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

Prisoner A was still wearing the same slightly oversized gray hoodie, carrying several thick medical textbooks. Mude glanced at them: "German Anatomy," 42nd edition, and "Clinical Pathophysiology."

He and several classmates walked into the coffee shop chatting and laughing, their faces radiating confidence and ease.

A bought an oatmeal latte, found a seat by the window, and opened a book.

Mude took a deep breath, composed himself, and got up to walk over.

Is this seat taken?

Prisoner A looked up, adjusted his black-rimmed glasses, and smiled politely, "No, please sit down."

His eyes were clear and without any impurities.

Mudra pulled up a chair and sat down, saying nothing, just quietly watching him.

At first, A didn't pay attention and continued to take notes in the book.

But a few seconds later, he seemed to sense something. The discomfort of being stared at felt like needles pricking the back of his neck.

He raised his head again, his brows slightly furrowed.

He recognized the face.

"It's you..."

Lao A's voice was very low. He subconsciously closed the book, intending to get up and leave.

"Sit down, Lin."

Mudd's hand pressed down on the back of his hand like an iron clamp.

"This is a public place." Prisoner A tried to break free, but Mulder's hand remained unmoved. "If you want to arrest me, show me an arrest warrant. Otherwise, this is harassment, and I can call campus police."

"Campus police?"

"What do you think campus police will be involved in? Will they be in charge of illegally disposing of medical waste? Or will they be in charge of assisting multinational pharmaceutical companies in conducting inhumane experiments?"

"I'm not here to arrest you."

"I'm here to do due diligence. About that shipment. About George Williams' 'Gundam'."

Prisoner A's expression changed, but his composure quickly returned. He glanced around warily to make sure no one was paying attention.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just a student doing part-time work for my advisor."

"Stop pretending. I saw that form, and the signature on it." Mulder looked him straight in the eye. "Where did those 'engine oil' (blood) and 'engine slices' (liver) go? What exactly is Walter doing with them? Just organ transplants? Or something much dirtier?"

After a moment of silence, Prison A picked up his coffee, took a sip, and used the cup to cover half of his face, concealing his inner turmoil.

"That's the professor's project, 'Biomaterial Recycling and Reuse,'" he said, downplaying the issue. "I was only in charge of logistics. I made sure the activity levels of the samples met the standards during transport."

"Logistics? You call that logistics?"

Mudd sneered and growled in a low voice, "Turning living people into parts with barcodes, you call that logistics? According to Section 18 of the Federal Criminal Code, that's human organ trafficking and being an accomplice to first-degree murder."

"There's nothing between us to say."

Prisoner A's voice turned completely cold, his eyes revealing a worldliness beyond his years. "That's a legal sample with a signed body donation agreement. All procedures were compliant."

"Compliance? You mean those illegible signatures?"

Mulder pressed on, "What is the purpose of all this? To allow Walter to develop an even stronger addictive drug? To create more 'waste'? It's a perfect closed loop. Make garbage, then recycle garbage. You're part of this loop too, Lin."

"I had no choice."

"You wouldn't understand. You think you can stand on moral high ground and point fingers because you've never been stuck in the mud."

"I don't understand?!"

Mude seemed to have been provoked, and the muscles at the corner of his eye twitched.

"I've seen your name in the newspaper, Fox Mulder."

Suddenly, Prison A turned his head and looked at Mude, his tone laced with sarcasm.

"That former FBI agent who investigated Vought Pharmaceuticals and ended up being charged with 'fabricating evidence' and 'abuse of power,' ultimately spending six months in jail. The newspapers say you harassed a prominent 'philanthropic entrepreneur' just to get attention, and were even forced to retire due to mental instability."

"Newspapers always like to tell only half the story, especially when GG is a pharmaceutical giant."

Ignoring his sarcasm, Mud instinctively pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Just as he was about to light it, he realized that this was a no-smoking area and irritably stuffed it back in.

"They didn't mention my partner Miller, nor did they mention the key witness 'Fat Tony' who suddenly died in prison."

"Miller was just one step away from the truth at the time—Fat Tony originally planned to use the inside story he knew to get a reduced sentence."

A's eyes flickered.

"But he died before he could speak, didn't he?" Mulder asked himself, his eyes vacant.

"During the exercise time in the prison for serious offenders, a sharpened toothbrush pierced their carotid artery."

"The trail went cold. Then another incident led to us being falsely accused of 'illegally obtaining evidence.' Victor's legal team tore us apart like bloodthirsty sharks."

"But that's all in the past now. I took all the blame and was kicked out of the game."

Mude took a deep breath, stared directly at Prison A, and the despondency in his eyes vanished, replaced by a chilling determination.

"I'm not a saint. I've been through the wringer. I know that feeling of helplessness. I know what it feels like to see the truth and be treated like a madman by everyone."

"But I'm still investigating. Because I know that if this closed loop isn't broken, there will only be more and more people like Old Joe. You saw those 'Gundams,' you saw that black boy who was about your age, right?"

A's hand, which was holding the coffee cup, froze.

That "sports-type machine".

A peer with strong muscles, yet dismantled like a scrap car.

Mudd keenly caught that moment of wavering.

"That Black boy, his description on that form was 'S-class/Athletic'."

"He doesn't look like a homeless person, nor does he look like a drug addict. Why is he there? And which VIP can afford to pay a high price for his 'parts'?"

Prison A looked at Mude, remained silent for a long time, and then sighed.

You remind me of someone.

"A very good friend of mine. Sadly, he's dead. He was Black."

Lao A's voice became somewhat ethereal.

"He's like you in some ways, very stubborn, and determined never to turn back once he's decided on a path. He always said that as long as you're determined to run, and run fast enough, poverty and misfortune can't catch up with you."

"But he eventually stopped."

"Would you like to hear his story?"