Chapter 333: Impulse
Walter was furious—seething.
He hadn't expected Pinkman to reveal everything. His secret. The life he had built in the shadows. The identity he had guarded so carefully.
And yet—
At the sight of the shotgun's dark barrel aimed squarely at him, his rage evaporated. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead as clarity returned.
"Get out," the Jane said, steadying the shotgun.
Walter backed away slowly, step by step, until he was outside.
She kept the weapon trained on him.
"What happens between me and Jesse is our business," she said coldly. "Jesse isn't your pawn. He's not your puppet. He's a free man. He decides what he wants to do."
"He's already done everything he owed you. He doesn't owe you anything anymore."
"As for your secrets—we won't say a word. When Jesse comes back, we're leaving. We're leaving this country."
With that, she slammed the door shut.
---
Walter stood outside, jaw tight, fists clenched. His expression shifted rapidly—anger, humiliation, calculation, all flashing across his face.
After a long moment, he turned and walked away.
"Fuck!"
Halfway down the street, he exploded. He kicked a trash can as hard as he could.
"Fuck! Fuck!"
The pain hit immediately.
He staggered back, clutching his foot, his face contorting. Cold sweat broke out again.
There must have been something heavy inside—metal, stone—because instead of denting the can, he'd smashed his toes against something solid.
After a while, the sharpest pain dulled enough for him to stand.
But the moment he tried to take a step—
"Hiss!" He sucked in air as a fresh stab of agony shot through his foot.
---
Later, at home, Skyler knelt in front of him, carefully wrapping and securing his injured toe.
"How do you even walk like this?" she muttered. "You're fifty years old, Walter. You should know better."
Walter said nothing.
But his eyes were dark.
Walter's kick had cracked one of his toes. The fracture wasn't severe, but it would need time and rest.
"I was in a hurry. Didn't watch where I was going," he muttered, offering a casual excuse.
From the baby monitor came the sharp cry of his infant daughter.
"Waaah—"
Skyler immediately got up and went to the nursery.
The moment she left the bedroom, the faint smile on Walter's face vanished. His expression darkened, hardening into something cold and brooding.
---
That night, long after the house had gone quiet, the baby monitor crackled again with crying.
Newborns are like that. They don't understand the world. They can't speak. When they're uncomfortable, hungry, dirty, or simply unsettled, crying is their only language.
The first year—or two—is the most exhausting period for parents. Just as you fall asleep, the crying starts again. Sleep becomes fragmented. Over time, people age faster from the strain.
They say women "age quickly" after childbirth. It's not the childbirth itself.
Monica had six kids and was still running wild.
It's the sleepless nights. The endless cycle of feeding, cleaning, soothing. The hormonal chaos. The body changes. The exhaustion. The isolation. That's what breaks people down.
Postpartum depression often grows from that relentless pressure.
Walter's home was no different. The baby's cries had become a nightly ritual.
Skyler stirred again when the crying started.
"It's okay. I'll get her," Walter said gently, pulling her back down and patting her shoulder.
He wasn't sleeping anyway.
His mind was racing.
He walked into the nursery and lifted his daughter carefully from the crib.
"Hey there… Daddy's good girl," he whispered.
The tiny body in his arms felt impossibly fragile. His movements were tender, his aging face softening into a rare, genuine warmth.
"Want to see something?" he murmured.
He walked to a drawer, pulled it open, and showed her stacks of cash inside.
"See this? Daddy earned all of this for you. And that's just a small part of it. Daddy has a lot more. Enough to make sure you'll always live well."
He gently patted her back.
"That's right. I'll earn even more. No one is going to take that away from us. No one."
He glanced toward the window. His reflection stared back at him—cold, sharp, with a flicker of something dangerous behind the eyes.
---
After settling the baby back to sleep, he looked in on Skyler and Walter Jr., both resting peacefully.
Then he went into the living room.
Under the dim light, he sat down on the couch and reached behind a cabinet, retrieving a revolver.
Frank had once advised him to buy it for protection. The family didn't know he had it.
Walter had fired it before, out in the desert. His aim was poor—but he knew how to use it.
He opened the cylinder and began loading bullets one by one.
Click.
Click.
Click.
When the gun was full, he slipped it into his coat and left the house.
---
He parked near the Jane's home.
"Breathe," he muttered to himself.
He took the revolver out and walked toward the front door. Each step made his breathing heavier.
At the door, he raised the gun, aimed at it. His thumb pulled back the hammer. His finger rested on the trigger.
With his other hand, he lifted his fist to knock—
But he froze.
His knuckles hovered inches from the wood. Seconds stretched. His gun hand began to tremble.
Suddenly—
He turned and ran.
He didn't stop until he reached the main road, collapsing onto a set of stone steps, gasping for air like he'd just run a marathon.
"Fuck… fuck!!"
He cursed under his breath, his thoughts tearing at each other.
Then, in frustration, he hurled the revolver away.
He forgot one thing.
The hammer was already cocked.
The gun hit the pavement—
BANG!
The shot shattered the silence of the night.
Walter jumped in shock.
Lights flicked on in nearby houses. Dogs started barking wildly.
"Woof! Woof! Woof!"
The quiet neighborhood erupted into noise.