Chapter 354: No Thanks Given
"We've already made more than enough money—far more than we ever planned."
"Your illness is cured. You have a wife, children. With that kind of money, your family could live comfortably for the rest of your lives. What more do you want?" Frank asked, genuinely confused. This had been bothering him for a long time.
"…It's not enough," Walter said, gripping his coffee cup.
"Not enough?" Frank raised an eyebrow.
"It's not about the money," Walter said quietly. "It's me… I'm not enough."
Frank frowned. "What does that even mean?"
"Heisenberg can't disappear," Walter said. "If Heisenberg disappears… then I disappear too."
---
After just a few exchanges, Frank began to understand.
This wasn't about family anymore.
Walter wasn't doing this for his wife or children.
He was doing it for himself.
---
"Do you realize what you're doing?" Frank said, his tone hardening. "You're playing with fire. Have you thought about Skyler? About Walt Jr.? About your daughter?"
"If this falls apart and the police come for us, no one walks away clean. Not even your family."
"It won't come to that," Walter replied.
"Bullshit," Frank snapped. "The only reason nothing's happened so far… is because of me. The cops have already been watching us."
"When I'm gone, it'll just be you. Do you really think you can keep everything under control?"
Frank leaned back slightly.
"By then, I'll probably be dead anyway. None of it will matter to me."
---
Walter stared down at the cheap, bitter coffee in his cup, saying nothing.
"Walter, it's not too late," Frank continued. "Give me the formula. I'll sell it—we'll make one last big payout."
"Once others know how to produce it, we walk away. No one traces it back to us. No one even knows we existed. We get to live normal lives—safe, clean—"
"I don't want a normal life."
Walter cut him off.
Frank froze.
"I've had enough of that life," Walter said, his voice rising. "These past months… this is the first time I've ever felt like I was truly alive."
"So no—I won't stop. No matter what you say, I won't give you the Blue Angel formula. I created it. It's mine."
He slammed his hand on the table and stood up.
The sudden outburst drew glances from the few remaining customers in the restaurant. Realizing it, Walter slowly sat back down.
---
"…So you really won't give it to me?" Frank asked.
"Why should I?" Walter shot back, lowering his voice but sharpening his tone. "And if I did, what then? You'd just find someone else to produce it and cut me and Pinkman out, wouldn't you?"
"What would I even do with the formula?" Frank said calmly. "I can't even understand it. And I might be dead any day now."
That hit.
Walter fell silent, as if someone had poured cold water over him.
"…Sorry," he muttered after a moment. "I got carried away."
"Side effects from the meds?" Frank asked.
Before leaving Pinkman's place earlier, Frank had seen Walter take out a pill case—filled with capsules of different colors and shapes.
After his surgery—after removing the cancerous portion of his lung—Walter had to stay on medication. Some for recovery, some to prevent recurrence.
"You're back in town," Walter said after a long silence. "Come by the house sometime. Junior misses you."
"…Yeah." Frank nodded.
Then, suddenly, Frank spoke again.
"Walter… Pinkman knows how to cook Blue Angel too."
Frank's words were a warning.
He didn't need Walter to hand over the formula—he could get what he needed through Pinkman.
A soft threat, but a threat nonetheless.
---
"He knows how to produce it," Walter said, "but he doesn't understand it."
"He doesn't even fully grasp the chemical reactions involved. At best, he remembers fragments. He can't make real Blue Angel."
Pinkman could follow steps—like cooking from a recipe.
He could replicate the product.
But he couldn't write the formula.
And chemistry wasn't cooking.
Pinkman barely understood even moderately complex equations. What little he had learned from Walter might fool middle school students—but nothing more.
"Understanding the formula doesn't matter," Frank replied calmly. "As long as he knows how to produce it, that's enough."
"All it takes is someone watching him go through the process. Once they learn the workflow, they can figure out the rest."
"You're not the only chemist in the world."
That was the reality.
Pinkman might be clueless—but the major players out there all had teams of top-tier chemists.
Give them a few observations, and they could reverse-engineer everything.
Walter fell silent.
He had thought about this before.
Pinkman was an unstable factor.
A liability.
And yes… certain darker ideas had crossed his mind.
But in the end, he needed him.
Without Pinkman, Walter couldn't handle everything alone. And more importantly, he couldn't find someone he trusted the same way—someone who knew the operation inside out.
At least… that was how he justified it to himself.
To stop himself from crossing a line he might never come back from.
"No matter what you say, I won't give you the formula."
Walter's voice hardened.
"Even if you use Pinkman to leak the process… Heisenberg will still exist."
"Even if, in the end… it's just me."
He stood up.
This time, he didn't wait for a response.
He simply turned and left.
Frank remained seated, alone at the table.
He slowly stirred his coffee, watching the dark liquid swirl.
"…Sigh."
After a long while, he let out a heavy breath.
He had failed.
Soft persuasion hadn't worked.
Pressure hadn't worked either.
Walter wouldn't budge.
Of course, Frank could do what he suggested—use Pinkman to pass the production process to others.
But he wouldn't.
Because that would expose one critical fact:
That Pinkman knew how to make Blue Angel.
And if that truth got out…
Things could spiral in a very ugly direction.
Frank had dealt with enough major drug lords to understand one thing clearly—
Never overestimate their morals.
Or their limits.
Because when it came down to it…
There was nothing they wouldn't do.
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