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

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Based on the historical context, Mr. A's character design was adjusted to pay homage to Bilibili UP master, King Squich.

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"Lock A... that doesn't sound like a real name. A thug who deals in corpses?"

"A thug?" The toothless man looked at Mudd with the eyes of someone looking at an idiot. "There was a fool who thought the same thing last time. It was 'Mad Dog Mark' from the next block. He saw Mr. A wearing glasses and looking all polite, and carrying a backpack, so he tried to rob him."

"And the result?"

"As a result, Mark got his limbs broken and sank to the bottom of the Delaware River to feed the fish." Another companion, who was cooking with a spoon, chimed in, his eyes filled with awe. "Don't be fooled by his appearance. He's the adopted son of that 'Mr. Lin' from Chinatown. He grew up in gangs, but he's smart and got into the medical school at the University of Pennsylvania."

"The University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine?" Mudd was somewhat surprised. That's an Ivy League school, a pinnacle of medical education.

"That's right. I heard he's the star pupil of that famous... professor who collaborates with pharmaceutical companies." The toothless man spat. "He helps the professor find 'silent donors' for experiments, makes money for the gang, and keeps us scumbags alive. On this street, Mr. A is a living saint. He even gave me a business card, saying I could work in his lab as a 'drug trial volunteer,' with even more money. Just sign a form, and you're responsible for your own life."

Mude fell silent. A gangster's adopted son, a top medical student, a corpse trafficker, and a drug trial intermediary. These four identities were absurdly unified in one person. It was a complete industry chain: from testing drugs on living people to dissecting the dead, everything was devoured by capital.

Ten minutes later, a black Ford van pulled into the camp. The windows were tinted with dark privacy film, and the words "Rehabilitation Medical Transportation" were printed on the side.

The car door opened, and three burly Asian men got out, wearing black leather jackets with bulging waistbands, clearly carrying weapons.

Then, a young Chinese man came down.

He looked to be in his early twenties, with fair skin and even a somewhat scholarly air. He wore a slightly oversized University of Pennsylvania hoodie under an ill-fitting gray trench coat. He wore black-rimmed glasses and carried a black backpack. If he weren't in a place filled with needles and feces, Mulder would definitely have thought he was a top student just out of the library.

"Mr. A." The man with the missing tooth immediately put on a fawning smile, bowing humbly as if welcoming a king. "You've come very quickly."

The young man known as "Lock A" pushed up his glasses somewhat awkwardly. His gaze lingered on Old Joe's corpse for a few seconds, a hint of reluctance flashing in his eyes, but it was quickly masked by a numbness beyond his years.

"He just died recently." Cell A's voice was soft, carrying more of a forced calm to complete the task than indifference. "Professor... I mean, the client needs fresh samples. Mainly liver slices for research, to test the metabolic toxicity of the new drug. Also, bone marrow extraction."

He crouched down, took out a pair of blue nitrile gloves from his backpack, and put them on with professional and precise movements. Then, he gently pressed on Old Joe's abdomen to check the firmness of his liver, and then lifted his eyelids to check the degree of pupil dilation.

"Meets the criteria. No obvious signs of infectious disease." He stood up, took off his gloves, and nodded to the bodyguard behind him.

A burly man immediately pulled out a roll of old US dollars tied with a rubber band and threw it into the lap of the toothless man.

"Five hundred dollars. Same rules as always. Don't say it's selling a corpse; this is called 'funeral allowance'."

"Thank you! Thank you, Mr. A! You are such a kind person!" The three drug addicts were not less grateful to the young man just because the money came from the big man. They knew who the real boss was.

"Why not call the city hall?" Mud couldn't help but ask, his voice a little hoarse. "The morgue will also pay for the funeral, although not as much, but at least it's legal."

Prisoner A turned around, seemingly startled. He instinctively took a half step back, and the bodyguard behind him immediately stepped forward to block him, his hand on the gun handle at his waist.

The young man peered at Mude through the bodyguard's shoulder, his gaze lingering on Mude's worn-out leather shoes and his old but still impeccably tailored trench coat, before finally settling on Mude's distinctive, righteous eyes.

"Are you... a federal agent?" Cell A asked tentatively, his tone slightly hesitant, like a student caught skipping class.

Mude did not deny that he had been, nor did he produce any identification, because he had long since lost his identification.

Prisoner A waved for the bodyguards to leave, and he subconsciously tightened the straps of his backpack.

"City Hall?" The young man gave a wry smile, a smile that betrayed a weariness and worldliness beyond his years. "Sir, the City Hall process takes three months. Filling out forms, review, waiting in line, public announcement. And professors... and those medical school research projects can't wait that long. Data is due this week, and papers are due next week."

“And,” he pointed to the three addicts dividing the money, “the city hall won’t give these living people cash. They need cash, they need it now. Without this five hundred dollars, they’ll be robbing people tonight, or self-harming because of withdrawal symptoms. I’m helping to maintain order.”

"So you buy and sell corpses? For your...research? For your thesis?" Mulder demanded, "Using people as lab rats?"

"I'm just doing what I can." Prisoner A lowered his head, avoiding Mulder's scrutinizing gaze, looking at the mud on the ground. "My adoptive father told me this is called recycling. My mentor told me this is called sacrificing for medicine. And for these people..."

He looked up, his eyes filled with a clear-eyed pain: "This is called life-saving money. Everyone got what they wanted. The professor got the data, the pharmaceutical company got the approval, the gang got the profits, and they got the money. It's a closed loop."

"Except for the dead. But the dead don't matter anymore, right?"

“This is wrong,” Muld shook his head. “It turns people into objects.”

"I know it's wrong." Prisoner A's voice suddenly rose a little, carrying a hint of suppressed anger, then quickly fell back down. "But this world is inherently wrong. Detective, what can you change? Can you give them jobs? Can you get them to quit drugs? Can you stop those pharmaceutical companies from producing painkillers? If you can't, then don't stop them from trading a few days of life for dead bodies."

After he finished speaking, he turned around, his back looking somewhat thin and even lonely.

"Take him away," he ordered in a low voice.

Three burly men skillfully slipped a thick black body bag over Old Joe's head and stuffed him inside.

Looking at him, Mud suddenly realized that this young man wasn't enjoying any of this. He was merely a sentient but incapable cog in this enormous, life-devouring machine. He was also a victim, or rather, a victim who was becoming a perpetrator.

"This is America, Agent."

Just before boarding the bus, Lao A stopped in his tracks without turning around. The cold wind lifted the hem of his trench coat, revealing the Ivy League school badge underneath.

The sound drifted on the cold wind, carrying a heartbreaking precocity.

"In this classroom, there are no right answers. Only survival."