The small office was cramped, cluttered, filled with the smell of paper, cheap air freshener and something else, something typical for a place where people come with problems and leave with even bigger ones. You sat in a worn out armchair, slightly sunken in, holding a stack of old magazines that Saul Goodman had handed to you. They were all almost the same, colorful covers, smiling women, stories that had nothing to do with the reality you lived in.

You were waiting.

For him.

Mike was not a man who rushed, nor one who explained his time. You knew he would come back when he decided it was necessary, and that there would be no unnecessary words. Saul kept glancing at you from time to time, as if trying to understand something he could not quite put together in his head. To him, Mike was cold, rough, unapproachable, a man for dirty work, someone you did not argue with.

And yet you sat there calmly, patiently, flipping through a magazine as if it were an ordinary day.

And in a way it was.

Because despite what Mike was like, you were happy with him. Quietly, without grand gestures, without words that others would consider necessary. It was something simpler and more difficult at the same time. Something Saul did not understand, even if he tried. And maybe that was why he kept looking your way with slight confusion, as if you were a puzzle that could not be solved.