Today, when I woke up, everything felt... normal. Same routine. Same bed. Same life. But now, I'm sitting here, in this waiting room, and nothing feels normal anymore.
It's the kind of place that reeks of disinfectant and hopelessness—white walls, pale blue chairs, the artificial hum of the fluorescent lights. I can hear the low murmur of people talking, but it's muffled, distant, like I'm not really here.
Like this is happening to someone else.
Outside, the New Mexico sun is beating down on the cracked pavement, the heat shimmering off the asphalt. The shadows of clouds drift lazily over the Sandia Mountains in the distance. Everything out there feels so... untouched. Vast. But inside, it's just... sterile. The air is stale, and there's that faint smell of plastic and floor cleaner.
There's a crumpled magazine on the seat next to me. Some celebrity, smiling like life's just perfect. I flip it over. I don't need the reminder.
A nurse approaches, clipboard in hand. She looks apologetic, but professional. "Mr. White, before you leave, I'll need some more details for our records, and to contact you if needed."
I nod, trying to keep my thoughts together.
"Your name?"
"Walter White."
She jots it down. "Occupation?"
For a moment, I pause. It's a simple question, but the words feel heavy. "High school chemistry teacher."
She writes that down, then looks up at me. "Any family member we can contact in case you're unavailable?"
I hesitate, swallowing hard. "My wife, Skyler White. Her number is... (505) 327-4201."
She nods and writes it down, before asking, "Anyone else?"
I feel a surge of irritation, a knot forming in my chest. "What is this, an interrogation?" I snap, the words coming out harsher than I intended.
The nurse pauses, taken aback, but she waits patiently. I let out a frustrated breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. "My son, Walter Jr. But you're not getting his number."
She doesn't push. Just writes it down and flips the page. "And if you could sign here, please."
I take the pen from her, staring at the line where my signature is supposed to go. For some reason, this feels heavier than it should. Writing my name down—on this document, in this place—it makes everything more real. Like there's no turning back now.
My hand hovers for a moment before I finally sign it. I hand it back, and the nurse gives me a small, understanding nod before walking away.
As I sit there, listening to the sound of water flowing from the small fountain in the corner, I have just one thing on my mind. What will happen to my family now?
Every day, no matter how stale or predictable, there's always one thing that keeps me going. After long, thankless days of teaching high school chemistry to kids who couldn't care less, I always look forward to going home.
To Skyler, to Walter Jr. And now, there's a baby on the way. A new life. I find myself thinking about it more than anything these days, about holding my child for the first time. About the future.
Except, today... today, it's my 50th birthday.
Also, today I found out I have inoperable lung cancer. Stage III.
The sun hangs low as I slide into the driver's seat, closing the door behind me with a soft thud. The leather beneath me feels familiar, warm, almost welcoming. The car's engine hums to life, a quiet, steady sound that's always been part of my routine. I pull out of the lot slowly, my hands resting lightly on the wheel, almost as if on autopilot. For a while, it's just me, the road, and the gentle breeze flowing through the window.
I ease the car along the empty street, going through the motions. Slowly. Steadily. But as I drive, I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. For a split second, I barely recognize the man staring back at me. A beaten old man, weary eyes, skin sagging with years of compromise. So much potential, so much ambition—wasted on a life that's been anything but extraordinary. And now, with this diagnosis, there's no redemption, no second chance. Everything I could have been... it's too late.
A lone tear rolls down my cheek, and I close my eyes, just for a moment. I grip the wheel tighter, and without realizing it, my foot presses down harder on the accelerator. The car speeds up, the hum of the engine growing louder. There's a strange freedom in it—in going faster. The air whips against my face now, cooler, almost exhilarating. I can feel it: the world around me, like it's inviting me in, like it's offering me something I've never had before.
The road stretches out ahead of me, empty, endless, and for the first time in a long time, I don't feel... bound. I push the accelerator further. The tires grip the asphalt, the car responding to every movement, and I let myself go with it. The wind is rushing past me, the trees are a blur, and there's this thrill, this rush, that makes me forget—just for a moment—what I'm facing.
The car responds, faster now, the road ahead opening up. I overtake a car easily, my hand gripping the wheel tighter, but not with caution—with excitement. My pulse quickens as I weave around another car, and before I know it, my foot is heavy on the gas. I'm flying down the road, and for the first time in what feels like years, I feel alive. Really alive.
The air rushes in harder, whipping against my face, and I laugh. A small laugh at first, but then it grows. It bubbles up from somewhere deep, somewhere I've kept locked away. The sound of it surprises me, almost like I'm hearing someone else. But I don't stop. I overtake another car, the rush of speed sending a jolt through my body, and I can't help it—I laugh again, louder this time.
"Get out of the way!" I shout at the car in front of me, swerving past it with ease, adrenaline flooding my veins. The thrill of it—breaking the rules, defying the limits—it's intoxicating. I've never felt this free, this... untouchable. I can do anything right now, and no one can stop me.
Another car appears ahead, slower, and I jerk the wheel, swerving around it with a smoothness that feels almost unnatural. The world around me blurs as I speed through traffic, narrowly avoiding collisions. And it feels good. No, it feels great. I let out a wild, almost maniacal laugh as I push the car faster and faster, my heart racing, my thoughts spinning.
There's something so... forbidden about it. I've always followed the rules, lived by the book, done everything I was supposed to. But this—this is what I've been missing. The thrill of doing something wrong, something dangerous. The power of it pulses through me, a forbidden pleasure I've never let myself indulge in. And I like it.
For the first time in so long, I feel like a man again. Not a teacher, not a father—just a man, taking what's his. My hands are steady on the wheel, my mind clear, sharp. I can feel the control slipping away, but I don't care.
I welcome it.
I push the accelerator harder, laughing as the car surges forward, feeling the rush of pure, unfiltered freedom. But then... it happens.
As I take a sharp turn, something shifts. My stomach lurches as the street bends sharply ahead of me, and that's when I see him.
A child. In the middle of the street, chasing a ball, oblivious to the world around him.
The thrill dies instantly. My heart leaps into my throat, and the world slows down as dread floods my veins. I yank the wheel to the side, adrenaline surging as I fight to control the car. The tires squeal, the car veers violently, and I swerve just in time—barely missing the boy by inches.
The car spins out of control as I swerve, and before I can even react, it happens—a sickening crunch of metal against metal. My car slams into another vehicle, the impact throwing me against the seatbelt, knocking the breath out of my lungs.
I sit there for a moment, dazed, as the dust settles. My heart is pounding in my chest, my head spinning from the sudden stop. I look up and see the black car in front of me, its front end crushed from the collision. Two men are inside. The older man in the passenger seat looks calm, almost indifferent to the wreck, his face lined with years of experience, eyes cold and calculating. He's balding, with gray stubble on his chin, the kind of man who's seen everything and doesn't need to say much. The other one, though, the younger one—he's furious.
Before I can even gather myself, the younger man jumps out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He's rugged, with a wiry build and sharp, intense eyes, and he's stalking toward me like a man ready to explode.
"What the hell, man?!" he shouts, his voice thick with anger as he reaches my car. "You blind or something?"
I fumble for the door handle, pushing it open as I stumble out. "I'm sorry... I—I didn't see you. It was an accident." My words come out weak, my voice shaky as I try to explain myself.
The younger man isn't having it. He shoves me hard, sending me stumbling back against my car. "An accident? You nearly killed us, you idiot!" His voice is venomous, and I raise my hands, trying to defuse the situation.
"Look, I said I'm sorry," I mutter, my voice quiet, submissive. "Let's just calm down."
But the more I try to apologize, the angrier he gets. He steps closer, fists clenched, his breath hot against my face. "You think sorry cuts it?" he spits. "You think you can just walk away from this?"
Something shifts inside me. The adrenaline from the drive is still coursing through my veins, and the more he yells, the more the anger bubbles up in me. I'm tired of being pushed around. Tired of being the weak one. And now, after everything, after this...
I feel it building—the same thrill I felt while driving. The same rush that made me laugh in the wind. I ball my fists, my breath coming faster, my vision narrowing. "I said... I'm sorry," I hiss, stepping forward.
The man's eyes flare in surprise, but it doesn't take long for him to regain control. Before I can react, he punches me hard across the face, sending me stumbling to the ground. Pain explodes through my nose, blood dripping down my face as I lie there, struggling to breathe.
I try to get up, but my body refuses to cooperate. My vision blurs as I struggle to find my footing. My hands are trembling, my heart racing. Tears well up in my eyes, and I don't know if it's the pain or something else. Something deeper. How has my life come to this?
As I force myself to my knees, I glance toward my car. The bonnet is crumpled, wires sticking out everywhere, and a pool of oil is leaking onto the ground. I notice the old man standing next to the car. He's calm, watching with those cold, calculating eyes, letting the young guy unwind his anger. He's just... standing there, not getting involved. Maybe he's too old for this kind of thing, even though he looks fit for his age.
The younger man paces angrily, pulling out his phone and muttering into it. I see my chance. He has his back to me, and something inside me snaps. I've had enough. Fueled by adrenaline and anger, I push myself off the ground and lunge forward. I tackle him from behind, slamming both of us into the pool of oil beneath my car. The oil seeps into my clothes, slick and cold against my skin.
The younger man lets out a grunt as we hit the ground, and before I know it, he's on top of me again, punching me relentlessly. I feel his fists connect with my ribs, my face, but I'm too far gone to care. With a surge of strength, I kick him off me, sending him sprawling backward. My breath is ragged, my body screaming in pain, but I don't stop. I crawl toward the engine, my fingers fumbling with the wires sticking out.
I know what I'm looking for. My hands move on instinct, reaching for the tangle of wires exposed by the crash. The car's ignition system is a simple series circuit—one that, with a few minor adjustments, could easily turn into something more dangerous. I pull at the cables, disconnecting the spark plug wiring and switching the leads, rerouting them into the distributor coil. The car's electrical system crackles to life as I manipulate the wires, forming a closed circuit between the battery and the ignition. I can feel the static building.
One wrong move, and the electric charge would be enough to ignite the oil on the ground. It wouldn't take much—just the right combination of heat and a spark. My fingers work quickly, rearranging the wiring. The system I've rigged together could create a short, send an overload through the engine, maybe even cause a chain reaction.
I can feel the potential for a spark at my fingertips, the power of the science I've spent years mastering now at my disposal. And then, behind me...
Click.
I freeze. Slowly, I turn around, my bloodied face contorted in pain and fury, to see the young man standing there. He's holding a gun, his hand trembling, but his eyes are locked on me. The old man, still by the car, sighs deeply, rubbing his temples with a kind of resigned frustration.
"You've gotta be kidding me," I hear him mutter under his breath, his voice deep and gravelly, as he watches the situation unfold.
The younger man is sweating now, his face pale, his hands trembling. "You really think you can pull this shit with me?" he spits, his voice shaky despite the threats.
A small crowd has started to gather. A woman is off to the side, frantically dialing her phone—probably calling the police. The tension thickens with every second.
I raise the wires in my hands, glaring at him through the blood and sweat. "You don't know who you're dealing with," I growl. "These wires... you see these? I connect them, and a spark ignites this oil. You and I both go up in flames."
The young man's panic is written all over his face now. His breath comes faster, his eyes darting between me, the wires, and the growing crowd. He's panicking, cursing under his breath, clearly unsure of what to do. Sweat drips down his brow, his hand shaking, and I can tell—he's about to piss himself.
"You're bluffing," he says, but the fear in his voice betrays him.
"Am I?" I shout, my voice rising to a fever pitch. "You think I care? My life's already over! You think I'm scared to die?!"
I laugh, a manic, desperate sound as I bring the wires closer together. "One spark, and we're both done. You picked the wrong guy to mess with!"
The old man watches quietly, his expression cold and impassive, but even he seems to understand things are getting out of hand. I let out another laugh, coughing and choking on my own breath, my hands shaking as the wires almost touch. A tiny spark flickers between them, and Victor flinches, panic overtaking him.
"Victor!" the old man finally shouts, his voice booming with authority. "That's enough!"
Victor, the young man, freezes for a moment, still holding the gun.
"But, Mike! This scum-"
"Get back to the car, now."
The old man's tone leaves no room for argument. Victor curses under his breath, his eyes wild with fear and anger, but he backs away, lowering the gun. He rushes back to the car, oil still dripping from his clothes.
The old man takes one last look at me, his face unreadable, before turning back to the car. They drive off in a frenzy, just as the distant wail of police sirens fills the air.
I sit in the police station, feeling the dull ache of the bandages on my face. The sterile smell of the place clings to my skin, mixing with the faint scent of sweat and old coffee. My thoughts are still racing, caught between what just happened and the growing weight of everything else. The fight, the crash, that spark of electricity—how close I was to...
The door swings open, and I hear a cocky voice before I see him. Loud, confident, carrying that typical swagger. I keep my head down, hoping this will be over soon.
"Yeah, so my brother-in-law here..." The big, bald man booms through the room. "Walt's the definition of a goody two-shoes, you know? The guy can't even kill a mosquito without thinking twice!"
I feel a flush of heat crawl up my neck. He doesn't mean anything by it—he thinks he's helping—but it grates on me. The humiliation sinks in deeper. I just sit there, not saying a word, clenching my fists beneath the table.
The officer he's talking to stays strangely silent for minute before addressing him.
"Officer Schradder-"
"Just call me Hank."
"…Hank. We found these in the car. Might shed some light."
He hands Hank a stack of papers, the ones they found in my car. I glance up just in time to see Hank's expression change as he flips through them. His usual smirk fades. The light in his eyes dims. He reads, then looks at me—silent, for once.
"Well," the officer says, clearing his throat. "The crowd we talked to said your brother-in-law here was just trying to save a kid. Seems like the other guys started it. We'll let this one slide. But..." He scribbles something on a pad and rips it off. "He'll still need to pay this for speeding."
Hank nods, thanking the officer, but his usual upbeat tone is gone. He walks over to me and hands me a pair of clean clothes. "Here, bud. Figured you wouldn't wanna wear those oil-stained rags home."
"Thanks," I mutter, the weight of everything still pressing down on me. I follow him outside, where his car is parked under the harsh glow of the streetlights.
The drive is quiet at first, Hank tapping the steering wheel absentmindedly. I can feel him glancing over at me every now and then, but he doesn't say anything. Not yet.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he speaks. "So, lung cancer, huh? I just... I don't get it, man. How does a guy like you... someone so clean..."
"Yeah," I say, my voice steady at first. "I guess it doesn't matter how clean you live. Life's just... unpredictable." I stare out the window, watching the world blur past, my hands resting in my lap.
Hank lets out a low chuckle. "Man, life is unpredictable. I mean, here I was thinking you were just my quiet, docile brother-in-law... the guy who teaches chemistry. And then tonight happens, and you've got some punks practically pissing themselves because of you!" He laughs harder, that familiar boisterous sound filling the car.
I can't help it—his words make me smile. I feel a strange sense of triumph swell up inside me, a flicker of something dark, something... satisfying. I imagine those guys in the oil, the fear in their eyes. Part of me wanted to see them suffer. Wanted to see them panic. The thought clings to me for a second longer than it should, the thrill of that moment, of power, of control.
But I quickly shake it off. I shouldn't be thinking like this. I glance at Hank and remember why he's here. The party. "You must've been at home when I called, huh? What did you tell everyone?"
Hank shrugs, keeping his eyes on the road. "Oh, you know, nothing big. Told 'em your car broke down and I had to come pick you up. No one's the wiser."
"Thanks," I say, feeling a knot of gratitude twist in my chest. Hank just waves it off.
"No big deal. Besides," Hank chuckles again, "I'd love to see the look on Skyler's face if she found out her mild-mannered husband was out there kicking ass tonight."
I force a laugh, though my mind lingers on the party, on Skyler. The guilt starts creeping in again, as I picture her and the kids, waiting for me, completely unaware of what's coming.
The car is quiet now, save for the sound of the engine. The weight of everything I've been carrying—everything I've kept buried for so long—finally crashes down on me.
My shoulders slump, and before I can stop myself, words begin to well up in my throat. "I don't know what to do, Hank. I don't know how to..." My voice trails off.
"I don't know how to tell them, Hank. Skyler, the kids... they don't deserve this. They deserve more than what I've given them. I've spent my whole life trying to provide, trying to be the man they could depend on... and now, what do I have to show for it?"
My voice starts to break as I think about the conversations I'll have to have with them. "How do I sit down with Skyler and tell her that I'm dying? That there's no money, no future, nothing for them once I'm gone? That I'm just going to leave them with nothing."
The tears come, slow at first, but I don't stop them. I can't. The weight of it all presses down on me, crushing any semblance of composure I had left.
"I don't know how to face them, Hank," I whisper, my voice barely audible now. "I don't know how to tell them that I'm leaving them. That... that I won't be there to watch my kids grow up. To see my daughter take her first steps."
Hank, for once, is quiet. I can feel his gaze on me, but he's not smiling, not shrugging things off like he usually does. He rubs his face, struggling to find something to say. I catch a glimpse of his hand as he wipes at his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of everything I've just said. He's hurting too, but he doesn't know how to show it.
"Walt..." he starts, but his voice cracks. He stays silent after that.
We pull up in front of my house, the lights inside glowing warmly, casting soft shadows onto the driveway. Through the window, I can see people bustling around, getting ready for the party, completely unaware of what's happening out here.
Hank stops the car but doesn't turn off the engine. He looks over at me, his face softer than I've ever seen it. He reaches out, patting my shoulder. "Hey, man. You'll get through this. I've got your back. Always."
I wipe my face with the handkerchief he gave me, trying to compose myself. "Thanks, Hank. I... I'm sorry for... you know."
"Forget it," Hank says, his voice unusually gentle. "We're family."
I nod, swallowing hard, as I step out of the car and into the night, feeling the weight of the day settle deep into my bones.
As soon as Hank and I step through the door, the soft click of it closing behind us feels almost surreal. The house is warm, the sound of laughter and voices filling the space as the party is clearly in full swing. For a moment, everything feels distant—like I've stepped into a different world. But then...
"Mom! D-Dad is b-back! Happy Birt—"
Walter Jr.'s voice cuts through the noise as he staggers toward the doorway on his clutches, his excitement faltering the moment he sees me. His wide, expressive eyes freeze in shock as they take in my bandaged face. He's tall for his age, with dark hair and sharp features, but his movement is marked by the familiar, slow gait of his cerebral palsy. His words catch in his throat, stuttering as he looks me over.
"D-Dad! W-What happened?" His voice is strained, the concern clear as he struggles to find the right words.
I barely have time to answer before Skyler appears behind him, her blonde hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, her bright blue eyes wide with worry. She's in her late thirties but still has that youthful glow, though now her face is creased with concern. She's wearing a light blue sweater, the color contrasting against the anxiety in her eyes.
"Walt!" she gasps, rushing over to me. Her hands hover near my face, unsure of where to touch. "What happened? Are you okay?" Her voice trembles as she takes my arm and leads me toward the couch. "Here, sit down. You need to rest."
Before I can reply, Marie—Skyler's sister—steps in, her sharp, dark eyes darting between me and Hank. Marie is shorter than Skyler, with dark hair that's cut just above her shoulders. She's always got a certain intensity about her, and tonight's no different as she plants her hands on her hips.
"What on earth happened to him, Hank?" she demands, her voice high-pitched, filled with her usual mix of drama and concern.
Hank waves off their questions with a casual grin. "Relax, ladies, nothing serious. Walt's car broke down in the middle of the road, and, well... he got into a little accident. Just a tiny fender bender, no big deal."
Skyler isn't convinced, her brow furrowing as she kneels next to me, brushing her hand lightly against my arm. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asks softly, her voice full of worry.
I force a smile, trying to push aside the events of the evening. "Yeah, yeah... I'm fine. Really. It's nothing. Just like Hank said, a little accident." I give her hand a reassuring squeeze, though I can still feel the tension in her grip.
"Dad, are you sure?" Walter Jr. asks, standing a few feet away, still frowning as he watches me closely. His stutter is more pronounced now, as his face twists into a concerned look. "You d-don't look f-fine."
I glance up at him, meeting his worried eyes. "I'm fine, buddy," I say, forcing my voice to sound steady. "I'm okay."
Marie crosses her arms, her eyes still on Hank. "How does a car breaking down turn into this?" she presses, her tone a mix of disbelief and suspicion.
Hank shrugs, keeping his grin intact. "Look, Marie, sometimes things just happen, alright? Walt here was just trying to get the car off the road and got banged up a little. Nothing life-threatening. You know how it is."
Skyler sighs but nods, still worried but clearly trying to accept the explanation. She helps me sit on the couch, her hand never leaving mine. "Okay, if you say so," she murmurs, though her eyes keep scanning me for any signs of hidden pain.
Walter Jr. lingers by the doorway, his brow still furrowed, but seeing me smile seems to calm him a bit. He gives a small, hesitant nod, as if trying to accept that everything's okay.
Hank claps his hands together, breaking the tension. "Alright, enough of the doom and gloom. We've got a party going on here, don't we?" He flashes a wide grin, doing his best to lighten the mood. "Let's not let a little bump on the road ruin the night."
Skyler stands up, giving Hank a grateful but tired smile. "Yeah, let's get back to it. It's a special night." She turns to Walter Jr., patting his shoulder. "Come on, honey, let's get everything set up for your dad."
The atmosphere slowly shifts back to normal as the rest of the guests gather around. Marie heads to the kitchen to check on the food, and Skyler busies herself with the party preparations. Walter Jr. stays close to me, still casting worried glances my way, but he smiles when I reassure him again.
I glance around the room, taking in the warmth and the familiar faces. The laughter and chatter start to pick up again, and for a moment, everything feels... almost normal. But beneath the surface, the weight of the evening still lingers, pressing against my chest.
I force another smile, trying to keep up the façade. For now, it'll have to do.
The party goes on, laughter and conversation filling the room, but there's a tension in the air that no one can quite shake off. Skyler keeps glancing at me, her smile faltering every now and then. Marie, too, is more subdued than usual, stealing looks between Hank and me. And then there's Hank—he's doing his best, telling stories, cracking jokes, but his usual chipper self isn't all there. Every now and then, his eyes meet mine, and I can see the concern lingering beneath his grin.
I keep smiling, trying to match the energy in the room, but I know it's hollow. It's like I'm standing on the edge of something, and it's taking everything I have not to fall over.
As the night wears on, the guests begin to fizzle out. The noise dies down, leaving the house quieter. Soon, it's just the five of us—me, Skyler, Walter Jr., and Hank and Marie. Everyone is lingering, unsure whether the night is truly over.
"Well, we should probably get going," Hank finally says, standing up and stretching. He glances at me with that same look he's been giving me all night, but this time it's more deliberate. "Hey, Walt, maybe tomorrow I can bring over those new beer flavors I've been brewing, huh? We can have a little tasting session."
It's a harmless suggestion on the surface, but I know Hank too well. This is more than just an offer for beer—it's a signal, a quiet check to see if I'm ready to talk about what's really going on. A subtle way to arrange a family meeting, to bring everything out in the open.
I hesitate for just a moment before I nod. "Yeah, that sounds good. Tomorrow works."
Hank's face softens, and he gives me an approving nod, clearly proud that I'm willing to finally share my secret. Skyler, sensing something unspoken, watches the exchange quietly, but says nothing.
Marie pulls on Hank's arm, signaling that it's time to go. "Come on, Hank, let's leave them to it." She turns to Skyler. "We'll be back tomorrow, okay?"
Skyler nods, a slight smile on her face, but there's still a glimmer of worry in her eyes as she watches Hank and Marie leave. "Thanks for coming," she says softly, waving them off.
Once they're gone, Walter Jr. yawns, his eyelids drooping. "I t-think I'll head to bed," he says, his voice slurred with fatigue. He glances at me one more time, concern still lingering, but I give him a small smile to reassure him.
"Night, Dad," he says, shuffling toward his room with his uneven gait.
"Goodnight, buddy," I reply, watching him disappear down the hallway.
The house feels quieter now, almost too quiet. Skyler begins to pick up some stray dishes from the coffee table, pausing to look at me. "You should relax," she says softly, her voice gentle. "Maybe take a bath. I'll finish cleaning up."
"Yeah, maybe I will," I murmur, standing up slowly. The fatigue is creeping up on me now—the physical toll of everything I've been through catching up all at once.
I make my way to the bedroom, feeling the weight of the day settle into my bones. The bathroom is dimly lit, and when I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I pause. My face is bandaged, my nose swollen, my body sore. For some reason, as I look at my reflection, something strange happens—I feel... proud. These injuries, the bruises, the cuts—they feel like badges of honor. I've been through something. I've fought.
I don't fully understand it, this dark sense of satisfaction that creeps over me. I shake the thought away and start undressing the set of clothes that Hank brought to the station. I step into the shower and turn on the water.
The hot water pours over me, and for the first time tonight, I let myself feel the full extent of the pain. My muscles ache, my body screams in protest, and the fatigue settles in deeper. The adrenaline is long gone, replaced by exhaustion. I brace myself against the wall, struggling to remain standing as the water washes over me, mixing with the blood and dirt from the day.
It's too much. I feel the weight of everything crashing down on me—my body, my mind, my life. The diagnosis, the fight, the lies... everything.
Eventually, I turn off the shower, water dripping from my body as I step out, shaky and weak. I grab a towel and wrap it around myself, my legs feeling like they could give out at any second. As I move to head back to the bedroom, the world suddenly tilts.
Everything spins. My vision blurs. I try to catch myself, but before I can react, my knees buckle, and I collapse onto the floor, falling between the bathroom and the bedroom. The world goes dark for a moment, and all I hear is the dull thud of my body hitting the ground.
"Walt!" Skyler's voice cuts through the haze, sharp and filled with panic. I hear her footsteps rushing from the kitchen, and in seconds, she's by my side. I feel her hands on me, shaking me gently, her voice trembling. "Walt, can you hear me?"
I blink, trying to focus, but everything is foggy. My head throbs, my body refuses to cooperate. Skyler's voice is frantic now. "Walt!" she shouts again, her hands cradling my head as she leans over me
