#glitchinthesystem

She arrived one day twitchy, shoulders hunched beneath a weight too heavy for twelve. Her eyes scanned the room, not looking for anyone, but broadcasting something wild and unfiltered.

I watched her,

Quiet and cautious, muttering to her surroundings But I saw the beacon

where they saw the flaw..and tried to shape her

with scratches and bite marks ADHD, they’d say

"she cant stay, or be tamed" but only I saw the strange grace of someone not quite synced with the world around her.

She left, and I was struck by the thought: her download was never complete, running a different kind of code, at odds with the programs all around her. No wonder she ran she was a puzzle piece forced into the wrong box.

I saw her that day, but I was too young to know what to do, how to help. Maybe seeing is what matters the first language of care but I still wonder if she felt it, if the moment landed. If she did, I think I’d know her still.

Some systems are built to contain when they should be wild, to smooth out the rough edges instead of letting someone explore the far borders of the map.

If there’s a crime here, it is not in the glitch but in the hands that tried to overwrite her wild syntax with their own order.

I hope, wherever she is, her code is running free.

The Place Without Noise — I

Source: (unverified narrative instance)

Status: Not Indexed / Draft Continuity

Integrity classification: provisional.

Linked File: INCIDENT 01 (Sanitized Record)

_____________________________________________________

The keyboard was too loud.

Hikari didn’t need to look up to know he was striking the keys too hard. Every press of the Enter key carried a small act of defiance.

“You type like the system needs to be afraid of you.”

He grinned without looking at her.

“Maybe it should be.”

The Data Integrity Lab hummed quietly. Cooling fans. Server vibration. Distant footsteps in the corridor. Two monitors in front of her, one in front of him — archive data on the left, live validation on the right, a comparison window between them.

It was supposed to be harmless.

Academic.

Unpolitical.

Historical archive reconciliation against verified live datasets.

“Do you see that?”

He turned his screen.

One event entry.

Two timestamps.

13:42:11

13:42:13

“Sync lag,” she said automatically.

“No.” His voice stayed calm. “The hash values aren’t identical.”

She leaned in.

Minimal deviation. Third block. Almost invisible.

“But not the same.”

“That’s probably consolidation.”

She hated that word.

Consolidation.

It sounded like smoothing. Like order.

Like something making a decision.

He looked at her.

“That’s not a typo. That’s a different version.”

He clicked deeper into the archive tree.

An earlier version showed one additional reference.

A person.

That reference did not exist in the live system.

“Maybe it was temporary,” she said.

“Or,” he replied quietly, “the system decided which version survives.”

“That’s its function.”

“No. Its function is verification. Not selection.”

She didn’t answer.

He clicked: Create Local Snapshot.

“Levin.”

“Offline. Just to compare.”

“That won’t sync.”

“Exactly.”

The progress bar moved.

No warning.

No alert.

No system message.

Only silence.

_____________________________________________________[SYSTEM LOG — EXTRACT]

19:58:23 — University Node

Unsynchronized identity copy detected.

Hash conflict registered.

Reference mismatch in verification origin.

Divergence level: escalating.

Forwarded to: ORIGIN_NODE.AUTHORITY_LAYER.

_____________________________________________________

The next day he was there.

He brought coffee. Complained about the machine again. Said it tasted like reheated regret.

She told him to stop being dramatic.

He laughed.

That evening, at 01:17 a.m., he sent her another meme.

Nothing suggested divergence.

_____________________________________________________ [SYSTEM LOG — ORIGIN NODE EXTRACT]

02:13:42 University Node — Divergence Flag

Snapshot outside synchronization.

Hash conflict confirmed.

Verification origin mismatch.

Priority level elevated.

Forwarding initiated.

Synchronization layer acknowledged.

Analysis started.

02:13:58

Risk metric calculated.

Parameters:

– Unsynchronized identity copy

– Academic network (exposure multiplier)

– Potential reproducibility

Assessment:

Reality divergence escalation probable.

Escalation to: ORIGIN_NODE.AUTHORITY_LAYER

02:14:09

Root identity certificate verified.

02:14:11

Recommendation generated: ENTITY INVALIDATION.

02:14:12

Level-4 authorization received.

Authorizing entity: ██████████

Credential hash: ██████████

IDENTITY_STATUS = INVALID

ROOT_CERTIFICATE = REVOKED

External Event Alignment initiated.

Administratively consistent incident recorded.

Classification: non-suspicious.

Propagation initiated.

Reference chains recalculated.

Dependent systems synchronized.

02:14:13

Global coherence index: stable.

_____________________________________________________

The following day, Levin did not come.

Every night, at exactly 3:17 AM, I hear the front door unlock.

It’s always the same sequence: a soft click, a hesitant creak, and the faint sound of heels on hardwood. Then the smell—faint lavender and cigarette smoke, her scent. My wife’s scent.

The problem is, my wife, Eliza, died two years ago in a car crash. Closed casket. I never saw her body.

It started a month ago. I thought I was dreaming the first time I heard it. I sat up in bed, heart pounding, listening to footsteps making their way down the hallway. Then silence. Nothing in the morning. Just a locked door and an empty house.

But the next night, and the next, it kept happening.

So I did what any grieving, half-insane man would do—I started waiting.

At 3:10 AM, I’d sit on the couch, lights off, phone recording, watching the door. On the sixth night, the lock clicked. I froze. The door opened a crack, just a sliver. Then closed again. No one entered.

When I checked the recording, the time jumped. One frame showed the clock at 3:16:58. The next—3:18:01. A full minute gone. Glitched out. Nothing in between. Just static.

I called the cops. They found no signs of forced entry, no prints but mine. They suggested I might be sleepwalking or—worse—imagining it all. I didn’t tell them about the missing time. Or the lavender. Or that I started waking up with bruises shaped like fingertips on my arms.

I finally told my friend Mason. He brought over a thermal camera. We stayed up together. Nothing happened. 3:17 came and went. No sounds. No door. Just silence.

He left around 4, apologizing, saying I needed rest.

That morning, there were wet footprints on the kitchen tile. Bare feet. Size 6. Eliza's size.

I stopped inviting people over after that.

The bruises worsened. I’d wake up gasping, fingernail scratches across my chest. I tried leaving the house at night, staying at hotels. Still, 3:17 AM—door creak, footsteps, the scent. Even miles away. She followed.

I finally broke down and visited her grave last week. I found her headstone knocked over, deep scratches gouged into the marble. Not like vandalism. More like… claw marks. I paid a groundskeeper to help me lift the stone, and as we did, something weird happened—my phone buzzed with a text.

From Eliza.

It just said: “Why did you leave the door open?”

I threw up. Right there in the cemetery.

I went home and bolted every door and window. I even slept in the basement, no windows, no exterior doors. I thought I was safe.

That night, I woke up at 3:17 AM.

She was standing at the foot of the bed. Not a ghost, not translucent or floating. She looked exactly like she used to—except her skin was gray. Damp. Her eyes sunken. Mouth twitching like she was trying to smile but forgot how.

I couldn’t move. Sleep paralysis. She leaned down, close to my face, and whispered:

“I hate that you cremated me.”

The basement door upstairs slammed.

She was gone.

Since then, things have escalated.

Photos of us are shredded in the morning. Her wedding dress, which I boxed up in the attic, appeared folded neatly on my bed—damp and reeking of earth.

She’s not haunting the house. She’s haunting me.

Last night, I asked her—out loud—what she wanted.

At 3:17 AM, she answered:

“Finish what you started.”

I don't know what she means.

But I keep remembering something from her autopsy report. I asked the coroner, drunkenly, months after her death, whether she suffered. He paused, then said:

“Well… she had scratch marks on the inside of the coffin lid. Deep ones. We think she wasn’t dead when they buried her.”

I never told anyone that. Not even Mason.

Tonight, I’m digging up her grave.

Because I need to know one thing:

Is my wife still in there?

If she is—I’ll finally let her rest.

If she isn’t…

Hello. My name is @amazingmbg-ambg (abbreviated to AMBG), and between me and @cacowhistle, we run this blog. We wanted to put together a comprehensive post covering what this blog is and how we will be using it.

This blog was made by cacowhistle to record anything important relating to the ARG around The Boss, The Boss Is Nothing, and Glitch In The System, a seriese of Jacksepticeye fangames created by Sarcastic Pasta Games. We will document everything, from the what goes on on the discord, to the names of videos on the YouTube channel, and even as far as hidden lore of the universe these games take place in. We will be keeping you up to date with new findings from the server and elsewhere.

Because of the sheer volume of information provided by the developers as part of this ARG, we have put together a comprehensive tagging system to make it easier for not just you, but for us as well to keep up with what is going on in this community.

We will start with the main tags. We will always tag our posts with the standard stuff like #SPGArchives , #TheBoss , #GlitchInTheSystem , #TheBossIsNothing , #SarcasticPastaGames , and #Jacksepticeye just because that is what this whole ARG is based on.

We will then go into detail on where the information came from. This could be #Discord , #SPGTumblr , #AskBillyTumblr , #Youtube , #GameFiles , #InGameDialogue or wherever new we get information from as we get it.

We will then go into even more detail about the type of concealement method used to hide the information if it was concealed in the first place. We will use tags like #Codes and #Audio , or whatever other form the information is concealed within. For the posts tagged #Codes , we will also give a tag with the type of code that was used to decrypt it, #ASCII85 for example.

This is where you guys then come in. If any of you have learnt anything new or want to share the groups findings, you can tag us into a post where you go over your findings, or message either of us on Discord with what you have found out and how you did so if necessary.

We hope this will allow you to work out your way around this Tumblr especially in these early days while we are uploading all of what we have learned so far in this journey. Thanks for reading and we hope you have fun working these out as a community.

@sarcastic-pasta-games

@ask-possepticeye