American Medicine God: Starting by Inheriting a Pharmaceutical Company and Selling Medicine

Midtown Manhattan, top floor of the Water Tower.

The air was filled with a finely filtered coolness, carrying a faint scent of ozone. This was in the clouds, a viewpoint from God's perspective. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows sliced ​​the steel jungle of New York into countless rectangular pieces, and the afterglow of the setting sun spilled onto the Hudson River like a layer of burning gold leaf. But inside the conference room, the lighting was strictly controlled to a cool tone, perfectly suited for reading data.

This is the heart of Vought Pharmaceuticals—the Praxis Data Center. To outsiders, it's a top-tier medical research institution, a beacon of precision medicine. But in the business jungle, it has a more intimidating name: "The Truth Lab."

In the center of the conference room, a huge holographic projection was silently rotating. The complex neural network diagram resembled a bioluminescent creature in the deep sea, with each node representing a patient's physiological response and each line representing a correlation of a certain behavioral pattern.

"If Wall Street trades money, then here we trade truth. Or more precisely, the 'right to interpret' the truth."

Alice Lin stood before the holographic projection. She wore a minimally tailored white silk shirt, devoid of any superfluous embellishments, her straight black hair cascading over her shoulders, exuding an aura as sharp and calm as a scalpel. As a former "corpse collector," she had dealt with lives taken by fentanyl in the dirtiest streets; and now, as the chief data scientist, she was using algorithms to dissect the suffering of the living.

Her fingers traced lightly in the air, her movements as elegant as if she were conducting a symphony.

On the screen was a dynamic map of the entire United States, with countless heat dots flashing incessantly, like a giant, inflamed organ. Each dot represented a tormented soul.

"This is a comprehensive analytical model we've compiled over the past twelve months from social media, prescription drug search records, health insurance claims data, and wearable devices," Alice's cool voice echoed in the empty conference room. "To build this model, we processed over 30 PB of data, covering everything from elite East Coast communities to decaying Rust Belt towns."

The map was zoomed in, focusing on several typical middle-class neighborhoods—Greenwich, Connecticut; Palo Alto, California; and Arlington, Virginia.

"Red represents anxiety, purple represents insomnia, and black represents memory decline."

Alice turned around to face Victor Corleone, who was sitting at the end of the long table.

"We've discovered something interesting, boss. In the past, traditional medicine considered 'anxiety' an emotional problem, a fluctuation in the psychological realm, that could be alleviated through psychological counseling, yoga, meditation, or taking a vacation. But the data tells us that this is a misconception. An extremely costly misconception."

Alice pulled up a set of more microscopic biochemical data charts. Complex brain tomography scans and hormone level curves appeared on the screen.

"Look here. In the medical reports of these people with high anxiety, cortisol levels have been consistently high. This 'stress hormone' is like a strong acid flowing in the blood, slowly corroding the hippocampus."

She pointed to a shaded area on the brain scan.

"The hippocampus is the hub of human memory and emotion. Under long-term stress, its volume shrinks by an average of 3% to 5% compared to normal individuals. Synaptic connections between neurons break, and dendrites atrophy."

Alice paused for a moment, looked directly at Victor, and presented her core conclusion:

"This isn't 'being in a bad mood,' it's 'brain damage' on a physical level. Just like a machine rusting, the brain is undergoing organic lesions under stress."

Victor sat in the shadows, his fingertips tapping the table with a steady, pendulum-like rhythm. His gaze pierced through the screen, as if he were digesting the profound meaning behind the conclusion.

"Rusty." Victor repeated the word, a playful smile playing on his lips. "That's a very good word. It makes what was originally an abstract psychological problem as concrete and tangible as a heart attack or a fracture."

"Yes," Alice nodded. "The fast pace of modern society, information overload, and sleep deprivation are physically damaging the human brain. This damage is irreversible. A therapist's couch can't save atrophied neurons, just as talk therapy can't heal a broken bone. Unless medication is involved."

Victor stood up, walked to the holographic projection, and looked at the inflamed map of the United States.

"So we are not dealing with a group of 'unhappy' people, but a group of patients whose 'brains are rotting'."

"The data supports this conclusion," Alice replied. "Although current medical diagnostic standards haven't been updated to this level, biochemical indicators don't lie."

Victor turned around and looked out the window at the New York night view.

"Diagnostic criteria can be changed, as long as there is sufficient evidence and enough voice."

He turned to look at Saul Goodman in the corner. Saul hadn't spoken, but his eyes were already gleaming with calculation.

"Sol, did you hear that?" Victor's voice was deep and powerful. "Alice has just opened a door for us to a trillion-dollar market."

“I heard you, boss.” Saul pushed up his glasses, unable to hide his excitement. “If anxiety is brain damage, then anti-anxiety medication isn’t just a ‘lifestyle drug,’ it’s a ‘life-saving drug.’ The insurance company won’t be able to refuse to pay out.”

“No, it’s not just about compensation.” Victor shook his head. “It’s about the power to define.”

He looked at Alice again: "Is there something deeper? Simple 'brain damage' isn't scary enough. We need an ultimate fear that can penetrate all social classes and make billionaires and homeless people tremble."

Alice's lips curled into a barely perceptible smile. She pressed a red button on the remote control.

"I knew you'd ask that."

The image on the screen changed. The previously chaotic data points began to rearrange, forming clear curves, like staircases leading to an abyss.

“We conducted a retrospective cohort study spanning twenty years. Using AI algorithms, we tracked the health records of millions of people.” Alice pointed to the steepest rising curve. “Look here—it shows a strong correlation between ‘midlife anxiety’ and ‘Alzheimer’s disease’ (dementia).

The temperature in the conference room seemed to drop several degrees instantly.

"Data shows that people who are under high stress and anxiety for a long period of time between the ages of 30 and 40 accumulate 60% more β-amyloid plaques in their bodies than the average person. Their probability of developing Alzheimer's disease after the age of 60 is 4.5 times that of the average person."

Alice's voice was soft yet cold, like an ice needle piercing the spine.

"Every instance of insomnia, every instance of forgetfulness caused by stress, every instance of emotional outburst is actually a sign that your brain is withering away. You are not getting older, you are disappearing."

Victor stared at the screen, his eyes flashing with an unprecedented light.

"This is it," he said softly. "This is the 'nuclear weapon' we want."