You’ve gotten used to these kinds of meetings: remote, silent, far from any curious ears. You know that when Gus moves a piece like Mike, it’s never by accident. It’s because he’s testing something. Or someone.

Mike waits for you, leaning against the side of the black sedan, arms crossed, wearing the same unshakable expression as always. The wind kicks up a bit of dust between you. He doesn’t speak. Not yet.

"Do you know why I’m here?" he finally asks, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air.

You don’t answer right away. You stare off into the distance, where the sun seems to be melting into the horizon. You know exactly why he’s here. Gus wants answers. The usual ones: Where are Jesse and Walter? What are they planning? What do you know—the one who always knows everything, but never speaks?

You’re the last line. The sealed container. And Gus hates having to bend just to get a word out of you. But this time, it seems, he’s decided to offer something different. Or someone different.

His eyes stay on you, calculating, reading you, dismantling you like a structure he’s inspected too many times. He knows you. Not completely but more than anyone else. And that unsettles him.

“Gus thinks if anyone can make you talk…” he pauses, “Well, he knows it’s not me. But I’m the closest thing he’s got.”

That earns a smile from you. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s true. Gus can’t handle you. Never could. Every word from your mouth comes at a price. And so far, neither Fring nor his damn operation have been able to pay it.