# Chapter 2: Glitches in the Coffee

Max stared at the mysterious man standing in his apartment doorway, the strange blue device humming softly in his hand. The rational neurons in Max's brain—the few that hadn't been drowned in caffeine and sleep deprivation—fired warning signals like a security system during a break-in. But curiosity, Max's lifelong companion and occasional nemesis, had already made the decision for him.

"After you," Max said, gesturing into his apartment with a flourish that would have seemed more appropriate if his living space didn't resemble the aftermath of a particularly enthusiastic raccoon invasion.

The man in the charcoal suit stepped inside with mechanical precision, his movements so fluid and economical that Max wondered if he practiced walking efficiently. He surveyed the chaos of Max's apartment with the clinical detachment of an anthropologist examining a particularly puzzling tribal artifact.

"You'll have to excuse the mess," Max said, kicking an empty pizza box under the coffee table. "I've been busy... contemplating the nature of reality."

"The state of your domicile is irrelevant to our discussion," the man replied, his voice maintaining that peculiar flatness that made Max think of text-to-speech software that had almost, but not quite, achieved human inflection. "May I sit?"

"Sure, yeah, just let me..." Max grabbed a pile of laundry from the couch and tossed it into a corner, creating a small avalanche of t-shirts and mismatched socks.

The man sat with unsettling precision, his posture so perfect that Max wondered if he'd had spine-replacement surgery. The blue device remained in his hand, occasionally emitting a soft pulse of light.

"So," Max said, perching on the edge of his desk chair. "QB sent you?"

"I represent interests aligned with your recent theories," the man replied, which Max noted wasn't exactly an answer. "Your manifesto has generated considerable attention in certain circles."

"I'm still not clear on what QB actually is," Max ventured.

The man's face remained impassive. "Quantum Breach. We are a research collective dedicated to understanding the computational nature of reality."

Max leaned forward, excitement overriding his caution. "So you believe it too? That we're living in a simulation?"

"Belief is irrelevant. We follow evidence." The man adjusted his glasses, and for a moment, Max caught a glimpse of unnaturally green eyes behind the reflective lenses. "Your theorized methods for discovering exploits in the system architecture are... intriguing, if somewhat naive."

"Naive?" Max bristled slightly.

"You conceptualize the simulation as analogous to consumer technology. A more accurate model would be..." The man paused, as if searching for an appropriate comparison. "Imagine attempting to reverse-engineer quantum physics using only a spoon."

"Okay, so I need better tools," Max conceded. "That's why I published the manifesto—to find people with resources, expertise."

"Resources can be arranged," the man said. The device in his hand pulsed blue again, more intensely this time. He glanced at it briefly. "However, there are aspects of your approach that require refinement. Your public declarations have attracted... unwanted attention."

"Like who?" Max asked. "The simulation admins?" He laughed, but the sound died quickly when the man didn't even crack a smile.

"There are entities invested in maintaining system integrity," the man said. "They would view your efforts as disruptive."

A chill ran down Max's spine. "Wait, are you saying there are actual... what, agents of the simulation? Like in that movie with Keanu Reeves?"

The man's expression flickered with what might have been annoyance, or possibly indigestion—it was hard to tell. "Pop culture references obscure more than they illuminate, Mr. Davidson. The reality is both simpler and more complex than fictional depictions."

"You still haven't told me your name," Max pointed out.

"Names are arbitrary designations. You may call me Smith."

Max snorted. "Seriously? Smith? Now who's making movie references?"

The man—Smith—ignored this. "We would like to extend an invitation. Our primary research facility has equipment that would facilitate your investigations. With proper guidance, your insights could prove valuable."

"You want me to come with you? Now?" Max glanced around his apartment. "I've got, um... commitments."

Smith raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the disaster zone of Max's living space. "Your calendar appears remarkably uncluttered, Mr. Davidson."

"Fair point," Max conceded. "But I should at least pack some things, let people know where I'm going."

"Discretion is advisable," Smith said. "Our work requires a certain... operational security."

The blue device suddenly emitted a high-pitched tone, causing Smith to stand abruptly. "I must cut our meeting short. Unexpected variables have emerged."

"What does that mean?" Max asked, rising from his chair.

"It means we will continue this discussion tomorrow." Smith moved toward the door with that same unnerving efficiency. "Do not discuss this meeting with anyone. Do not post additional material online. We will contact you."

Before Max could protest, Smith was out the door, closing it firmly behind him. Max stood in the middle of his apartment, wondering if he'd just had a conversation with an actual human being or some extraordinarily sophisticated chatbot wearing a suit.

He walked to the window and peered through the blinds, watching as Smith exited the building and slid into a black sedan with tinted windows that had been waiting at the curb. The car pulled away smoothly, leaving Max with the distinct impression that his life had just taken a sharp turn into uncharted territory.

"Well, that happened," he muttered to himself, turning back to his laptop. He needed to document this encounter while it was fresh in his mind.

He opened a new document and began typing furiously, recording every detail he could remember about Smith, the device, and their conversation. If he was going to hack reality, he needed to keep meticulous records—even the smallest detail might prove significant.

By the time he finished, it was past midnight. The adrenaline of the encounter had worn off, leaving Max exhausted. He saved the document, closed his laptop, and collapsed onto his bed, still fully dressed.

His last thought before sleep claimed him was that he should probably clean his apartment before any more representatives of mysterious organizations showed up.

---

Max awoke to the sound of breaking glass.

His eyes snapped open, body tensing as he tried to orient himself in the darkness. The digital clock on his nightstand read 3:47 AM. Another crash came from his living room, followed by the sound of papers being shuffled.

Someone was in his apartment.

Max's heart hammered against his ribs as he slid out of bed as quietly as possible. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and unplugged the charger, wincing at the small disconnection tone it made. The sounds from the living room paused momentarily, then resumed.

He crept toward his bedroom door, which was partially open. Through the crack, he could see shadowy figures moving around his living area, illuminated only by small handheld lights that cast eerie, focused beams across his belongings.

There were at least three of them, all dressed in dark clothing. One was systematically going through his desk, another was examining his bookshelf, and a third appeared to be dismantling his desktop computer.

Max's first instinct was to call the police, but as his thumb hovered over the emergency dial button, doubt crept in. What if these weren't ordinary burglars? What if they were connected to Smith, or to whoever Smith had seemed concerned about when his device started beeping?

The figure at his desk held something up—Max's laptop. They slipped it into a bag, then nodded to the others. They began moving toward the exit, their search apparently complete.

Max waited until he heard the front door close before he dared to move. He crept into his living room, phone clutched in his hand like a talisman, and flipped on the light.

"Holy shit," he breathed.

His apartment, which had already been in a state of considerable disarray, now looked like it had hosted a particularly violent tornado. Drawers had been emptied onto the floor, sofa cushions slashed open, books pulled from shelves. His desktop computer was gone, as was his external hard drive, his old tablets, and even a stack of notebooks he'd kept from his iPhone hacking days.

The window next to his fire escape had been broken, glass scattered across the floor like crystalline confetti. It was the entry point, clearly, though they'd left through the front door like civilized home invaders.

Max stood amid the destruction, trying to process what had happened. This wasn't a random burglary. They'd taken his computer equipment and his notes, but ignored his wallet sitting in plain view on the kitchen counter, complete with cash and credit cards. They hadn't taken his television or the expensive noise-canceling headphones hanging by his desk.

They'd wanted his data. His ideas.

With shaking hands, Max dialed Aisha's number. It rang five times before going to voicemail. Of course—it was nearly 4 AM. Again.

"Aisha, it's Max," he said after the beep, trying to keep his voice steady. "I know it's late, but something's happened. My apartment's been ransacked, my laptop's gone, all my notes. I think... I think it's related to the manifesto. Someone named Smith came to see me yesterday, talking about 'entities invested in maintaining system integrity' and then these guys broke in and... just call me back, okay? Please."

He ended the call and immediately sent a text as well, just to be sure:

*Apartment broken into. All computers & notes stolen. Need to talk ASAP. It's about the simulation stuff. I think I'm onto something big.*

Max spent the next hour documenting the break-in, taking photos of the damage with his phone, and trying to remember everything that had been taken. He considered calling the police but hesitated. What would he tell them? That mysterious men had broken into his apartment to steal his research on hacking reality? They'd write him off as a paranoid tech bro with delusions of grandeur.

No, this was something he needed to handle himself. With Aisha's help, hopefully.

By the time dawn broke, Max had cleared enough of the mess to create a path through his apartment. He'd taped a garbage bag over the broken window as a temporary fix and swept up the worst of the glass. His phone battery was nearly dead, and he couldn't find his charger anywhere—either the intruders had taken it, or it was buried somewhere in the chaos.

At 7:22 AM, his phone finally buzzed with a response from Aisha:

*Are you serious? Did you call the police?*

Max replied immediately:

*No police. Need to talk in person. Can we meet?*

Her response came a minute later:

*Fine. Cybernetic Bean on 9th. 9:30. Don't be late and don't be weird.*

Max looked down at himself—he was still wearing yesterday's clothes, now wrinkled beyond salvation, and he hadn't showered since before Smith's visit. He definitely qualified as "weird" in his current state.

A quick shower and change of clothes later, Max grabbed his phone, wallet, and keys, then hesitated at the door. His apartment was still a disaster, and now had a broken window covered with a garbage bag. Not exactly secure. But what choice did he have? He needed to talk to Aisha, and he didn't have much else worth stealing anyway.

With a resigned sigh, he locked the door behind him, knowing full well it was a largely symbolic gesture at this point.

---

The Cybernetic Bean was a trendy coffee shop that catered to the local tech crowd, with reliable Wi-Fi, plenty of outlets, and baristas who could discuss the finer points of blockchain technology while crafting artisanal pour-overs. Max arrived twenty minutes early, partly because he was anxious to talk to Aisha, and partly because he'd been too nervous to sit in his violated apartment any longer.

He ordered a quadruple espresso—sleep had been minimal, and the adrenaline crash was hitting him hard—and claimed a table in the corner where he could watch the door. The coffee arrived in a tiny cup that seemed designed specifically to make him feel like a giant playing with dollhouse furniture.

As Max waited, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. The coffee shop was busy with the morning rush—programmers typing furiously on MacBooks, start-up founders having hushed conversations about funding rounds, the occasional digital nomad sprawled across a table with three devices running simultaneously. Normal tech industry fauna.

But something felt off.

He scanned the room more carefully, trying not to be obvious about it. Three tables away, a woman in a crisp blazer was reading something on her tablet, occasionally glancing in his direction. By the window, a man with a meticulously groomed beard was typing on a laptop, his posture unnaturally straight, reminiscent of Smith.

And at the counter, waiting for an order, was another man in business casual attire, wearing black-framed glasses identical to Smith's.

Max's heart rate accelerated. One person with those glasses might be coincidence. But two? In the same coffee shop?

The bell above the door jingled, and Aisha walked in, her expression a complex mixture of concern and annoyance. She spotted Max and headed straight for his table, not bothering to order first.

"You look like hell," she said by way of greeting, sliding into the chair across from him.

"Good to see you too," Max replied, offering a weak smile. "Thanks for coming."

Aisha sighed, her stern expression softening slightly. "Of course I came. You said your apartment was broken into. Are you okay?"

"Physically, yeah. Mentally... jury's still out." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Aisha, something weird is happening. After I published the manifesto, I got an email from someone calling themselves QB—Quantum Breach. Then this guy shows up at my door, calls himself Smith, carrying this strange device that glowed blue. He talked about my theories, said they wanted to collaborate, mentioned a research facility."

"Max—" Aisha began, but he cut her off.

"Let me finish. After he left, I documented everything, went to sleep, and woke up to people breaking into my apartment. They took all my computers, my notes, everything related to the simulation research. They didn't take anything valuable—just information." He took a gulp of his espresso, grimacing at the bitterness. "And now I think I'm being watched."

Aisha's expression had transformed from skeptical to concerned. "What do you mean, watched?"

Max discreetly nodded toward the man with the black-framed glasses. "That guy is wearing the exact same glasses as Smith. So is the bearded guy by the window. I think they're following me."

Aisha subtly glanced around the coffee shop, then back at Max. "Okay, I'll admit that's a bit creepy. But Max, this whole simulation thing... you have to admit it sounds—"

"Crazy, I know," Max interrupted. "But what if it's not? What if I'm onto something real? Why else would someone break into my apartment and steal only my research materials?"

Aisha was quiet for a moment, studying his face. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a tablet. "I wasn't going to tell you this because I was worried it would encourage you, but... after your manifesto went up, I did some digging."

She unlocked the tablet and slid it across the table. On the screen was a forum post from an obscure message board. The thread was titled "The Glitch Hunters."

"What is this?" Max asked, scrolling through the post.

"It's a group—or maybe a movement is a better word—of people who believe they've found errors in reality. Exploitable bugs, just like you were talking about." Aisha lowered her voice. "Some of them are clearly just conspiracy theorists, but others... Max, some of them are serious researchers, engineers, even a few physicists."

Max looked up from the tablet, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "You're serious?"

"They document what they call 'glitches'—phenomena that shouldn't be possible according to our understanding of physics. Most can probably be explained away, but some are... harder to dismiss." She reached over and swiped to a new page. "They've been around for years, operating under the radar. And get this—they've reported being monitored by people they call 'Admins.' Men in suits who show up asking questions, sometimes with strange devices."

"Like Smith," Max whispered, feeling a chill despite the coffee shop's warmth.

"Maybe," Aisha conceded. "The point is, you're not the first person to propose these ideas. This group has been working on it for years, documenting glitches, developing theories about the nature of the simulation."

Max scrolled through the forum posts, his mind racing. It was validation—he wasn't alone in his thinking. There were others who had come to similar conclusions, who were actively seeking evidence.

"Aisha, this is huge," he said, looking up at her. "We need to contact these people, pool our knowledge."

"I thought you might say that," Aisha sighed. "Which is why I already reached out to one of their moderators. They're understandably cautious—your manifesto caused quite a stir in their community. Some think you're legitimately onto something, others think you're dangerously drawing attention to their work."

Max was about to respond when he noticed movement at the periphery of his vision. The man with the black-framed glasses was approaching their table, coffee in hand. Max tensed, ready to... well, he wasn't sure what, exactly, but something defensive.

But the man walked past them, heading for the exit. As he passed, he made brief eye contact with Max, his expression unreadable behind those reflective lenses.

"That was weird," Aisha muttered, watching the man leave.

"Told you," Max said. "I think—"

He was interrupted by the arrival of a disheveled woman at their table. She was in her forties, with wild gray-streaked hair and the intense eyes of someone who had seen things others hadn't. Without saying a word, she placed a folded piece of paper on the table between them.

"Excuse me," Aisha began, "we're in the middle of—"

"Read it," the woman said, her voice surprisingly authoritative despite her appearance. "Not here. Somewhere safe." Her eyes darted around the coffee shop nervously. "They're watching."

Before either of them could respond, she turned and hurried out of the coffee shop, the bell jingling as she disappeared into the street.

Max and Aisha exchanged bewildered looks. Then, moving with synchronized caution, they both leaned forward to look at the folded paper. Max reached for it first, carefully unfolding it to reveal a handwritten message:

*They're not trying to help you escape—they're trying to patch the holes you've found.*