A Glitch in Reality - Chapter 005

The room in the small San Diego apartment seemed smaller than ever, the walls stained with damp and the air thick with the smell of mold mixed with the lingering aroma of burnt coffee from the old coffee maker Jack had turned on earlier. The yellowish light of a lamp hanging from the ceiling flickered faintly in the breeze that streamed in through the half-open window, casting long shadows on the worn linoleum floor.

Jack Williams paced back and forth, his steps echoing unevenly in the tense silence, his slender hands gesturing nervously as he tried to organize the thoughts that seemed about to explode in his head. His lean body, even more fragile in the dim light, conveyed an almost palpable urgency—shoulders hunched with tension, his neck scratching repeatedly as if his skin were on fire.

Across the room, Kevin remained seated in the worn armchair, his body relaxed, but his face marked by an expression of deep concentration. He had removed his old cap, revealing his disheveled, sweat-dampened hair, and now kept his hands resting on his chin, his fingers interlaced as if trying to contain his own doubts. His eyes followed his friend’s every movement, narrowing slightly at each pause in Jack’s long, detailed explanation. The air between them was heavy, dense as before a storm, with the distant hum of port traffic in the background serving as a constant reminder that the world outside continued its course, indifferent to the chaos unfolding within them.

Jack paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His voice, normally low and reserved, took on an urgent, almost pleading tone as he described the changes he felt in his own reality—the multiverse, the comic books that now seemed to have infiltrated the real world, the subtle yet profound changes that no one else seemed to notice. Sweat trickled down his forehead, tracing cold paths across his pale skin, and he scratched his neck again, a nervous tic that betrayed the chronic anxiety that had plagued him since his turbulent childhood in Huntington.

Kevin tilted his head slowly, processing each word. When he finally spoke, his voice came out paused, deliberate, as if each syllable were a piece of a puzzle he was trying to fit together with extreme care. “So you’re explaining to me that last night… or rather, tonight, because it’s still the 11th… you had access to a multiversal power force?” He paused for a long time, his eyes fixed on his friend, his eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of disbelief and genuine concern. “A multiversal power force that altered the properties of our entire universe. And you’re telling me that these changes came from the comic books?”

The words hung in the air, heavy. Kevin uncrossed his hands from his chin, but maintained his seated posture, his body slightly leaning forward, as if he wanted to bring Jack back to sanity. There was tension in his jaw, a slight tremor in his fingers that revealed that, despite his controlled tone, he was struggling to prevent shock from overwhelming him. The smell of stale cigarettes that permeated the armchair seemed to intensify with his breathing, now faster.

Jack, who continued pacing back and forth, stopped abruptly and scratched his neck harder, his nails leaving red marks on his skin. “Yes, that’s what I’m trying to explain,” he replied, his voice faltering slightly at the end, heavy with frustration and despair. He pointed with a trembling finger to the black folder on the coffee table, the object gleaming almost ominously in the yellowish light. “And this is the proof.”

Kevin let out a long sigh, rubbing his face with his large hands. “Dude, I think you need to relax,” he said, trying to sound reassuring, but his voice was heavy with skepticism. His eyes darted to the window for a second, as if searching for something normal outside to anchor the conversation.

Jack’s reaction was visceral. He let out a guttural sound—something between a nervous laugh and the neigh of a wounded, slaughtered horse, knowing the end was near. His whole body trembled, his thin legs threatening to give way as he scratched his face with both hands, leaving red marks on his cheeks. “Dude, I’m not going crazy,” he retorted, his voice now louder, echoing off the narrow walls. “Don’t you remember Batman? It’s 2002! I went to sleep last night in 2026. All that commotion about The Seven… an immortal in a beer can? And it all added up… something changed. Something changed in our universe, structurally.”

He stopped walking, his chest heaving, his glazed eyes fixed on his friend. The room seemed to spin around him—the hum of the old refrigerator, the damp smell of night air seeping in through the window, the crushing weight of the loneliness he had carried since fleeing his toxic family. “My life remains the same. I’m sure if I call home, my parents… my father will answer and yell at me immediately. But… I’m sure… things have changed. The fact that the newspaper… reported this morning on an accident involving a Metahuman proves it.”

Kevin shook his head slowly, his face hardening into an expression of pity mixed with impatience. He leaned back in the armchair, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “Of course that proves it,” he replied, his voice firm, almost paternal. “It’s always been that way. You’re the one who’s crazy and has forgotten… how the world works.” The words came out abruptly, but there was a glint of genuine concern in his eyes—a longtime friend trying to stop Jack from falling into the abyss.

Jack scratched his face once more, feeling the skin burn beneath his nails. Frustration simmered within him like acid, fueled by years of trauma, the physical frailty that had always made him an easy target, and the fragile hope that ChaosGacha represented. He took a deep breath, the cold air entering his lungs, and decided that words would no longer be enough. “Very well. There is a way to end all your doubts.”

Without hesitation, Jack began to take off his shirt, revealing his thin, pale torso, marked by old scars from a violent childhood. Then he lowered his pants, leaving him in just his underwear in the middle of the room. The cold night air immediately chilled his skin, causing an involuntary shiver to run down his spine. He felt Kevin’s incredulous gaze like a physical weight.

“Dude, you’re going crazy!” exclaimed Kevin, raising his hands in a defensive gesture and leaning forward in his seat. His eyes widened, a mixture of shock, discomfort, and genuine concern etched on his face. He watched Jack’s every move intently, his heart visibly racing.

“Sit on that couch and pretend,” Jack ordered, his voice low but determined, ignoring the blush of shame rising to his neck. He walked to the coffee table, his bare feet cold against the linoleum, and opened the briefcase with a metallic click that echoed like a gunshot in the silent room. Kevin watched, his eyes fixed on his friend’s precise movements, still convinced he was witnessing a nervous breakdown.

The tension in the air was almost suffocating—the smell of nervous sweat mingled with the humid air, the sound of the two men’s heavy breathing, the flickering light of the lamp highlighting every tense muscle in Jack’s frail body and every wrinkle of worry on Kevin’s face. Jack knew that this moment was a turning point. The Tuxedo Elite inside the briefcase represented not just proof, but the first real step toward breaking the cycle of weakness that had defined his life. As Kevin stared at him, incredulous, Jack felt a cold determination settle in his chest, mixed with the deep fear of rejection that had always haunted him.

The conversation, which had begun as a desperate explanation, evolved into something visceral, raw, where the barriers of normality dissolved. Jack felt the weight of his history—the escape from Huntington, the years of isolation, the family traumas—converging there, in that cramped room. Kevin, in turn, struggled internally between loyalty to his friend and the rationality that the world imposed on him.

The tension in the small, stuffy room of the San Diego apartment still hung like a dense fog, heavy with the damp smell of mold emanating from the walls, the bitter aroma of cold coffee cooling on the table, and the nervous sweat emanating from the two young men. Jack Williams, now in his underwear in the center of the room, felt the cold night air enter through the half-open window, causing shivers on his pale, thin skin and an involuntary tremor in his fragile spine.

His heart pounded against his ribs, a mixture of desperate determination and the old fear of rejection that had haunted him since his chaotic childhood in Huntington. He opened the briefcase with a metallic click, revealing the Tuxedo Elite folded with almost surgical precision. His trembling hands picked up the pieces one by one, putting them on with hurried, almost mechanical movements, while Kevin watched each gesture with attentive eyes, his body still hunched over in the worn armchair.

Kevin watched his friend with a fixed, expressionless gaze, his brown eyes half-closed in a mixture of disbelief, deep concern, and a sharp pang of something akin to brotherly affection. He hadn’t expected Jack to have access to such refined clothes. Even he, coming from a family with considerable resources—heir to a small empire—knew how to recognize genuine quality at first glance.

The fabric was impeccable, with an initial drape that betrayed its handcrafted cut, subtle details in the seams that only experienced hands could have produced. “Handcrafted ,” Kevin thought, frowning slightly. That suit hadn’t come from a department store; it was handmade, with a precision that cost tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of dollars. Where on earth had Jack gotten something like this? The thought hammered in his mind as he scratched his chin distractedly, leaning slightly forward in the armchair, the muscles in his shoulders tense beneath his casual shirt.

What’s wrong with him? Kevin’s worry grew like a slow wave, tightening his chest. Overnight, his friend seemed to have lost entire parts of reality—selective memories, as if someone had erased crucial parts of the world they both inhabited. Forgetting about GDA? Vought? The superheroes dominating the daily news, the intrusive advertisements, Immortal emblazoned on beer cans? Kevin shook his head internally, feeling a pang of anguish.

He knew Jack was addicted to comic books, anime, and video games—an understandable escape for someone carrying such heavy trauma from his dysfunctional family. But this? The theory of an altered universe, multiversal changes caused by comic books? It was too much. Kevin felt his stomach churn, a mixture of fear for his friend and frustration at not being able to bring him back to sanity.

At the same time, a wave of emotional warmth washed over him. Jack was his only true friend. Technically, the skinny kid was his employee at the gas station, but the bond between them went far beyond that. Kevin spent his entire childhood and adolescence in almost complete isolation. His “strange” tastes—his fascination with conspiracy theories and nerdy narratives—repelled people like a repellent.

No one approached him. He was the rich, but lonely son, surrounded by invisible walls of strangeness. When he met Jack, he saw a reflection: the same isolation, the same sharp intelligence hidden behind a fragile and reserved appearance. The bond formed quickly and strongly, despite the short time. Seeing his friend in that state—stripped not only physically, but emotionally—caused real pain in Kevin’s chest, like a knife slowly twisting. He’s my friend. My only friend. I can’t lose him to this.

Jack, oblivious to the other’s turbulent thoughts, finished dressing in the Tuxedo Elite suit. The white shirt slid over his thin skin, the black jacket draped over his narrow shoulders, and the trousers still hung loosely. He hadn’t even zipped up the fly, much less adjusted the bow tie that hung loosely around his neck. The fabric looked ridiculously small on his skeletal 6’3″ frame, weighing only 70kg—sleeves too short, trousers that barely covered his shins. Still, there was a cold determination in his brown eyes, a spark of hope shining behind the chronic anxiety. He turned to Kevin, his body slightly hunched with insecurity, but his voice firm, almost defiant:

“Are you ready?”

Kevin raised a thick eyebrow, his face contorting in an expression of pure disbelief mixed with compassion. “Man, he’s worse than I thought ,” he thought, feeling his heart clench. It was clear that the suit was several sizes too small for Jack’s frail body. The sleeves were almost a hand’s width short of reaching his wrists properly, the trousers rode up to his ankles comically, and he seriously doubted those shiny black shoes were comfortable—probably squeezing his skinny feet like a vise. Kevin opened his mouth to say something, perhaps a joke to ease the tension or a plea for Jack to stop, but the words died in his throat.

Then, something completely defied logic.

In an instant, Jack’s body stiffened like a statue. His arms pressed against his sides, his legs snapped together with an almost audible click, and his face contorted in an expression of pure shock—eyes wide, mouth agape, eyebrows raised in utter astonishment. A subtle tremor ran through his lean frame, as if an invisible electric current had passed through every nerve. Kevin blinked, leaning further forward in his armchair, his heart racing with a mixture of alarm and fascination. The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with static electricity, and a low, almost imperceptible hum filled the air.

Defying all the laws of physics that Kevin knew, the suit began to transform. The trousers stretched smoothly, the black fabric flowing like living liquid, fitting perfectly to Jack’s long, slender legs. The sleeves shortened and molded to his thin arms with surgical precision, the fit becoming impeccable, elegant, as if the suit had been tailor-made by a master tailor who knew every inch of the wearer’s body.

The fly rose on its own with a fluid and silent movement, closing without any manual intervention. Then, Jack’s hands sprang into action with superhuman speed—a blur of movement so fast that Kevin could barely follow. His long, pale fingers flew to the neck, tying the bow tie with a dexterity and asymmetrical perfection that bordered on the impossible. Each loop, each adjustment, was executed with artistic precision, resulting in an elegant and unique knot, something no ordinary human could replicate in such a short time.

The silence that followed was deafening. Kevin remained frozen in the armchair, his blue eyes wide, his mouth slightly open in shock. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his heart pounding hard enough to echo in his ears. He felt a chill down his spine, mixed with reluctant excitement—this wasn’t a hallucination. It wasn’t madness. It was real. The suit had adapted to his friend’s body like a second, living, technological skin.

Jack, for his part, stared at his own hands in utter astonishment. His fingers trembled slightly as he slowly turned them over, examining them as if they belonged to someone else. His jaw gradually dropped, his pale face turning even whiter with disbelief. His green eyes gleamed with a mixture of terror, wonder, and a spark of empowerment he had never felt before. The weight of the suit was almost nonexistent now, but the sensation of power—enhanced reflexes, subtle environmental analysis activating in his mind—left him speechless. He felt the fabric breathing against his skin, adapting to the exact temperature of his body, eliminating any discomfort. The subtle scent of new fabric and advanced technology filled his nostrils, contrasting with the humid air of the apartment.

The entire room seemed to have changed atmosphere. The yellowish light of the lamp highlighted every detail of the now perfectly fitted Tuxedo Elite: the impeccable cut, the discreet sheen of the fabric, the elegance that transformed the frail young man into something reminiscent of an elite agent from a spy movie. Kevin couldn’t look away, his chest tight with conflicting emotions—relief at seeing that his friend wasn’t completely delirious, fear of what that meant.

Jack remained motionless for a few more seconds, processing the miracle he had just witnessed. His mind raced, connecting it to ChaosGacha, to the value of his investment, to the irrefutable proof he so desperately needed to show. His jaw still dropped, his eyes fixed on his own hands, he could barely form a coherent thought. The universe had changed. And he, Jack Williams, the skinny, traumatized boy who had run away from a broken family, now held in his hands—or rather, in his body—the first real tool to control his destiny.

The atmosphere in the cramped room of the dilapidated San Diego apartment was electric, as if the damp, mold-laden air had taken on a life of its own after the Tuxedo Elite’s impossible transformation. The lingering smell of burnt coffee mingled with the subtle, technological aroma emanating from the suit’s black fabric, a clean, metallic fragrance that contrasted sharply with the decaying surroundings—damp-stained walls, cracked linoleum beneath one’s feet, and the yellowish light of the hanging lamp flickering slightly in the night breeze that streamed through the half-open window.

Jack Williams stood motionless in the center of the room, his body now perfectly enveloped by the suit that had adapted to him like a second, living skin. His 6’3″ height, once awkward and fragile, now seemed to project an imposing presence, the fitted fabric highlighting every line of his lean physique without revealing the vulnerability he had carried for years. Jack’s heart still beat rapidly, a mixture of contained euphoria and the old fear of being seen as crazy, as he watched his friend with attentive brown eyes behind a veil of disbelief.

Kevin, who until then had remained slumped in the worn armchair, felt a wave of unease rise in his chest. He stood slowly, his long legs stretching with a creak from the old wood of the armchair, and began to circle Jack in a slow, deliberate circle. His brown eyes—sharp and usually full of a restrained geeky curiosity—scanned every inch of the fabric, analyzing the impeccable seams, the discreet sheen under the dim light, and how the garment molded to his friend’s body without a single wrinkle. The expression on his face was a complex tapestry of fascination and deep concern. He shook his head slowly, his arms initially crossed before opening in a broad gesture of disbelief.

“Dude, how did you get that?” Kevin asked, his voice hoarse with tension, as he paused for a moment right in front of Jack. His fingers twitched frantically in the air, gesturing frantically before his friend’s pale face, almost touching the air between them as if trying to grasp the invisible answers. “And you come to me with this cosmic gadget story?” He waved his arms now with more emphasis, his hands cutting the space between them in wide, nervous movements, his body leaning forward with the intensity of someone trying to force reality to make sense. Sweat glistened slightly on his forehead, and the smell of his cheap aftershave mingled with the heavy air. “That doesn’t exist. Did you steal it from some secret facility?”

The question came out laden with genuine suspicion, Kevin’s eyes narrowing as he stared at the suit as if it could reveal secrets by osmosis. He knew enough about the world—the shadows of Vought, the rumors about the GDA, and the hidden facilities that dealt with “anomalies”—to imagine dangerous scenarios. His chest visibly rose and fell, a pang of fear for his friend tightening in his stomach. Jack was more than an employee; he was the only real bond he had in years of solitude. Seeing that thin young man, scarred by family trauma, involved in something so clearly beyond the norm awakened in him a fierce protective instinct, mixed with the frustration of not being able to understand.

Jack, impressed with himself, looked around the room with new eyes. The Tuxedo Elite hadn’t just fit him physically; he felt a subtle clarity, as if the suit amplified his environmental perception—the distant hum of traffic in the harbor, the slight creaking of the floorboards, even the exact temperature of the air against his skin. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding against the breathable fabric, and replied in a firmer voice than usual, though still laden with residual anxiety: “Man, everything I told you is true.”

Without waiting for a reply, Jack turned toward the still-open black briefcase on the coffee table. His movements were precise now, guided by an agility he was barely beginning to process. He picked up the elegant watch from its case, the cold metal against his thin skin, and slid it onto his left wrist with a satisfying click. Then he picked up the thin-rimmed, gold-rimmed glasses, carefully sliding them down his nose. When he turned back to Kevin, the effect was immediate and transformative.

The 18-year-old, once a gaunt and reserved ghost who had fled Huntington, West Virginia, now presented himself as an almost ethereal figure—6’3″ tall, standing erect, with slightly disheveled blond hair falling over his forehead, thin glasses adding an intellectual and sophisticated air that contrasted with his humble origins. The tight-fitting suit gave him an elegant silhouette, as if he had stepped straight out of a high-fashion catalog or a high-budget spy movie.

Kevin couldn’t hide the fascination that gripped his face. His brown eyes—now wide—scanned his friend from head to toe, his mouth slightly open in pure astonishment. He knew Jack as the poor guy, living in a miserable room near the port, working at the gas station in old clothes and with an expression always laden with insecurity.

But what about that? The man in front of him looked like a professional model, someone who belonged to a world of luxury and power, not to the cycle of poverty and trauma they both shared. A silent question echoed in Kevin’s mind: Is that really Jack? He felt a warm mixture of pride, confusion, and a slight pang of self-insecurity—after all, he was the “rich” one of the two, but he had never possessed anything with such an aura of exclusivity.

“Dude, something happened,” Kevin murmured, his voice low and heavy with reluctant admiration, as he vaguely pointed at the entire suit. “You think this thing came from some universal gadget? Which I don’t even know the name of…”

“ChaosGacha,” Jack replied promptly, a small, genuine smile curving his lips for the first time in that tense conversation. The smile softened his features, revealing a glimpse of the resilient dreamer hidden behind layers of trauma.

“Whatever,” Kevin retorted, shaking his head vehemently, his arms gesturing again in a wide arc that cut through the humid air of the room. He pointed directly at the suit, now fully clad, his index finger trembling slightly with restrained excitement. “You’re telling me a multiversal force provided this for you?” His voice grew louder, echoing off the narrow walls, laden with disbelief and a paternal concern he couldn’t hide. Kevin’s chest tightened with the weight of loyalty—he wanted to believe, he wanted to protect his friend, but the hard-won rationality of years of isolation prevented him from accepting it so easily. The smell of nervous sweat intensified, and he felt the heat rising up his neck, his palms damp.

Jack held his friend’s gaze for a long second, his gold glasses reflecting the yellowish light of the lamp. The smile remained, now more confident, fueled by the sense of control the suit afforded him—the superhuman reflexes throbbing just below the surface, ready to be tested. “Then observe,” he said simply, his calm voice contrasting with the inner turmoil of emotions.

With measured, deliberate steps, Jack walked toward the weathered wall across the room—an uneven surface, painted a faded beige, devoid of any ornament or picture, marked by fine cracks and damp stains that told the story of years of neglect by the owner. He lifted his right foot and, completely defying gravity, planted it against the vertical wall.

Then the other foot followed, and he began to walk horizontally, as if the wall were the floor. Each step was fluid, precise, the Tuxedo Elite instinctively activating its autonomous functions and superhuman agility. Jack’s body remained parallel to the ground, hanging from the wall like a figure from an impossible action movie, his lean muscles working with an efficiency he had never possessed before. The air around him seemed lighter, and he felt a slight vibration in the suit.

Hanging there, just inches from the ground, Jack turned to his friend, his blond hair falling slightly over his thin glasses. A cautious and triumphant expression lit up his face, his eyes shining with a mixture of admiration and relief at finally having concrete proof. “So, what do you think?”

Kevin froze completely, his jaw dropping once more in a gesture of pure shock that made his face comically relax. His brown eyes were wide, his eyebrows arched almost to his hairline, and his body leaned slightly back, as if he needed physical distance to process the scene.

His chest rose and fell with short, rapid breaths, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. A wave of emotions washed over him: utter disbelief, a visceral fear of the unknown, but also a spark of genuine excitement for his friend, who so deserved a chance to change his life. “This has to be madness,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and low, almost a whisper, as he tried to process the impossible he had just witnessed.

The room plunged into a dense silence, broken only by the distant sound of waves in the harbor and the heavy breathing of the two young men. Jack, still hanging on the wall, the Tuxedo Elite gleaming subtly in the dim light, represented the turning point he so desperately needed. Kevin, standing in the center of the room, struggled internally with the collapse of his worldview, the bond of friendship being tested—and strengthened—by the fire of that extraordinary revelation. Neither of them yet knew how far this ChaosGacha would take them in the shared universe of heroes, corporations, and monsters, but at that moment, the test was literally before them, challenging all the rules of reality as they knew them.