She's striding down the hall, clipped but cold and composed. Mike nods as she approaches but she barely glances. Since business really took off, and Walt really settled into his role as king of the southwest, things haven't been the same. Mike used to feel like he and Jessie were on the same team, united by their manipulation of and by Walt. Now they're just – what, coworkers?

Jessie breezes past and makes a beeline for Walt's desk but jerks to a stop, upright, staring hard into his face. She's not acting like usual. Mike focuses. Something's different. Jessie's usually lazy, casual, carefree or resentful.

Walt is acting different too. He's not giving off waves of blanketing authority, but glaring up at her with the murderous look that rears its ugly face when he is really and vilely enraged. They both know something explosive, Mike can tell. He tenses, mentally visualizing the places on his body where his guns are stored.

But Walt just glares and waits, ready to pounce, but waiting for Jessie to fall into her own trap like she always does.

"I gave it all away."

"You gave away an entire batch?" Walt snarls, eyes bulging. He's about to launch into one of his ranting lectures, but –

"I quit. I gave the shit to Geraldo to distribute. I'm out." Jessie's voice is flat. Short.

But Mike watches Walt. He doesn't dare hope Jessie's actually going to follow through with this. The conversations they had, about getting out, about getting back to real lives… they seem so distant now. Like different lives altogether.

Even Walt falters, if only for a second. "You can't just quit, there's-"

"I'm out." That's the second time she's cut him off. Mike tenses even more and reaches halfway for the glock on his hip, hoping he can block both of them from harm if needs be.

Then before he believes it, Jessie's pulling a tarnished handgun from the pocket of her ratty red hoodie. Mike whips his own out and aims for her head – "Jessie," he starts -

But this infuriating girl, the one that once spit egg on his jacket she was laughing so hard, who sang N*sync songs in his goddamn car, this girl that got under his skin more than he ever wanted, she ignores his warning.

The weapon dangling loosely at her side, she takes a step forward, leans over the desk, and closes in on Walt, never breaking his gaze. Slowly, she lifts the gun and sets it down between them with a clunk. She spins it a fraction of a turn, its handle now facing her boss. Walt hasn't moved an inch, glaring but watching.

"Shoot me, then," she says softly.

Mike freezes, gun still aimed. Even he knows this is too much of a gamble with Walt. Jessie can yell at him, disobey him, but no one overrules him.

But it looks like Jessie knows Walt better than he does. In a curt move, she turns away from him and marches out the door without a glance at Mike, his trigger arm still held awkwardly aloft. He hears an engine roar within moments, then tires squealing, giving lie to some of her composure in the office.

Walt contemplates the gun in his hand, its metal too dark and old to reflect any light from his fine mahogany office. He doesn't say anything. She just got away with it, Mike thinks.