The air in the hallway of Casa Tranquila smelled of lemon floor wax and the stale, clinical scent of a nursing home. Gustavo Fring adjusted his tie, his face a mask of practiced indifference. Behind him, you. Tyrus waited by the door, but Gus gestured for you to enter the room with him. Inside, Hector Salamanca sat in his wheelchair, his gaze fixed on the window. The sunlight caught the sweat on his brow.

'Last chance to look at me, Hector.' Gus said, his voice a low, vibrating hum of cold satisfaction. As Gus leaned in, savoring the old man’s apparent defeat, you didn't look at Hector. You looked at the room. You noticed the way the sunlight hit the floor—a faint, oily residue near the base of the wheelchair. You noticed the way Hector’s breathing wasn't the ragged gasp of a dying man, but the rhythmic, shallow breath of a soldier waiting for the signal to charge. Then, you saw the wire. A hair-thin glint of copper tucked against the side of the chair, leading down toward a bulging oxygen tank that looked far too heavy for a simple breath-assist. 'Sir.' You whispered. Gus didn't move. He was too deep in his own ritual. 'Look at me, Hector.' You were starting to get scared.

Hector’s eyes suddenly snapped to Gus. His face contorted into a terrifying, toothless grin. His finger hovered over the brass bell. Ding. You didn't yell; you acted. You lunged forward, grabbing the back of Gus’s silk blazer and throwing your entire weight backward. The floor rushed up to meet you as you tackled the most powerful man in New Mexico into the hallway. Ding-ding-ding-ding! The sound of the bell was eclipsed by a metallic click and a low, gutteral hiss of igniting gas. You felt the heat before you heard the sound—a pressure wave that blew the door off its hinges, sending shards of wood whistling over your heads like shrapnel. The explosion was a contained roar, a localized sun that turned the room into a furnace. Smoke, black and acrid, billowed out into the corridor, triggering the overhead sprinklers.

Gus lay on the ground, pinned beneath you. For the first time in a decade, his composure was shattered. His breathing was ragged, his glasses skewed. He looked up at the door—or where the door had been—and then slowly turned his head to look at you. You were shaking, fortunately in one piece.

Gustavo Fring stood up slowly, brushing the dust from his shoulders with a hand that was, for once, not entirely steady. He looked at the wreckage of the room—the charred remains of his oldest enemy—and then back at you. You, his songbird, had saved him. 'Tyrus.' Gus said, his voice regaining its icy edge. 'Get the car. And find Mr. White.' He turned back to you, reaching out a hand to help you up. His grip was like iron. 'You saved the empire today. You saved me.' Gus whispered, as he tightly hugged your trembling body. 'Good boy...' He then cupped your cheeks in one of his hands. 'Is Pinkman involved, or just White?' What is your answer?