Chapter 315: Something's Wrong with Pinkman
"I'm sorry… his liver isn't compatible." Fiona said softly, disappointment written all over her face.
The tests on the unlucky donor had come back with bad news.
Not only was the donor's liver incompatible with Frank's—his blood type didn't even match at the most basic level.
"As expected," Frank said calmly, without surprise.
Johnny's so-called operation had been a scam from the very beginning. There was no way they had actually searched for a donor based on Frank's medical records.
They had simply grabbed the first desperate, penniless undocumented immigrant who took the bait. Whoever bit was suddenly labeled a "compatible donor."
Frank had anticipated this outcome long ago.
From the start, he'd never truly believed it—at best, he'd remained skeptical. He'd only agreed to go along with it to put Sammi's mind at ease, preparing multiple safeguards just in case.
Checking the donor's compatibility had been nothing more than a long shot.
If it worked, great.
If not, that was fate.
Clearly, the universe hadn't sided with him. There were no miracles waiting this time.
Since the donor's liver wasn't a match, the man's situation no longer had anything to do with Frank. Frank stopped paying attention to him altogether.
After staying in the hospital a few more days, Frank was discharged once again and returned home.
Following this ordeal, Sammi finally settled down.
Not just Sammi—Fiona, Karen, and the others had also grown much quieter.
In truth, they had all been secretly scrambling for ways to save Frank, making moves behind his back. Frank had seen it all. That was why he'd agreed to Sammi's proposal in the first place—to make them pause, if only briefly.
After this incident, the kids no longer dared to act recklessly. Getting scammed was one thing—losing money didn't matter. But getting cheated and losing an organ? That was unacceptable.
Days passed.
Frank didn't touch a drop of alcohol, took his medication on time, and his condition stayed more or less the same—constant fatigue, night sweats, poor appetite—but no drastic deterioration.
According to the doctors, he shouldn't have lasted more than a few weeks.
Yet those weeks came and went.
By all logic, Frank should've been knocking on death's door by now—but he was still alive. The kids thought a miracle had occurred and rushed him back to the hospital for another checkup.
The diagnosis didn't change.
Critical condition. Terminal. Could pass away at any time.
Frank living longer than predicted wasn't unusual.
Plenty of patients with cancer or terminal illnesses outlived their prognosis—told they had a year, then surviving two or three more. For families, it felt like a miracle. For doctors, it was uncommon—but not unheard of.
Even so, without a functioning liver, a transplant would only buy time. Nothing more.
One day, Frank received a call from Walter.
Not on a regular phone—but a burner. Business-related.
"Pink's been acting strange lately," Walter said.
"What kind of strange?" Frank asked. Pinkman's codename was "Pink."
"I think he might be using again."
"Is that just a feeling, or did you actually see it?" Frank asked.
"I don't have hard proof," Walter admitted. "But he's been spaced out—just like before. He ruined a batch, produced defective product, almost caused an explosion."
"And when I went to his place… there was a chemical smell in the air."
Frank's brow tightened.
Walter hadn't caught Pinkman in the act, but if he was calling, it meant the suspicion was serious.
Still—only a month had passed. How could things fall apart this quickly?
Pinkman relapsing made no sense. Something had to be behind it.
"I understand," Frank said after a pause. "I can't come over right now. Keep an eye on him for me. For now… it has to be you."
In their current situation, Walter really was the only one left who could hold things together.
After that, Frank and Walter talked a bit more about other matters—this month's supply shipments, and the progress on the factory.
"Who are you talking to?"
As they spoke, Skyler's voice could faintly be heard on Walter's end of the line.
"Ah—no, it's not—" Walter immediately panicked.
"It's fine, don't freak out," Frank said calmly. "Just tell her it's a confidential business phone for company negotiations, that you're working."
Whether Walter would manage to bluff his way past Skyler or not, Frank had no way of knowing. He hung up the call.
But the moment he thought about Pinkman again, Frank couldn't help frowning deeply.
After a moment's hesitation, Frank dialed Pinkman's number.
"..."
Busy signal. No answer.
Frank called three or four times in a row before Pinkman finally picked up.
"Heeey… who's this?"
Pinkman's voice sounded like he had just woken up—groggy, unfocused. It was obvious he hadn't even checked the caller ID.
"It's me," Frank said, glancing at the time. It was a little past three in the afternoon.
That timing was… suspicious.
Even if someone stayed up late, they'd usually wake up naturally around eleven or noon at the latest. Sleeping until this hour didn't make sense.
If it were an afternoon nap, two o'clock would already be pushing it—three was excessive.
As for sleeping early for a night shift? Pinkman definitely didn't work night shifts.
Yet here he was, still half-asleep at three in the afternoon, only answering after multiple calls. Something was clearly off.
"Who… who are you?" Pinkman still didn't sound fully awake.
"You really don't know who I am? Look at the time—get up already," Frank snapped.
"Frank!"
Pinkman jolted, instantly sobering up.
"What's going on? Why are you still sleeping at this hour?" Frank asked.
"Uh—things have been busy lately," Pinkman said hurriedly. "Production's been ramping up, shipments are getting bigger. I stayed up all night working, so I slept in a bit."
"But don't worry—I've already finished the batch. The product's ready to be loaded anytime."
"Stayed up all night?" Frank replied coolly.
"Or was it because you screwed up, nearly caused an explosion, ruined a batch, and had to redo everything?"
"Fuck—was that Mr. White? He actually snitched on me?!" Pinkman shouted into the phone.
"He's worried about you," Frank said evenly. "So am I."