didn’t answer immediately. He reached out with a trembling hand and touched the fabric of the tuxedo, feeling the impossible quality beneath his calloused fingers. The contrast with his reality—the dilapidated apartment, the marginalized life, the family traumas—was brutal. But there, before him, was the promise of ChaosGacha materializing. The world had changed. The date on his phone, the posters, the comics, the clothes… everything pointed to a rewritten reality.

And amidst this whirlwind of emotions, Jack Williams, the fragile and reserved young man from San Diego, felt for the first time in years something that went beyond mere survival: the true spark of control over his own destiny.