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

This is the third hearing on the "Early Prevention and Intervention Act for Brain Diseases," and also the most crucial final battle.

Victor sat calmly in the witness stand. He wore his signature dark blue tailored suit, his tie impeccably tied, and his cufflinks gleamed coldly under the lights. He exuded an aura of rationality, as if he were not there to be questioned, but rather to lecture these politicians.

To his left was Dr. Alice Lin, the chief scientific advisor of the Water Group, who was sorting through thick data files; to his right was Robert Grant, the former FDA commissioner and current chief compliance officer of Water, who was scrutinizing his former colleagues with a seasoned look.

Opposite them stood a row of solemn-looking members of parliament, resembling a group of inquisitors preparing to judge heretics.

"Mr. Victor," Congressman Sanders from Vermont tapped his gavel, his voice laced with obvious hostility. He pushed up his glasses, which had slipped down to the tip of his nose, and waved a financial statement in his hand.

"Your company is trying to push through a bill that will cost hundreds of billions of dollars. You claim it's for public health, but my audit team tells me that if this bill passes, insurance companies will have to pay for your new drug 'Nirvana,' and Water Group's stock price will rise by at least 200%."

Representative Sanders' voice rose eight octaves, echoing throughout the hearing room.

"Is this a coincidence? Or is this a meticulously planned wealth transfer? You're channeling taxpayers' money through legislative channels into Wall Street accounts!"

Flashbulbs went off wildly as reporters excitedly captured the fiery opening line. This was exactly the dramatic conflict they wanted—evil capitalists versus righteous representatives of the people.

Victor didn't rush to defend himself. He gracefully adjusted the microphone, his gaze sweeping over everyone present, his eyes as calm as a deep pool.

"Mr. Congressman, if a fire protection company invents a new type of fire extinguisher that can put out forest fires, should we refuse to use it and let the forests burn just because they can profit from it?"

Victor's voice wasn't loud, but it reached everyone's ears clearly.

"That's a fallacy!" Senator Sanders retorted angrily. "We're talking about health insurance, a public resource! You're trying to define the normal aging process as a disease! You're creating anxiety and peddling fear!"

"Normal aging?"

Victor chuckled coldly, a hint of contempt in his voice. He slowly turned around and pointed to the audience seats behind him.

"Perhaps you should listen to their voices. Listen to how those who are experiencing what you call 'normal aging' struggle in despair."

With Victor's gesture, the hearing room doors opened, and a group of special people walked in.

They are not salesmen in suits, nor are they experts spouting jargon. They are ordinary Americans, the neighbors you might encounter in supermarkets, parks, or churches.

There was a Vietnam War veteran sitting in a wheelchair with cloudy eyes; a middle-aged woman holding her sick husband's hand with a tired face; an elderly man with empty eyes who needed to be helped; and even a little girl holding a rag doll.

This is Barry's meticulously prepared "special forces".

The air in the hearing room froze instantly. All the cameras turned and focused on the group of people who were walking unsteadily.

The first person to walk onto the stage was a mother named Martha. She was wearing a faded floral dress and clutching a photograph tightly in her hand. The photograph showed a smiling young engineer, her former pride.

“This is my son, David.” Martha’s voice trembled, choked with suppressed sobs. “He’s a PhD from Stanford, the hope of our family. But three years ago, he started becoming forgetful and emotionally unstable. The doctors said it was ‘work stress,’ ‘anxiety.’ They prescribed him sleeping pills and told him to take a vacation.”

She paused, wiped away the tears from the corners of her eyes, and took a deep breath.

"Until one day, he forgot the way home and drove against traffic on the highway... When the accident happened, he didn't even remember who he was."

Martha held up the photo and looked directly into Senator Sanders' eyes.

"If there had been better screening methods back then, if there had been drugs to repair his damaged nerves, perhaps he would still be alive now. He was only 32 years old! Mr. Congressman, do you call this 'normal aging'? Do you call this 'creating anxiety'?"

The hearing room was deathly silent. Only the heavy clicking of camera shutters echoed like a heartbeat. Senator Sanders opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Immediately afterward, a veteran pushed forward in a wheelchair. His chest was covered with medals, proof of his blood shed for the country. But at that moment, his hands were trembling uncontrollably.

"I didn't fall in the jungles of Vietnam, I didn't fall in the deserts of Iraq. But now I'm falling in my own brain." The veteran's voice was hoarse and angry, like a wounded lion. "I can't remember my comrades' names, I can't control my rage. My brain is like a battlefield riddled with bullet holes, collapsing every day."

"Walter's medication is my only hope. It has given me a moment of peace and allowed me to think like a human being. What right do you have to deprive me of my last shred of dignity? Just to save the country a few bucks?"

One tragedy after another surged toward the podium like a tidal wave.

This is the most primal and direct form of emotional bombardment. In this era where rationality is overestimated, Victor knows that nothing moves voters more than tears, and nothing silences politicians more than the "victim" persona.

Congressman Sanders' face darkened. He had prepared a mountain of data on the fiscal deficit and drug side effects, but compared to these vivid examples of suffering, the data seemed so cold-blooded and pale. He knew that if he continued to argue now, tomorrow's headlines would call him a "cold-blooded bureaucrat."

At this point, Senator Griffin, who was sitting in the middle of the committee, finally spoke.

He took off his glasses, rubbed his temples, and said with a heavy heart, "Ms. Martha, Colonel, I am deeply saddened by what has happened to you. As the chairman of the Health Committee, I must admit that we have invested far too little in brain health. We have been focusing on cancer and heart disease, but we have neglected this invisible killer that is devouring our souls."

Griffin turned his head and looked at Victor, his eyes filled with a stern and expectant look that had been rehearsed long ago.

"Mr. Victor, can your medicine really solve these problems? Can you assure these families and the American people?"

Victor stood up, his gaze resolute. At this moment, he was no longer a businessman, but a savior.

"It's not magic, Senator. It can't grant immortality. But it can mend broken nerves, it can delay the coming of darkness. It gives these families the most precious thing—time."

"Even if it's just for one more year, one more month, so that they can watch their children grow up with clarity and say goodbye to the world with dignity, it's worth every price we pay."

applause.

First came a few scattered cheers, then thunderous applause. Family members in the audience clapped through tears, and the reporters were also moved by the emotion. Even some opposition lawmakers had no choice but to applaud, because at that moment, anyone who didn't applaud was standing against humanity.

Victor watched this scene with a humble expression, but inwardly he was coldly calculating.

This is the “narrative war”.

Data is cold, but stories are passionate. When capital dons the cloak of "humanitarianism" and when monopoly is disguised as "philanthropy," it becomes invincible.

After the hearing, Victor ran into Senator Griffin in the hallway.

"A brilliant performance, Victor," Griffin murmured, a playful smile playing on his lips. "That veteran's speech was Oscar-worthy. I was almost moved to tears."

"That's not acting, that's reality," Victor corrected, his tone flat. "We've just set up a stage for reality and amplified sadness."

"Anyway, the hurdle to the bill's passage has been cleared." Griffin patted him on the shoulder. "By the way, my son has received an invitation to the 'Walter Future Stars' project. He's very excited and is preparing to go to Kenya next week."

"This is good training for him," Victor said with a smile. "I believe that when he returns, Yale's doors will be open to him. After all, Ivy League schools love young people with a sense of social responsibility."

The two shook hands and said goodbye, like two monarchs who had just divided the world.

Victor stepped out of the office building, the sunlight blinding him. Spring was just beginning in Washington, the cherry blossoms in full bloom, breathtakingly beautiful. But in Victor's eyes, this city full of flowers was nothing more than an embellishment of power.

Barry was already waiting by the car, holding two glasses of champagne.

"For the voice of the people." Barry handed him a glass.