Chapter 329 – Walking Away
The matter of Ivan and the Arc Reactor blueprint gradually faded into the background. Frank forced himself not to dwell on it, pretending none of it had ever happened.
Lip sulked for a few days—slammed doors, kept to himself, radiated silent resentment—but eventually things returned to normal. He went back to being himself.
A few days later, Gretchen called.
"Thank you. I believe you," Frank said quietly before hanging up.
Gretchen had never forgotten her promise to help him find a suitable liver. She'd been working on it constantly—but without success. Worse, her efforts had grown conspicuous enough to raise suspicion from her husband, Elliott Schwartz.
Now she had been reassigned overseas to oversee operations in another country. Though Gray Matter was co-founded by both of them, Elliott was the dominant decision-maker. Gretchen had no real power to refuse a "reasonable" corporate transfer.
She had called to apologize.
More than a month had passed without results, and now she wasn't even in the United States anymore.
Still, over the phone, Gretchen repeatedly told him to hold on—that she would find a matching liver for him no matter what.
Frank didn't know whether to feel grateful… or resigned.
Frank felt a flicker of disappointment, but over the phone he ended up comforting Gretchen instead.
If there were a way to live, who would willingly choose death? Unless living was worse than dying.
Still, Frank hadn't placed all his hopes on Gretchen. He had been searching on his own as well—spending serious money on the street to find a compatible liver.
People had shown up with "merchandise."
None of it matched.
He had clearly specified the required blood type and compatibility criteria, yet most of them were just trying to pass off whatever they could get their hands on, hoping to slip something through and collect the payout.
More than a month had passed. No match.
The truth was, everything was happening too fast. If he had six months—better yet, a year—he could probably find a suitable liver.
But since arriving in this world, only half a year had passed.
If he had discovered the cirrhosis right after transmigrating—if he had begun searching immediately—maybe things would be different.
When he first woke up in this body, he had been in a hospital bed. But that had been because "Frank" had gotten blackout drunk and smashed his head on stone steps. The hospital had treated him out of basic humanitarian obligation. No hospital was going to run a full-body exam for free. They'd go bankrupt.
And back then, the family could barely afford food. A medical checkup was out of the question.
In the end, it was all "Frank's" fault anyway. Who drinks for forty years straight?
Worrying wouldn't grow him a new liver. All he could do now was leave it to fate—do his best, and let heaven decide.
Truth be told, even if he never found a liver, Frank did have another way to cling to life.
But he would rather die than use it.
---
"Pinkman should be back soon…"
Frank checked the date. It was nearly time for the next shipment. Pinkman should be arriving in Chicago.
In the past, deliveries were handled by Frank, with Pinkman tagging along.
This time, Frank couldn't travel. Walter hadn't left New Mexico. Everything had fallen on Pinkman alone—his first time managing it by himself.
Frank was worried he'd mess it up.
He was even more worried about his safety.
And most of all—he was worried because Pinkman might have relapsed.
Frank called him.
The phone was off.
Anxiety tightened in his chest.
Only in the afternoon did Pinkman finally show up at the house.
"Nothing happened to you, right?" Frank asked immediately.
"I'm fine. The deal's done. The money's in my car," Pinkman said, but his eyes flickered away.
"As long as you're safe." Frank let out a breath.
He had Pinkman sit down and briefly filled him in on Nando and the overseas expansion plan.
After Pinkman had a general idea of the situation, Frank pulled out his phone to call Walter. The three of them needed a meeting—at least over the phone—to discuss what came next.
"Dad… I—I don't want to do this anymore."
Pinkman clenched his teeth and spoke just as Frank was dialing.
Frank froze.
"What did you say?"
"I'm quitting. I want out. Give me my share of the money."
"Why?" Frank's voice was steady. "There has to be a reason."
"It's too dangerous. If we get caught, it's life in prison. I… I want to be a good person. We're planning to leave New Mexico. Maybe even leave the country."
"We?" Frank caught the word instantly.
"I mean—I mean me. Just me. Anyway, I'm done."
Before Pinkman could say more, Frank suddenly grabbed his arm and yanked up his sleeve.
"What are you doing?!" Pinkman jerked back.
Too late.
Frank had already seen what he needed to see.
Fresh needle marks.
Disappointment clouded his face.
"You relapsed."
"It was just once! Just a slip! Like smoking one cigarette while quitting. That's not a relapse," Pinkman rushed to explain, pulling his sleeve down.
Cigarettes and hard drugs were not the same.
With drugs, there was no "just once."
There was either zero—or there were countless times.
Once you touched it, quitting wasn't just a matter of willpower.
"It's because of Jane, isn't it?" Frank said quietly. "You started again because of her."
Pinkman had been clean for years. He had quit without even suffering severe withdrawal symptoms. His mental state back then had been solid.
Unless something drastic happened, he likely would never have touched that stuff again.
And yet, in less than a month apart, he had relapsed.
The only force strong enough to cause that kind of shift so quickly—
Love.
When two people fall hard for each other, they can do anything.
Frank remembered Pinkman once talking about the landlord's daughter—a tattoo artist who loved painting. She had been an addict too, but she had supposedly been clean for nearly two years.
Frank hadn't thought much of it at the time. Pinkman had quit successfully too. The girl had a stable background. No traumatic upbringing.
It should have been fine.
But reality rarely cared about what "should" be.
And now, here they were.