Chapter 351: Sneaking Away
"Ian's been sticking to you a lot lately," Frank said, changing the subject as he looked at Castle. "Do you think he's fit to be a soldier?"
"His physical training is excellent," Castle replied.
"So… he's not suited for it?" Frank caught the implication immediately.
"I don't know," Castle said.
"You don't know?" Frank froawned.
That answer didn't make sense. Castle was a veteran—an elite, former special forces instructor. If anyone could judge whether someone was suited for military life, it should be him.
"Completing military training perfectly and becoming a soldier are two different things," Castle said calmly. "A soldier has to kill. Whether someone is truly suited… you only find out after they've taken a life."
It was rare for Castle to say so much at once. Usually, he spoke in the fewest words possible—if he could avoid talking, he would.
Frank understood what he meant.
And just like that, the conversation ended.
The two of them continued their chess game in silence.
But Frank's mind was clearly elsewhere. His attention drifted, and before long, he lost the match.
"Master, can you teach me some knife techniques again…?" Carl's voice suddenly rang out as he came home and spotted Castle, his eyes lighting up.
It wasn't just Ian who clung to Castle—Carl did too.
Carl had a streak of violence in him—no one quite knew where it came from. And Castle's cold, efficient demeanor fascinated him. He admired it.
At some point, maybe because he got tired of Carl pestering him—or maybe because Carl reminded him of the son he had lost—Castle had casually taught him a few things.
Since then, Carl had started calling him "Master" every chance he got.
Just as Frank was watching Castle deal with Carl's relentless enthusiasm—
Ring, ring, ring—
His phone suddenly rang.
"!!"
He picked it up casually and glanced at the caller ID.
The moment he saw who it was, his expression changed.
Frank didn't answer the call right away. He went upstairs, returned to his room, and only then picked up.
"So you've finally decided to contact me," Frank said. "Does this mean you're ready to hand over the Blue Angel formula?"
Whatever was said on the other end remained unknown. The conversation lasted only a few minutes before the call ended.
When Frank came out of his room, his expression was dark, his brows tightly furrowed.
For the rest of the night, he seemed distracted—lost in thought, occasionally showing hesitation, as if wrestling with a difficult decision.
---
Early the next morning, Frank woke up before anyone else. He stepped outside and knocked on the window of the car parked nearby.
"What is it?" Castle lowered the window.
"You don't need to watch Jimmy anymore," Frank said. "For the next few days, you're coming with me."
"Understood." Castle nodded, not asking a single question.
Frank paid him to do a job. Whatever the job was, he would do it.
"Where to?" Castle asked as Frank got into the car.
"The airport."
Without another word, Castle pressed the accelerator and drove off.
---
By the time the kids realized Frank was missing, he and Castle had already bought tickets and boarded a plane.
"Where's Dad?" the house erupted in concern.
Frank was in late-stage liver cirrhosis—critically ill, his life hanging by a thread. The kids had been making sure someone was always with him, afraid something might happen at any moment.
And yet, without warning, he had disappeared.
They called him.
His phone was off.
It was obvious—Frank didn't want to be found.
He knew that if he told them he was leaving town, they would never agree. Even if he insisted, they would force someone to accompany him.
But what he needed to do… wasn't something they could be allowed to know.
So he slipped away quietly, taking Castle with him.
"Don't worry," Ian said. "Castle's gone too. He must be with Dad. As long as Castle's with him, nothing will happen."
That realization calmed them a little.
Over time, they had come to understand Castle—steady, disciplined, meticulous. If anyone could ensure Frank's safety, it was him.
Still, this wasn't over.
When Frank came back, he'd have to answer for this.
Frank himself knew exactly how they would react.
But some things had to be done—no matter the cost, even if his body was already failing.
---
"Wake up."
Sometime later, on the plane, Frank—who had fallen asleep after taking medication—was gently shaken awake by Castle.
"…Are we there?" Frank removed his eye mask.
"We are."
They got off the plane and rented a car.
The moment they landed, Frank made a call using an unregistered, untraceable phone.
"I'm back."
---
It didn't take long for Frank and Walter to meet.
This meeting felt… different.
The last time they parted, it had been like a final farewell—two brothers entrusting everything to each other.
Now?
There was distance. Silence. Something unspoken hanging between them.
"What happened to Pinkman?" Frank asked. Walter hadn't explained much over the phone.
"He got dumped," Walter said, glancing briefly at Castle standing behind Frank like a bodyguard. "And she took all his money."
He didn't elaborate.
He didn't mention anything he had done.
Instead, he presented a carefully constructed version of events: Pinkman and the landlord's daughter had been using together. While Pinkman was unconscious, she took all his money and disappeared.
A classic story—cheated by a toxic woman, left with nothing.
But Frank wasn't convinced.
Something about it didn't add up.
"Take me to him," Frank said, holding back his doubts.
---
When they arrived at the apartment, the place was a disaster.
Trash everywhere.
Cigarette butts covering the floor.
Empty pizza boxes piled up.
Cockroaches crawling freely.
The air thick with a nauseating mix of smells.
On the bed lay Pinkman—emaciated, hollow-eyed, completely out of it. A syringe rested nearby.
"Fuck…" Frank muttered under his breath.
His mood darkened instantly.
And deep inside, there was also a flicker of something else—
A twisted sense of vindication.
That emotion didn't come from him.
It came from the original "Frank."
Even now, despite the terminal illness, Frank was still resisting that personality's influence.
The original Frank was petty, vengeful—and obsessively possessive about money.
Once money entered his pocket, it was his.
No matter whose it had been before.
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