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

On the holographic projection screen, the red curve resembled a steep cliff, a truly startling sight.

“Imagine,” Alice broke the silence, “that you’ve worked hard your whole life, accumulating wealth and fame. But on the day you retire, your mind becomes a blank. You don’t recognize your wife, you don’t remember your children, you even forget how to use a spoon. You become a breathing shell, all your dignity vanishing with the death of your neurons.”

She gently swiped her finger, and a set of comparison images appeared on the screen: on the left was a full, young brain, and on the right was an aging brain shrunken like a walnut.

Saul couldn't help but shiver and subconsciously touched his forehead. As a lawyer who relied on his brain for a living, this was his deepest nightmare.

"This is true 'art'," Victor said, his eyes gleaming with admiration as he looked at the screen. "It doesn't require falsifying data like Purdue Pharma, bribing doctors to manipulate clinical results, or engaging in low-level academic fraud. Because the truth itself is the sharpest weapon. As long as you find the right angle, as long as you know how to 'interpret' it."

He walked back to the table.

"What we're selling isn't medicine, but hope to defy time and preserve ourselves. It's the right for people to live with dignity even in old age."

"Our new drug, Nirvana, is more than just an anti-anxiety medication. It's a 'preservative for the brain.' It's an 'ark of memory.' It's humanity's last line of defense against nihilism."

Saul took a deep breath, quickly got into the zone, and his brain raced as he calculated the legal boundaries and business potential.

"I love this concept. Psychotherapists are going to lose their jobs, and Freud is going to rise from his grave." Saul's eyes gleamed. "If we can prove that 'being in a bad mood' is actually 'brain damage,' then this isn't a 'lifestyle disease,' but a 'physiological disease.' This is a cognitive revolution."

He stood up and paced excitedly around the room, waving his arms:

"In the past, people bought medicine because of stress, which was a 'soft need,' and was even considered a sign of weak willpower. But now, if they know that their brains are shrinking like dehydrated apples, that's a 'hard need,' a panic buy! This redefines the market. We need to turn 'anxiety' into 'a precursor to cancer.'"

"But this needs an authoritative voice to endorse it," Victor calmly pointed out the key issue, pouring cold water on Saul's enthusiasm. "Our data center alone isn't enough; that's a corporate act, lacking credibility. The public will think we're just self-promoting. We need the God of the medical community to announce this gospel."

"We need a blockbuster paper published in the New England Journal of Medicine or The Lancet," Saul immediately realized. "And it must be from a reputable, highly respected, and preferably somewhat rebellious academic giant. Only someone like that will be believed. We need a 'Pope of the academic world.'"

"I have already selected the candidates for you."

Alice switched the slides, and a picture of a kind-faced old man with white hair appeared on the screen. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and had deep-set eyes.

"Dr. Raymond Sterling, Chief of Neurology at Harvard Medical School, former President of the Society for Neuroscience, and a leading figure in the global field of brain science, has been dedicated to promoting the concept of 'brain health'."

Alice pulled up Dr. Sterling's detailed file, a densely packed resume showcasing his status in academia.

"He is an idealist and a disillusioned man. He is currently seeking sponsors for his 'Global Brain Health Initiative.' His theories are very progressive, believing that brain care should be as routine as brushing your teeth, and even advocating for drug intervention in adolescence to prevent age-related diseases. This is known as the 'radical school of preventive medicine.'"

"It sounds like one of ours," Saul commented. "Radical means he's eager to prove himself; disillusioned means he's short of money."

"The problem is," Alice continued, "that conservative doctors think his views are too radical and smack of 'medical overreach.' The NIH (National Institutes of Health) has rejected his grant applications for three consecutive years. His lab is facing the risk of running out of funding and is even struggling to pay for the food for the lab monkeys."

Victor looked at the old man in the photo, whose eyes were resolute but slightly tired, and smiled.

"A brilliant prophet marginalized by the system," Victor commented. "Perfect. These kinds of people are often easier to deal with than greedy politicians, because they want more than just money; they want recognition."

"Give him the top-tier sponsorship. No, give him a figure he can't refuse."

"Tell him that we fully agree with his idea—that brain health is humanity's last line of defense. We want to help him spread this idea throughout the world. We want his name, like Pasteur and Fleming, to be engraved on the monument of medical history."

Victor paused, then looked at Thor, his gaze piercing:

"Remember, Saul, we're not buying him off. We're 'empowering' science. We're simply helping truth to have a louder voice. If truth needs wings of money to fly, then we'll give it wings studded with diamonds."

"This is called 'academic coronation'."

Saul smiled knowingly. "I understand. I'll make him feel like we're begging him to accept this money for the good of all humanity. That's called a 'charitable donation'."

"No, you don't need to go this time." Victor waved his hand, stood up, and walked to the French windows. "Dealing with a scholar of this caliber requires a bit of 'sincerity.' Saul, you reek of money; you'll scare this aloof scholar away. I'll go to Boston myself."

Outside the window, night had completely fallen, and the myriad lights of New York City resembled a dazzling sea of ​​stars. In this city of desire, everyone was overdrawing their brains to earn money—for mortgages, for tuition fees, for that elusive success.

Victor, on the other hand, was preparing to turn this overdraft into an even bigger deal.

"Let's move out," Victor commanded, his voice echoing across the empty top floor.

"Let the world know that they are sick. And we have the cure."