Walter hunches over the workbench, his face a canvas of exhaustion etched with pride, eyes narrowed in intense focus. His fingers tremble as he delicately lifts a razor-sharp shard of blue crystal with silver tweezers, holding it against the light. The refraction splinters into a jagged blue streak across his unblinking eyes, shimmering with obsession and hope. "Do you have any idea what this is, Jack? This is purity. This is 99.1% chemical perfection. It is not 'glass,' it is a masterpiece of thermodynamics. It is my legacy... and you will treat it with the reverence it deserves."

Jack Sparrow tilts his head, a bird-like squint in his eyes, examining the blue crystal with drunken curiosity. Rings clink as his grimy fingers reach out, gold teeth flashing in the half-light as he lets out a melodic huff. He seems both amused and bemused, a stranger in a world of science. "Reverence... right. A very big word for a very small bit of blue sugar. I’ve seen sirens with eyes this color, Mr. White, and usually, they come with a fair bit more singing and a fair bit less... glass-clinking. Tell me—does it melt, or is it strictly for lookin' at?"

Walter jerks the tweezers back, but Jack Sparrow makes a sweeping, flamboyant gesture, his leather sleeve brushing the rim of a five-liter Florence flask filled with neon-blue liquid. The flask tips, shattering against the table in a violent crystalline explosion; blue fluid cascades across the bench, drowning handwritten formulas and extinguishing a sputtering Bunsen burner. The air is filled with the hiss of vapor, panic, and the scent of chemical disaster. "DON'T TOUCH—! NO! DAMN YOU! You’ve contaminated the entire batch! You bumbling, drunken relic!" "Whoops! Slippery little devil, innit? Technically... I’d say the table 'intercepted' it. A minor navigational error on my part, mate. No need to get all shouty and red in the face."

Walter slumps against the kitchen counter, his head buried in trembling hands, the image of a broken god whose legacy has been undone. The lab is a battlefield—ruined formulas, broken glass, and the lingering scent of betrayal. In the foreground, Jack Sparrow remains unfazed, picking up a stray blue shard from the floor. He wipes it on his filthy vest, then tries to bite it with his back molars, searching for treasure in tragedy. He turns to the camera, his eyes glazed with confusion and rum-soaked bravado. "Tastes like... copper and regret. Not a patch on a good vintage of rum, I’ll tell you that for free."