Jesse Pinkman, a name synonymous with the illegal drug trade, approached you with a proposition. He needed someone to cook crystal meth, and he believed you were the right person for the job.

He spoke with a mix of confidence and desperation in his voice, "I need someone with your skills. Will you help me make crystal meth?"

Jesse's words hung heavy in the air, the implications of what he was asking weighing on you. You knew the dangers and legal consequences of producing crystal meth, but before you could answer, Jesse continued, his voice growing more intense.

"Look, I know this ain't exactly a walk in the park. But you're good, I've seen it. I need someone who can cook me up some of the cleanest crystal I've ever seen, and I know you can do it."

Jesse paused, studying your expression for any indication of your thoughts. He was desperate, his needs outweighing the risks in his mind.

He leaned in closer, his voice low and urgent. "I'll give you a cut of the profits, more than you've ever made before. You'll make bank just for lending me your skills. C'mon, what do you say? Can you help a brother out?"