Chapter 14: Point of No Return
Jesse's house had the manic energy of a man who'd made an irreversible decision and wanted to feel good about it.
He was moving when I walked in—pacing the living room, hands gesturing as he talked, eyes bright with something that might have been excitement or might have been fear wearing excitement's mask. The place was cleaner than I'd ever seen it, as if preparing for the future required a fresh start.
"Yo, Pete! You gotta hear this." Jesse grabbed my shoulder and steered me toward the couch. "Mr. White figured out some shit that's gonna change everything."
"Yeah?" I sat down, keeping my expression curious. Neutral. The expression of someone who didn't already know where this conversation was heading.
"The chemistry, man. The chemistry." Jesse dropped into the chair across from me. "I've been cooking for years, right? I thought I knew what I was doing. But Mr. White—he showed me the molecular structure, the reactions, the precise temperatures. It's like... I was making mud pies and he's making actual art."
"So you're doing it. The partnership."
"Hell yeah, I'm doing it." Jesse's grin was wide and genuine. "He's got an RV all set up. Mobile lab, yo. We cook in the desert where nobody's watching, and the product is gonna be so pure that dealers will pay premium. We're talking real money, Pete. Life-changing money."
I nodded slowly. In my mind, I saw the RV in the desert. Saw Emilio recognizing Walter from the DEA ride-along. Saw the phosphine gas filling the vehicle, two men dying, Krazy-8's body dragged to a basement where he'd wait for the man who would eventually strangle him with a bike lock.
"Sounds like he's got it figured out."
"He does! He really does." Jesse leaned forward, elbows on knees. "I know you were worried before. That stuff about teachers flipping or whatever. But you don't understand—Mr. White isn't some random guy having a midlife crisis. He's like, the smartest person I've ever met. And he needs me. My connections, my distribution network. We're partners."
Partners until he doesn't need you anymore, I thought. Partners until your girlfriend dies while he watches. Partners until he poisons a child to manipulate you. Partners until you're cooking meth in a cage while neo-Nazis auction your blue crystals to international buyers.
But I said none of that. Instead, I asked: "When's the first cook?"
"This week. Maybe tomorrow." Jesse's excitement was almost painful to witness. "We've got everything lined up. Precursors, equipment, a buyer already interested. This is it, man. This is the moment."
I tried one more time. Kept my voice casual, friendly concern rather than dire warning.
"Teachers who cook meth," I said. "That's a guy who'll panic when things get real. I'm not saying don't do it—I'm saying be careful. People change when shit hits the fan."
Jesse waved it off. "Mr. White's not gonna panic. You should see him in the lab—total control. Like a surgeon or something." He paused, then added: "Besides, it's not like I'm gonna stop now. We've already invested too much."
Sunk cost fallacy, NZT supplied unhelpfully. The tendency to continue a behavior because of previously invested resources rather than future value.
But this wasn't about logic. This was about Jesse needing to believe in something. Needing someone to see his potential after years of everyone telling him he was worthless. Walter White was giving him that, and no amount of rational argument could compete with validation.
"Okay," I said. "Just... be careful."
"Always am, bro."
He wasn't. He never had been. But some lessons couldn't be taught—only lived through.
We ordered pizza and played video games until 2 AM.
Jesse was terrible at first-person shooters but devastatingly good at racing games, which made no sense given that he drove like a maniac in real life. I'd improved since the disaster of my first GTA session—muscle memory building through repetition, NZT helping with reaction times—but I still couldn't match his raw talent behind a virtual wheel.
"Left turn, left turn—no, the other left—" Jesse groaned as my car sailed off a cliff. "How are you this bad?"
"The controller's different from a keyboard."
"Bro, there is no keyboard. This isn't a PC game."
"That's what I'm saying. It's different."
He laughed—the genuine sound, not the nervous energy from earlier. For one night, we were just two friends wasting time together. No meth empire. No dying chemistry teachers. No impending catastrophe.
I knew it wouldn't last. Knew that within days, Jesse would watch people die. Knew that the person sitting across from me—earnest, hopeful, desperate for approval—would start transforming into someone harder. Someone who'd eventually point a gun at a man's face and pull the trigger because Walter White asked him to.
But tonight, we had pizza and video games and the comfortable silence of people who didn't need to fill every moment with words.
I made it count.
The walk home took me through streets that felt familiar now. Five weeks since waking up in a stranger's body, and Albuquerque had become mine. I knew the rhythms—which corners were hot, which weren't, where deals happened and where cops watched. The city had accepted me the way cities accept anyone willing to learn their rules.
Above, the desert sky blazed with stars. No light pollution out here, not like Manhattan where you were lucky to see the moon. The Milky Way stretched overhead, a river of light that had existed before humans and would exist long after.
Somewhere out there, Walter White was making final preparations. Checking equipment. Reviewing chemistry. Convincing himself that this was the right choice, the only choice, the choice that would provide for his family.
He was wrong. He was building an empire on corpses and suffering, and everyone who got close to him would pay the price. Jesse most of all.
But I couldn't stop it. Couldn't warn Jesse in terms he'd believe. Couldn't reveal what I knew without destroying everything I'd built.
All I could do was survive. Get the money. Transform into someone new. Be ready to catch Jesse when the empire finally collapsed.
$7,400 in the storage locker. $7,600 to go.
Two weeks, maybe three. Then I'd be in Tijuana, becoming Marcus Webb or whoever I chose to be. Someone without Pete's face, without Pete's history, without the connections that could trace me back to Walter White's orbit.
The motel was quiet when I arrived. I counted my cash again—a habit now, the physical reassurance that progress was real. Then I lay down on the thin mattress and stared at the water-stained ceiling.
Tomorrow, Jesse would cook meth in a desert RV. Tomorrow, the first dominos would fall.
And I would keep building, keep accumulating, keep preparing for a future that only I could see.
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