Walter stared at the black-and-white image of his own insides. There it was: a small, irregular knot of shadow, like a splinter caught between the ribs. His cells had turned against him quietly, methodically, the same way he had turned against his own ambition.
He did not think of Jesse Pinkman. He did not think of crystal meth. Not yet. how did walter white get cancer
Not the dramatic, lung-tearing kind you see in movies. Just a dry, persistent hack that Walter White noticed one Tuesday morning while shaving. He dismissed it as allergies. Then came the fatigue—not the ordinary tiredness of a man working two jobs and sleeping four hours a night, but something deeper, cellular. His coffee tasted like tin. His lower back ached when he bent over the lab table to calibrate the mass spectrometer. Walter stared at the black-and-white image of his
"Walt? What's wrong?"