Chapter 332: Misunderstanding
"I'm not selling the Blue Angel formula. And I'm not dissolving Heisenberg. No matter what. Even if I'm the only one left, I'll keep it going."
"I am Heisenberg!" Walter said, his voice shaking with intensity.
Before Frank could respond, the line went dead. The busy tone buzzed in his ear.
Frank stared at his phone, baffled. He couldn't understand why Walter had reacted so strongly—why he'd flat-out refused.
There's an old saying: human desire has no limit.
When you earn ten thousand, you want a hundred thousand.
When you earn a hundred thousand, you want a million.
At the beginning, their goal had been simple—leave their families a little money before they died.
But step by step, things had spiraled into something far bigger.
Frank remembered when they first partnered up. Walter had calculated that a few hundred thousand dollars would be enough to support his family after he was gone.
Now?
They had earned more than ten times that amount.
Their original goal had been achieved long ago.
Heisenberg had always been steered by Frank. Even when he was terminally ill—when death could come at any moment—his mind had been focused on how to maintain and expand the operation.
But now, after Pinkman's departure, stepping outside that mindset for the first time, Frank saw something clearly:
Selling the Blue Angel formula and walking away might truly be the best option.
Once the formula was handed to another organization, they would scale up production massively. Law enforcement would shift their focus to the new players.
Heisenberg would fade into the background.
By the time authorities dismantled whoever picked up Blue Angel, who knew how many years would pass? And even if they tried to trace the source back to Heisenberg—
Frank had planted enough smoke screens and false trails that they'd find nothing.
They could leave the game entirely.
No more looking over their shoulders.
No more prison looming over them.
Clean the money properly, and they could live openly—law-abiding, wealthy men under the sun.
How many people in their world ever got the chance to step off the battlefield with both money and freedom?
Especially Walter.
He had a loving wife, a bright teenage son, and a newborn daughter. A stable, intact family. The only flaw in his life had been money.
Now he had money.
Shouldn't he walk away? Return to being a respected, honorable chemistry teacher?
After all, if you keep walking by the river, eventually your shoes get wet.
If Heisenberg were exposed, Walter wouldn't be the only one who paid. His entire family would suffer.
Frank simply couldn't understand why Walter was so resistant—why his reaction had been so explosive.
---
Meanwhile, after hanging up, Walter stood in his house, still trembling with anger.
A multi-millionaire?
How could that possibly be enough?
Those two thieves—those two men who stole his research, stole his work—were now at the helm of a billion-dollar empire.
And Walter had spent half his life mediocre. Small. Overlooked. Humiliated.
Now, finally, he had reclaimed the fire he once had.
For the first time in decades, he felt alive.
Valuable.
Seen.
There was something Frank and Pinkman didn't know about Walter.
Recently, he had developed a new habit.
Not eavesdropping in the literal sense—
But lingering in the shadows of dim street corners, hidden in alleyways, quietly listening as addicts talked.
Listening as they praised Blue Angel.
Listening as they called everything else garbage.
Listening as they spoke of it with reverence.
Each word was fuel.
Each compliment proof.
Proof that his brilliance mattered.
Proof that he had created something unmatched.
And every time he heard it—
He felt himself burning brighter.
Every time Walter overheard addicts praising Blue Angel, he felt a surge of pleasure—sharp, electric, almost impossible to describe. It thrilled him to his core.
Ever since Skyler became pregnant with their daughter, and especially after he crossed the threshold of fifty, Walter had begun to feel the decline—physically, mentally. His vitality had faded. His drive had dulled.
But now?
Now he felt powerful again. Alive again. Rejuvenated.
Simply put, through Heisenberg's empire, Walter had found something he had been missing his entire life—
Proof of his own worth.
He was no longer the man who entered the drug trade to leave behind money for his family before dying.
Now, he was doing it for himself.
---
"It's because of her!" Walter muttered, gripping his phone as he sat on the couch. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. He grabbed his coat and stormed out.
He arrived at the house Frank and Pinkman had rented—but instead of knocking on their door, he pounded hard on the door next door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"I'm coming! Why are you knocking like that?!" the Jane shouted from inside.
The door opened.
"Who are you, mister?" she frowned at Walter. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't quite place him.
She looked like she had just woken up—eyes half-lidded, sluggish, drained.
Walter's brows tightened immediately. From inside the apartment, he caught a faint but unmistakable scent.
He knew that smell.
"It's because of you," Walter said coldly.
"Because of me? What are you talking about?"
"Pinkman quitting. It's because of you."
"Oh… you must be the one Jesse told me about." Her expression shifted as recognition dawned. She sized him up lazily. "Mr. White, right? He really admires you."
"What exactly did he tell you?" Walter asked.
"He told me everything."
She leaned casually against the doorframe.
"A high school teacher with cancer who turns into a drug kingpin to provide for his family before he dies… becoming the infamous Heisenberg? Honestly, it's kind of inspirational in a twisted way."
She smirked.
"And your brother-in-law works for the DEA? That part is my favorite. If that ever got out, it'd make national headlines."
Walter's pupils shrank.
"He told you everything?"
"Of course. We don't keep secrets from each other."
"So this is how you control him," Walter said through clenched teeth. "Manipulating him. Using your… tricks."
"Hey!" she snapped. "Watch how you talk. We're in love."
"You—" Walter stepped forward, fury rising, as if to force his way inside.
"Don't move!" she shouted, instantly retreating. In one swift motion, she pulled a shotgun from the nearby shoe cabinet and aimed it directly at him.
Walter froze.
Her father was an airline pilot, often away on long flights. She lived alone most of the time. Though the neighborhood was relatively safe, she was still a young woman by herself—and she rented out the neighboring house. On top of that, she worked as a tattoo artist.
For her safety, her father had kept emergency weapons in the house.
And right now—
That shotgun was pointed straight at Walter's chest.