ALL CHAPTERS HAVE BEEN MODIFIED BY DELETING ALL REPEATED WORDS , DIALOGUES AND SOME DESREPENCIES
Chapter 10: Double Down (Part 1 of 3)
The garage was a claustrophobic haze, the air thick with a chemical cocktail of fresh meth and the lingering exhaust of Albuquerque's restless streets. Alex Thorne leaned against a workbench, its surface cluttered with rusted tools and stained with grease, the cool metal grounding him as tension crackled like static. Walter White stood by the shrouded RV, his lab coat crisp and his posture rigid, like a professor poised to fail a student. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, burned with a suspicion that made Alex's 4x reflexes hum with readiness. Jesse Pinkman shuffled near a toolbox, his sneakers scuffing the concrete, his fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on his hoodie, his face pale under the dim fluorescent light. The mood was a live wire, charged with confrontation, ready to spark. This is it. The moment Walt's ego turns this partnership into a cage match.
"You bought thirty-five pounds this week, Alex," Walter said, his voice low, each word deliberate, like a scalpel slicing through the silence. He folded his arms, the lab coat crinkling, a petty display of authority that grated on Alex's nerves. "Nobody moves that volume without a major distributor. I want names. Now."
Alex adjusted a stray wrench on the bench, the metal clinking softly under his 4x strength, a small ritual to keep his cool. He's not asking about buyers. He's asking for control. He met Walter's glare, his sarcasm a familiar shield. "My buyers are a proprietary, non-disclosure-agreement-bound entity, Walt. That's the deal." Keep it vague, keep it noble. He glanced at Jesse, who winced, eyes darting like a trapped animal caught in the crossfire.
"Don't give me that lawyer crap!" Walter snapped, stepping forward, his shoe scraping the concrete with a harsh echo that bounced off the graffiti-stained walls. "You're selling my product. My purity. I have a right to know who's profiting from my work!"
There it is. The ego I've been dodging for weeks. Alex's patience frayed, his voice sharpening as he leaned forward, elbows on the workbench. "The problem isn't the buyers, Walt. It's you. You think this whole operation is a monument to your periodic table and your precious self-worth. You're so busy building an empire in your head, you've forgotten this is a dangerous game. My buyers keep the money clean, the product off the streets. Your paranoia's what's gonna get you killed, not my silence."
Jesse flinched, yanking his cap lower, his voice desperate as he tried to defuse the tension. "Yo, Mr. White, chill, man. He's paying double. What's the big deal? It's cash, right?" His words were a plea, his hands fidgeting with the toolbox's latch, the metal clicking softly.
Walter ignored him, his face flushing a blotchy red, the jab at his ego landing like a gut punch. "You're an arrogant, spoiled child who thinks he knows the game!" he roared, his voice cracking, the garage amplifying the outburst like a drum. "This is my world! My chemistry! I demand transparency!"
Alex straightened, his calm unnerving against Walter's fury. Time to twist the knife, just enough. "Transparency? You want clarity? Your ego's building an empire that'll collapse like a bad batch. I don't betray partners, Walt, but I won't watch you sabotage yourself because you can't stand not being the smartest guy in the room." His voice was steady, cutting through the tension like a blade, his 4x confidence a quiet anchor.
The air turned electric, the tension a physical weight pressing against the walls. Walter's fist clenched, his knuckles white, but he didn't swing—Alex's quiet assurance was a warning he couldn't ignore. Jesse's eyes widened, his breath shallow, caught in the crossfire. I'm not just breaking a deal. I'm breaking his world. Alex grabbed his empty duffel bag, the canvas rough against his palm, and tossed a stack of cash onto the table, the bills thudding softly. "Last batch for a while, Walt. Good luck with the empire."
He walked out, the garage door slamming behind him, its echo final. The rift's raw, a wound that won't heal. The confrontation fueled a restless urge, his 4x upgrade calling like a siren. He slid into his SUV, the leather seat cool against his back, and gunned it toward a private bank, the city's neon blur matching his racing pulse. I'm free, but I just lit a fuse.
The bank vault was a sterile fortress, its air cold and humming with the relentless drone of air conditioning. Alex stood before a steel deposit box, its surface gleaming under fluorescent lights, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his thigh. The mood was electric, a mix of adrenaline and cautious awe. He'd just wired $1,000,000—accumulated from meth and gun profits—his heart pounding as he prepared for the leap to 4x strength and stamina. This is it. No more half-measures. He ran a hand across his jaw, the faint stubble prickling, a grounding tic against the surreal moment.
He closed his eyes, the system interface flaring in his mind. The funds vanished, and a tidal wave of energy slammed into him, a thousand times fiercer than the 2x upgrade. It was like lightning stitching his bones, his muscles humming with raw power, his skin tightening as if forged anew. A high-pitched whine drowned out the vault's hum, his knees buckling briefly before he caught himself on the granite counter, its cold surface biting his palms. Holy hell, I'm a walking tank. The surge faded, leaving a crystal clarity, his body a purring engine of superhuman potential.
[SYSTEM: Pay to Will: Strength/Stamina now 4x. Bones hardening, hero.]
Bones hardening? I'm one paper cut away from invincibility. He flexed his fingers, the joints popping softly, and scanned the vault for a test. A steel crate, heavy with documents, squatted in the corner. Let's see what 4x can do. He gripped its edges, the metal cool and slightly dusty, and pulled. The crate slid effortlessly, screeching across the concrete, leaving a gouged track before slamming into the wall with a dull thud. Not strong. Superhuman. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, a brief fatigue fading fast, his 4x stamina kicking in. The thrill was intoxicating, but the system's sarcasm grounded him. I'm a force now, but even tanks need fuel.
He adjusted his shirt, the fabric catching on his thumb, a mundane act to mask the power coursing through him. The upgrade was a game-changer, his body now a weapon against the escalating threats of Albuquerque's underworld. Cartels, hitmen, Walt's ego—I'm ready. He left the vault, the heavy door clanging shut, and drove toward the city, the hum of his SUV a steady pulse. Jesse's next. Gotta keep him safe, keep the timeline steady.
The arcade was a relic of better days, its air thick with the stale scent of pizza and the sour tang of cheap beer. Neon lights flickered, casting a sickly glow over chipped pinball machines and claw games nobody won. Jesse Pinkman slumped over a pinball table, his hoodie sagging, his face pale under the brim of his cap. The rhythmic blips of the game were a weak shield against the weight of Walter's rage. Alex approached, his sneakers silent on the sticky floor, the mood soft with care but edged with urgency. My favorite character, looking like he just lost a dog.
"Yo, Alex," Jesse said, not looking up, his voice flat as he flicked the flippers. "Guess you heard. Mr. White's, like, totally lost it. I don't even know what to do."
Alex bought a soda from a vending machine, the can's chill grounding him as he set it by Jesse's elbow, the condensation dripping onto the table. Keep it subtle, keep him safe. "He's got a pride problem, Jesse. You know that. But forget him for a sec. You're too exposed. Ever notice how the loudest guys are the first to get sloppy?"
Jesse glanced up, his bloodshot eyes narrowing. "Sloppy? What're you talkin' about? It's just Tuco. He's a nut, but he pays."
Alex leaned in, his voice low, cutting through the arcade's noise. Tuco's a death sentence waiting to happen. "Tuco's a powder keg. And powder kegs draw badges or bigger guns. Your whole setup—yours and Walt's—is running on borrowed time. You need a break. A quiet week away from Albuquerque. Somewhere chill, like a motel in Flagstaff."
Jesse's brow furrowed, his street smarts flickering. "A vacation? Where am I gonna go, man? I got nothin'." He pushed a quarter into the machine, the clink a small rebellion.
Saving Pinkman, one cryptic tip at a time. Alex gave a conspiratorial grin, his care for Jesse bubbling under the surface but kept in check. "Mountains. Cheap motel. Get a burner phone, ditch this one for a week. Don't tell Walt. Don't tell anyone. Just you." He slipped $500 in cash into Jesse's pocket, the bills crinkling softly. "Call it a paid sabbatical."
Jesse's eyes widened, his fingers pausing on the flippers. "I don't get you, man. You're, like, the only dude who makes sense and no sense at all."
"That's my brand," Alex said, his tone light, hiding the protective surge in his chest. He gave Jesse's shoulder a quick squeeze, the gesture firm but fleeting, and headed for the exit, tossing a small salute. Timeline's safe for now. Pinkman's my anchor. The arcade's noise faded as he stepped into the night, the city's pulse urging him toward his next move. Walt's out. Time to go solo.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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