I am Jesse Pinkman

Chapter 1: Wake Up, Bitch

A splitting headache. That was the first thing he felt. A deep, throbbing pain pulsing behind his skull like he had been partying for days. His eyes fluttered open, and the dim light of a rundown bedroom swam into view—yellowed walls, beer cans on the floor, and a lingering stench of weed in the air.

Something was wrong.

He sat up, heart pounding. His hands—rough, calloused, shaking slightly—were not his own. They were younger. His body felt different, lighter but weaker, like he'd lost years of muscle memory. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling to the mirror nailed to the closet door.

A stranger stared back at him.

No.

Not a stranger.

Jesse Pinkman.

The realization hit like a freight train. Jesse Pinkman. Breaking Bad. Meth. Walter White.

"This has to be a dream," he muttered, voice raspy, unfamiliar. He ran a hand through messy blonde hair, felt the unshaven stubble along his jaw. The reflection did the same.

His mind raced. If this was real—if he was actually in Jesse Pinkman's body—then he knew exactly what was coming.

A month from now, Walter White would come knocking.

And Jesse would end up as a disposable pawn.

Unless he changed everything first.

His breathing steadied. He wasn't just Jesse Pinkman—he was himself, a chemistry genius who actually understood the science behind meth production. Jesse's operation had been crude, sloppy. But if he played this right, he could create something better.

Something that Walter White would need him for.

Grabbing a notepad from the nightstand, he started scribbling. The chemical processes, the optimal synthesis routes—ways to refine Jesse's amateur formula into something unparalleled.

This time, Jesse Pinkman wouldn't be the sidekick.

This time, he would be the one in control.