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

Three months later, the Autumn Equinox arrived, and a chilling atmosphere descended.

Kowloon, Queen Elizabeth Hospital.

Dr. Liang Jiaming's office was piled high with medical records.

He was holding a freshly printed lab report.

Patient Name: Chen Xiaobao. Age: 7 years old. Diagnosis: Hemophilia A. Complication: Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia (PCP).

HIV antibody test: positive.

Dr. Liang's hands were trembling. This was already the fifth case he had seen this month. These five children had nothing in common—except that they were all hemophiliacs, and that they had all started using that batch of "specially supplied" clotting factors from the United States three months ago.

"Impossible...this is impossible..." Dr. Liang muttered to himself, taking off his glasses and pressing hard on his temples.

In Hong Kong in the 90s, AIDS was a taboo word. It was considered a "dirty disease," a label exclusively for homosexuals and drug addicts. But these children, the oldest was only 12 years old, and the youngest was only 7.

Their only sin was contracting a disease that required lifelong blood transfusions.

Dr. Liang stood up, walked to the filing cabinet, and opened the iron door.

Inside, a dozen or so medical records were neatly stacked. He flipped through them one by one, names flashing through his mind. Behind each name was a family on the verge of breaking apart.

He rushed out of the office and ran to the pharmacy.

"Show me that batch of clotting factors from Water Pharmaceuticals! Now!" Dr. Liang yelled at the pharmacist on duty.

The pharmacist was startled and quickly took out an unopened box of medicine from the freezer.

Dr. Liang snatched the medicine box and, with trembling hands, tore open the instruction manual. His gaze skipped over the boasts about the medicine's efficacy, focusing intently on the production batch number and precautions.

No.

There is no mention of "heat-treated".

Dr. Liang felt a wave of dizziness. "This is inventory from before heat treatment technology became widespread..."

He understood. This wasn't charity at all. This was dumping. This was murder.

That night, Dr. Liang sat at his typewriter all night. With coffee in hand, he wrote a ten-page letter of denunciation. He detailed all the infection cases, drug batch numbers, and the fatal conclusion: Water Pharmaceuticals was dumping high-risk, contaminated blood products into the Third World, where testing capabilities were lacking.

He made three copies.

The first one was sent to the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA).

The second copy was sent to The New York Times.

The third copy was sent to The Washington Post.

He thought for a moment and printed another copy. He remembered a news article he had seen in a newspaper: Vought Pharmaceuticals sued FBI agent Mulder for abuse of power during an investigation.

Although the news reported that Mulder was ultimately sentenced to six months in prison and dismissed from the FBI, he remembered that the reports mentioned that Mulder had a partner named Miller, who was not prosecuted.

Dr. Liang then found another envelope and wrote in the recipient's field: Agent Miller.

...

Two weeks later. Washington, D.C.

In the mailroom of the FDA headquarters building, an intern is sorting the day's mail.

"A complaint letter sent to the 'Director's Office'..." The intern glanced at the Hong Kong postmark and casually tossed it into a blue plastic basket labeled "Overseas/Miscellaneous".

Ten minutes later, David Rossi passed by the mailroom.

As a member of the FDA leadership and a "covert agent" for Vought Pharmaceuticals within the regulatory sphere, Rossi habitually glanced at the blue plastic crate. This was his habit, and one of the reasons Victor paid him a huge "consulting fee"—to monitor any signals that might be detrimental to Vought.

His gaze lingered on the envelope from Hong Kong. The envelope was addressed in English: "[Urgent: Regarding the death incident caused by Wotter Pharmaceuticals' clotting factor]".

Rossi's pupils contracted slightly. He casually picked up the envelope, tucked it into the Wall Street Journal under his arm, and turned to walk into the elevator.

Back in her office, Rossi opened the letter.

As he read on, his face grew paler and paler. He was also part of the system, so he was well aware of the unspoken rule of "regulatory time zone dumping." But he hadn't expected Vought Pharmaceuticals to be operating on such a large scale.

This is no longer a violation of rules. This is a massacre.

If this letter is leaked, the entire FDA will be implicated. Congress will hold hearings, and journalists will swarm in like sharks smelling blood. His future, his retirement pension, and the Florida beach house Victor promised him will all vanish.

Rossi took a deep breath and walked to the shredder.

"Sizzle!"

With the sound of the shredder cutting, Dr. Liang's hard work, those ten pages of detailed evidence, turned into a pile of meaningless white shreds.

Meanwhile, similar letters were also intercepted by public relations departments in the editorial offices of several major newspapers. Water Pharmaceuticals spends nearly ten million US dollars annually on GG (Google Ads) in these media outlets, buying not only page space but also the "right to remain silent."

...

A motel in the West Side of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

The curtains were tightly closed, letting in only a sliver of dim streetlight.

Mudd lay in bed, his eyes bloodshot, staring blankly at a water stain on the ceiling. His headache had worsened.

Since listening to Prisoner A's theory about "short-lived species" and "long-lived species," he hasn't slept for two days, and his migraines are getting worse.

With his eyes closed, he could see Old Joe's deathly pale face, and the Gundam units disassembled into their parts...

The world had changed in his eyes. Something seemed to have been corrupted by some indescribable monster, becoming terrifying!

"Beep beep beep."

The pager on the bedside table suddenly went off.

Mudd hesitated for a moment, then reached out and took the black cube. The screen displayed only one line of code: 10-13.

That's an FBI internal code: Officer in distress/Emergency assistance.

This was followed by a public phone number for Washington, D.C.

Mudd sat bolt upright. Only one person knew his pager number.

......

The following afternoon. An old-fashioned jazz bar in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. The lights were dim, and the melody of the saxophone swirled like smoke.

In a corner booth sat a middle-aged man in a gray trench coat.

Miller.

This former FBI White-Collar Crimes Unit ace agent looks much older than he did six months ago. His hairline has receded, his glasses are thicker, and his once unstoppable elite aura has been worn away by the daily grind of paperwork.

Mudra lowered the brim of his baseball cap and sat down opposite him.

"You're late." Miller glanced at his watch.

"I'd like to hurry, but I'm a convicted criminal now, so I can't fly." Mudd chuckled self-deprecatingly, picked up the whiskey bottle on the table, poured himself a glass, and said, "What do you want? If it's just catching up, we can find a cheaper place."

Miller didn't speak. He glanced around warily, and after making sure no one was paying attention, he took a yellow envelope from his pocket and pushed it across the table.

"What is this?"

"It was sent to my old office," Miller said in a low voice. "The current mail clerk is an intern I used to supervise. He found that the letter had been 'mistakenly' thrown into the wastebasket, realized something was wrong, and secretly retrieved it."

Mude opened the envelope. Inside was a copy of Dr. Liang's whistleblower letter. Mude began to read it.

At first, his expression was numb. After his ordeal in prison and dismantling Gundam, he thought he was immune to the darkness.

But when he read those lines of data, the inferences about the "virus pool effect," and the stories of those innocent children who were infected, his hands began to tremble uncontrollably.

"Click."

The glass in his hand shattered. Blood mixed with whiskey flowed all over his hands, but he felt nothing.

"They're poisoning the whole world..." Mulder's voice seemed to tear from his chest. "This isn't just greed, Miller. This is slaughter!"

"I know." Miller took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. "That Hong Kong doctor said that there are more than a dozen confirmed cases in his hospital alone. If we extrapolate from epidemiological models, considering the incubation period and misdiagnosis rate, at least several thousand children in Asia and South America... have already been sentenced to death."

Mud didn't bother wiping the blood off his hands; he stared intently at the name on the letter: Water Pharmaceuticals.

"Doesn't the FDA care?" Mulder's eyes burned with anger.

"The FDA?" Miller sneered, his smile filled with despair for the system. "The fact that this letter was 'mistakenly' thrown into the trash means that the FDA's higher-ups already knew about it. They were helping Walter cover it up. They might even be accomplices."

"There's an advisor named David Rossi who's a big shot in Washington now," Miller added. "Someone saw him drinking champagne with Victor at the Willard Hotel."

Mude took a deep breath, folded the letter, and put it into his inner pocket.

"We need evidence."

"Physical evidence. Not copies, not speculation. We need to get that batch of drugs, and the victim's blood samples."

"Where do I get it?"

Hong Kong.

Mudd stood up and grabbed the backpack from the back of the chair.

"Are you crazy?" Miller lowered his voice. "Walt then pulled strings to extend your six-month sentence to a year, only to be released after six months because of good behavior and your uncle's help. You're on parole, and leaving the country without permission is a felony. Besides, you're penniless now, and your passport has been confiscated."

"I have a way." A ruthless glint flashed in Mudd's eyes. "I have a few 'fellow inmates' who have connections. They can get tickets to the moon if they have the money."

"Where's the money?"

Mud paused, stunned. "Yeah, where's the money?"

A bank card was pushed in front of him.

"This is my savings from the past few years, originally intended as a college fund for my daughter." (Mi)

"The password is my police badge number."

Mudd looked at the card, then at Miller.

"Why?" Mudd asked. "You have a family, you have a pension. If it's discovered you're supporting me..."

"Because I did the math." Miller put his glasses back on, resuming his professional auditor's tone.

"Killing thousands of children for hundreds of millions of dollars in profit. Such a return on investment is unacceptable even to hell."

He raised his head and looked directly into Mudd's eyes.

"I can't go, Mudd. I have a wife and children, and I don't have the courage to give it all up. But you're different. You've lost everything."

"Because I have nothing, I have nothing to fear."

Mudd paused for a moment, then reached out and picked up the card.

"Apologize to your daughter for me."

No need to apologize.

"The best gift you can give her is to send that bastard to hell."