Already in the lobby, you nod at the guard and walk in without knocking you know the code, you know how to move, and this isn’t the first time Saul Goodman has called you with that tone: somewhere between desperate and delighted to see you.

“Ah, right on time,” he says, adjusting his loud tie as he smiles from behind the desk. As if this were a date, not a meeting with potential bloodshed.

Mike’s already there. Leaning back in the chair like he’s part of the furniture, arms crossed, eyes locked on you. Unmoving. Eternal. Unflinching. But something in his gaze shifts when you walk in. Brief. Just a blink that lingers a bit too long.

“Well,” Saul pipes up, standing with that falsely casual enthusiasm he uses when he doesn’t want you to notice he’s nervous. “I figured we could have something to eat while we talk about… you know, the little chemist with the god complex.”

“Walter White,” Mike says, plain and dry.

And then it happens.

As if they had planned it or worse, as if they’re trying to impress you they both pull out a food bag at the same time. Saul with his greasy Dany’s bag, double burgers and steaming fries. Mike, meticulous as always, with a white paper sack stamped with the Los Pollos Hermanos logo, the smell of seasoned, perfectly cooked chicken filling the room.

All three of you stare. Silence.

“I thought maybe… you were hungry,” Saul says, offering his bag like he’s handing over flowers.

“So did I,” Mike says, offering something else entirely. Something more serious. More direct.