You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

Chapter 238 Arrival in the East (9k)

It was a few minutes before four in the morning at the consulate's medical room.

"Professor, there's a short walk from outside to the car. I see your legs are able to take a few steps now."

As Xiao Sun spoke, he was squatting on the ground, folding Christopher's discarded hospital gown and stuffing it into a canvas bag.

"We do have wheelchairs, but pushing a wheelchair to the airport will be more conspicuous. If someone helps you, you can slowly walk onto the plane, and from the outside, you'll just look like an elderly person with mobility issues."

Christopher sat on the hospital bed and looked down at his left leg.

The gauze was still there, and the bandages were wrapped from the ankle all the way down to the middle of the calf.

When he was still in Seattle, he could walk a few steps indoors with the help of crutches. Just now, he was able to stand up and wash up while dragging his left leg, but he couldn't walk fast or far.

He slept for two hours in the infirmary, and with the soy milk and two steamed buns he just had, he has regained some strength.

"It's just a few steps, I can manage." Christopher shakily stood up, leaning on the bedside table.

Xiao Sun switched the canvas bag to his left hand and supported Christopher's left elbow with his right hand, placing his palm on Christopher's forearm near the elbow joint, letting him decide how much weight to put on it.

She waited until Christopher was steady before taking her first step, her steps were small and quick, and she moved forward only after his right foot had landed firmly.

Turn left at the end of the corridor to reach the parking lot.

The parking lot's concrete surface was painted with yellow lines indicating no-parking zones, and two black sedans were parked outside the yellow lines.

They were all Buicks, facing outwards, with the engines already running and white steam billowing from the exhaust pipes.

Both cars had a small national flag stuck on their front bumpers, the red flags trembling slightly with the engine's vibrations.

Diplomatic license plates have a white background with black serial numbers, and the upper edge of the plate frame has a line of small print: DIPLOMATICMISSION.

(Diplomatic missions), numbered starting with CD followed by several digits.

A man was standing next to the rear door of the second car.

He is about 1.78 meters tall and weighs between 150 and 160 kilograms.

The shoulders are broad, but there are no exaggerated muscles below the collarbone that can make a suit fit too tightly; there are only a few lines that vaguely extend from the sternum to the sides.

This type of person doesn't need large muscles.

Large muscles are for bodybuilders with necks thicker than their heads to use in bodybuilding competitions. In real combat, those big guys have low strength density and high oxygen consumption, and they'll be out of breath after just two minutes.

This low body fat percentage allows every muscle to directly engage in the exertion without excess weight. It results in extremely high core stability and explosive power. In tasks requiring long periods of standing for protection, it will not cause knee pressure due to excessive weight, nor will it make one stand out in a crowd due to its large size.

The best undercover agents are almost all this size.

He saw the side door open and immediately went to meet it, his shoes making almost no sound as they pressed against the gravel pavement.

"I'll do it," he said to Xiao Sun, his voice so low that only the three people around him could hear him.

He moved around to Christopher's right side, slipped his hand under Christopher's right armpit, and supported his back with his forearm.

"You don't need to exert any effort, just make sure your feet are firmly planted," he said.

His voice had a slight Northeastern accent, with the last syllable falling, as if he were someone accustomed to giving short, concise commands.

The three of them slowly walked toward the second Buick.

Christopher's left leg was dragging on the floor again, leaving a streak of dust on his sock, but he didn't stop.

Xiao Sun walked ahead, glancing back every now and then to make sure there were no loose stones in front of him.

The security chief supported him on his right side, waiting until his right foot was firmly planted before taking the next step.

When Christopher reached the car door, a thin layer of sweat appeared on his forehead, and his breathing became a little rough.

He held onto the car door frame with his right hand, and the security supervisor moved his hand down to support his lower back and help him sit in the back seat.

The car door closed very gently, with just a muffled thud, followed by a click from the latch.

Xiao Sun got into the back seat through the other door and placed his canvas bag at his feet. The security supervisor opened the passenger door, got in, and nodded to the driver.

The driver was also a young man, wearing the same dark jacket. His left hand was on the steering wheel, and his right hand had already brought up the navigation route on the car screen.

The security chief turned around from the passenger seat and his gaze fell on Christopher.

"My name is Liu Zheng, from the consulate's security team. I'll be sitting in front of you for the next ten minutes; there won't be any checks along the way."

Once we arrive at the airport, you can get off the bus. Don't worry about anything, just follow us.

He looked directly at Christopher when he spoke, but his eyes were glancing out the car window out of the corner of his eye.

It's like the habit of someone who has spent a lot of time in the dark; no matter who they're talking to, they'll focus some of their attention on everything in their field of vision.

"We're using the diplomatic immunity channel," he added. "Nobody will stop us."

Christopher nodded without saying anything.

He found that the phrase he heard most often from last night until now was, "No one will stop us."

Old Li said it, Xiao Sun said it during dinner, and now this man named Liu Zheng has said it too.

The people who say this are different each time, but they seem to have this confidence.

He leaned back in the leather seat and his fingers touched the armrest on the inside of the car door. The armrest was wrapped in genuine leather, with neat stitching and no scratches on the surface.

Two Buicks turned out of the consulate's compound gate one after the other, and the iron gate at the entrance slid back into place silently after the taillights swept past.

The streets of downtown Vancouver are empty at this time.

The streetlights were still on, casting an orange glow on the asphalt road, but there wasn't a single pedestrian in sight.

Every intersection we passed had a green light, indicating that the consulate had informed the Vancouver police in advance, and all the traffic lights ahead were set to green.

Security chief Liu Zheng took the walkie-talkie off his waist and pressed the call button: "Vehicle number two has left the gate and will be on the bridge in three minutes. Request confirmation of the airport entrance status."

A short, sharp male voice came through the walkie-talkie: "Entrance cleared. Crew ready."

The convoy soon arrived at the cargo area entrance of Vancouver International Airport.

A sign at the intersection reads in both English and French: “Restricted Area. Unauthorized Entry Prohibited.”

But the door had already been opened, and a yellow airport ground crew vehicle was parked beside it, with orange warning lights on its roof turning.

The driver of the lead vehicle leaned against the door, the indicator light on his walkie-talkie flashing.

He spotted two Buicks with the Eastern flag in the distance, tucked his tablet under his arm, made a standard passing gesture, opened his palms forward, and then waved them forward.

The red flag passed through the gate.

The driver did not slow down before turning into the area inside the airport fence.

The civilian radar towers outside were still rotating in the distance, but this area was already an aviation logistics operation zone, with yellow and white guide lines painted on the ground.

The scenery outside the car window changed from the city's streetlights to barbed wire fences, and then to the edge of a wide runway.

There was no access bridge to the civil terminal, no check-in hall, no baggage carousel, and no security queue.

The convoy circled a row of FedEx and DHL warehouses before finally entering a concrete tarmac illuminated by searchlights.

The plane is already parked there.

A Boeing 747-400, with swept wings and four engines, its wingtips extending to almost invisible edges in the early morning darkness.

The fuselage is painted in a standard white base with blue horizontal stripes, and a red national flag is painted on the vertical tail.

From the ground, it looks like an ordinary Boeing 747 commercial airliner.

The ground power vehicle was already connected to the underside of the aircraft, and the exhaust pipe emitted a faint, almost invisible amount of heat.

The gangway has been lowered, and a small boarding ladder is aligned with the main cabin door.

Any international flight that stops in Vancouver looks exactly like it.

At the rear cargo hold directly beneath the aircraft, a crew member is loading a batch of supplies into the cargo hold.

A dozen or so boxes were stacked on a pallet, with white labels on the outside that read "Diplomatic Pouch".

Diplomatic pouches with the national flag.

Canadian customs had no authority to open it, and throughout the entire boarding process, the Canadian side remained far away from the airport control tower and other runways, never approaching this area.

After the car came to a complete stop, Liu Zheng was the first to get out.

"arrive."

He opened the car door, stepped aside, and used his body to block any possible angle of observation, waiting for Xiao Sun to help Christopher out of the car.

Christopher braced his right hand on the edge of the car seat, and with the help of Xiao Sun supporting his back, he slowly stood up from the seat. His left foot touched the concrete ground of the tarmac, and he gasped slightly in pain.

The two steadied themselves and then moved toward the gangway.

A man was standing on the anti-slip footplate at the bottom of the gangway.

He was wearing a dark blue jumpsuit with the emblem of the Eastern Air Force embroidered on the left chest, featuring a star in the center and golden ears of wheat on either side.

Seeing Christopher being helped over, dragging his left leg, his gaze lingered on Christopher's leg for less than a second before he took two steps forward and looked at Liu Zheng.

"Mr. Liu Xiaodong?"

"Yes," Liu Zheng said.

"Okay, there are twenty steps on the gangway, so walk slowly."

Liu Zheng nodded, and he and Xiao Sun each helped Christopher walk toward the gangway.

Christopher placed his hand on the gangway handrail.

The aluminum alloy surface felt cool to the touch. He curled his fingers on the armrest for a moment, then gripped it tightly.

When he stepped onto the first step with his left foot and then his right, the stitches on his injured leg pressed against the gauze, creating a much stronger pressure than when walking on flat ground, and a thin layer of sweat immediately appeared on his forehead.

But his hand didn't loosen, nor did his jaw loosen.

Level 2.

Level 3.

Xiao Sun said something to him, but he didn't hear it. He just focused all his attention on where his left foot was stepping, making sure he was firmly planted before shifting his weight.

The man in the flight suit stood on the edge of the platform at the top of the gangway, looking down. He didn't urge him, but simply took out his walkie-talkie and said something.

"Liu Xiaodong has already boarded the plane."

Christopher stepped across the threshold of the hatch.

The lighting inside the cabin was very soft.

But what I saw was clearly wrong.

Only after actually boarding it did I realize that this was not an ordinary passenger plane at all.

The front half of the cabin has been completely removed. What should have been the business class area is now a closed electronic equipment bay with the door half open, revealing rows of green indicator lights on the rack.

Several interior panels on the bulkhead were added later, and the paint around the bolt holes is newer than other areas.

Two cable trays appeared on the ceiling, each containing cables as thick as an adult's thumb, neatly bundled together with nylon cable ties.

The cable tray is covered with a layer of silver metal shielding mesh, and grounded with copper sheets every 30 centimeters. This is the standard practice for preventing electromagnetic pulses.

Liu Zheng helped him to a seat in the back of the cabin near the aisle.

Xiao Sun took a cushion out of his canvas bag and placed it behind his lower back, then pushed up the armrest next to his injured leg so that his left leg could be straightened slightly.

Christopher leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Liu Zheng stood at the cabin door, said a few words to the crew member, and then left.

The gangway was removed after other consulate personnel boarded the plane.

The hatch closed.

Inside the cockpit.

The car has four seats. The man in the driver's seat on the left looks to be almost fifty years old. His hair is shaved down to a stubble, and there are several deep fine lines on his temples.

A patch was sewn onto the left sleeve of his flight suit, with a gold wing logo and four gold horizontal bars below it.

In the Eastern Air Force system, four bars signify that he is an aircraft pilot who has taken the captain's seat.

His name is Liu Guodong, a former flight squadron leader of an air force aviation division. He flew fighter jets and later transport aircraft, where he carried out numerous intercontinental flight missions.

The pilot in the co-pilot's seat was relatively younger, wearing noise-canceling headphones, and was using his fingers to flip a row of modified antenna switches at the top of the center console. Each switch had a small white label with abbreviations that ordinary people couldn't understand.

His name is Zhao Kai, 35 years old, a former Air Force transport pilot who has flown Il-76 and Y-76 series aircraft.

He has a shallow scar on his right cheek, which he sustained when he was cut by debris during an emergency landing at a high-altitude airport.

"The person is up?" the co-pilot asked.

"We're up." The captain took the aeronautical chart out of the data bag and unfolded it again, then pointed with his index finger to a waypoint circled in red pencil on the flight path.

"After takeoff, we will fly the planned route through the North Pacific. After passing this waypoint, the satellite communication link will remain open throughout the entire journey. The encryption level is diplomatic."

The passenger nodded, pressing his finger on a row of switches on the overhead panel.

"Old Liu, tell me, who exactly did they pull this time?"

"The name on the list is Liu Xiaodong, a rotating staff member at the consulate."

I don't believe it.

The co-pilot turned a fuel balance valve knob half a turn and then looked out the side window at the closing cargo door.

"The consulate doesn't routinely use this aircraft for its rotations. The flight request for this aircraft was issued directly by headquarters, and the flight mission number also uses a special prefix."

He paused for a moment.

"And this electronic warfare pod—do you remember the last time we deployed this thing?"

The captain snorted.

"Last year, we withdrew our engineering team from Africa."

"right."

The co-pilot removed his fingers from the overhead panel. "That time there were mortars chasing us on the ground; this time it's in Vancouver, Canada."

"When did you say that the consulate needed to use electronic warfare pods for personnel rotation?"

The flight engineer leaned halfway out of the equipment bay behind the cockpit and adjusted his glasses. He was about thirty years old, the youngest in the crew, named He Ming. He graduated from the National University of Defense Technology with a degree in electronic engineering and transferred to the technical maintenance team for this special aircraft after flying several hundred hours.

"Brother Zhao, stop speculating about the gondola."

He handed a tablet to the co-pilot, the screen displaying a densely packed diagram of link status indicators.

"After takeoff, there are three satellite communication links online simultaneously: C-band, Ku-band, and Ka-band, each using a different frequency hopping algorithm. If one link is interfered with, the other two automatically take over, with a switching time of twenty milliseconds."

He paused.

"Throughout the flight, our own Tianlian relay satellites provided signal relay, and there were no signal blind spots over the Pacific Ocean."

"The onboard communication system, just the Ka-band phased array antenna alone costs tens of millions."

The co-pilot glanced at the captain.

The captain removed his hand from the flight chart and looked up at the row of indicator lights on the overhead panel. All the lights were green.

"Xiao He".

"Um.

""

"Our neighbors in the US, their FAA (Federal Aviation Administration) is also pushing the next generation NetGen (next-generation air transport system), but they still use ACARS (Aeronautical Communications Addressing and Reporting System) for their transoceanic commercial aircraft."

Data link.

When He Ming heard the word "colleagues," the corners of his mouth couldn't help but curve into a smile.

"ACARS is a product of the 1970s. Their approach was to patch things up, and the bandwidth was incredibly narrow; it would take forever to compress a single piece of weather data."

"Our system has three times the bandwidth of their ACARS system."

"Moreover, their satellite-based navigation mainly relies on GPS. When we fly over the Pacific Ocean, we have the global signal coverage of BeiDou-3, so we don't need to touch their system."

Just then, the man who had been outside the cabin came in.

The captain folded up the flight chart and turned off the overhead reading light.

How is Liu Xiaodong doing now?

"He's sitting in the back now; he injured his leg and was helped up," the man who had just entered the cockpit said.

"Can you tell exactly how badly the injury is?" The captain turned his head.

"Left leg, it's covered by clothes, so it's not very clear. A dedicated medical team will take care of it after we get off the plane."

The captain didn't ask any more questions.

He turned back, placed the fingertips of his right hand on the accelerator lever, and lightly tapped the side of the lever.

The co-pilot glanced at his watch.

"Time's up, control tower clearance confirmed."

The radio crackled with clearance instructions from Vancouver air traffic control.

"Understood, proceed with driving."

A ground trailer towed the aircraft from its parking position and pushed it onto the taxiway.

Four engines roared simultaneously, and the high-speed airflow from the exhaust nozzles swirled up puffs of white steam on the concrete ground.

The plane taxied past the cargo area, the fire station, and several rows of parked private planes, before pausing briefly at the runway entrance.

Then accelerate.

The nose of the aircraft was raised.

The main wheel is off the ground.

The Boeing 747 took off steadily amidst the roar of its engines, its fuselage passing through a thin layer of night fog and quickly disappearing above the clouds.

Once the plane stabilized, the man who had been standing at the top of the gangway entered the cabin, carrying an open thermos cup that was steaming.

He walked to the back aisle, paused, and handed the thermos to Xiao Sun.

"Hot ginger tea," he said.

Xiao Sun took the cup and presented it to Christopher.

The man squatted down and looked at Christopher's left foot, which was resting on the side armrest. There was a very faint bloodstain on the outermost layer of the gauze.

"The flight to Beijing will take about ten and a half hours. It will get light very quickly when we cross the International Date Line, so you can cover the windows if you can't sleep."

Christopher held the cup of ginger tea; the cup was so hot that his fingers turned slightly red.

He sniffed.

"Thank you," he said.

The man waved his hand, stood up, and went back to the cockpit.

In fact, the moment Christopher stepped into the medical room of the Vancouver consulate, the matter of transporting him back to the East was already over.

Within the consulate's walls lies Eastern territory.

Beyond the walls lies an absolute judicial vacuum that Canadian police cannot enter, and an international sovereign barrier that the FBI, despite its extensive resources, cannot reach.

The two hours Christopher slept on the metal-framed bed in the infirmary were the most restful sleep he had ever had in his life.

The subsequent diplomatic plane took off precisely at 4:30 a.m. The encrypted communication system in the cabin that could withstand electromagnetic pulses, the Beidou navigation satellite that escorted it throughout the journey, and the airspace clearance to Beijing—all of these were just the final ticket that brought him home from the finish line.

It will probably take a long time for the United States to react.

Moreover, it is highly likely that they did not actively discover Christopher's departure; it is more likely that it was discovered by foreign peers when Christopher published another paper on targeted drug delivery systems.

and then.

Then, probably at a regular press conference of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, an American journalist raised his hand to ask a question.

The spokesperson put down his pen, looked up, and after hearing the name clearly, said, "We do not comment on individual cases, but we oppose any accusations of interference in internal affairs."

Then came several diplomatic emails and several closed-door meetings in which the US representative repeatedly demanded "repatriation" and "extradition".

0

The Eastern representative asked, looking puzzled, "We don't have such a person. We've never even heard of this name you're talking about."

The other party slammed their fist on the table, saying that we have witnesses and physical evidence.

We said, "Oh, then we might need to verify this part again."

The other party asked, "When exactly will you finish verifying this?"

We said, "Well, it's hard to say about this cycle."

The other party said, "You're poaching our employees."

We said that we had never heard of this term before.

The other party slammed the document down with a livid face, then hastily left.

Some call this impotent rage, but in the Christopher case, the US probably won't be able to maintain this kind of anger for long, because there will only be more and more people like this.

That's all for the future.

For Christopher now, time seems to fly by once he's truly safe.

Christopher leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, only to find it was still dark outside, with only the wingtip crash lights flashing intermittently, before closing them again.

After repeating this several times, he stopped thinking about what time it was.

The lights on the plane were kept very dim.

Every now and then, Xiao Sun would stand up and go to the catering room in the rear cabin to pour him some hot water. On his way back, he would also help pull the blanket that had slipped off his knees.

On two separate occasions, he was half-asleep when he felt someone touching his pulse. The fingers were very light and were removed after about ten seconds.

That person was probably a random doctor; he didn't open his eyes.

Then the engine sound changed slightly, the aircraft began to descend slowly, and I felt a slight stuffiness in my ears due to the change in air pressure.

He opened his eyes.

Xiao Sun leaned over from across the aisle, holding a wet wipe in her hand, and handed it to him.

"We're almost there. Wash your face."

He took the wet wipe, unfolded it, and wiped his face. The wipe had a faint lemon scent.

He folded the tissues and placed them on the small table, then looked down through the porthole.

The plane was descending, and after passing through a layer of morning mist, visibility suddenly became clear.

Below are fields laid out like a checkerboard, with the gray-white highway neatly dividing these green squares.

The distant city skyline was only outlined in the morning mist, making it impossible to see any specific landmarks. But it was unlike any North American city he remembered. There were no chaotic shantytowns that started spreading from the suburbs, and no clusters of tents along the highway.

"Mr. Liu," came Xiao Sun's voice from beside him.

It took him about a second to realize that "Mr. Liu" was calling him.

"Are you ready?"

He is now Liu Xiaodong, a retired professor and second secretary at the consulate. He looked down at his dark blue wool sweater and then at his brown soft-soled leather shoes.

"Ready."

The plane made a final roll correction at the runway threshold. The fuselage shuddered slightly the moment the landing gear touched down, followed by a loud roar as the thrust reversers activated. The view outside the window went from blurry to clear, showing the concrete runway and yellow guide lines.

The Boeing 747 taxied along several taxiways before finally coming to a stop in a separate parking area far from the civilian terminal.

The tarmac was surrounded by barbed wire, and there was a guard post at the entrance, but there were no brightly colored "GG" signs like those at the terminal, and no shuttle buses.

Several transport planes painted in Air Force gray were parked inside the barbed wire fence, and the national flag was flying on the control tower in the distance.

Eastern Time, the next day, just after nine o'clock in the morning.

Beijing Airport, military parking area.

Three cars were already waiting there.

Two black Hongqi sedans, with a white ambulance sandwiched between them.

There were no flashing lights on the roof of the ambulance, the door was open, and two people in white coats were standing at the back of the vehicle, with a lightweight wheelchair next to them.

"arrive."

Xiao Sun stood up, removed the cushion behind his back, helped him unbuckle his seatbelt, and then supported his left elbow with his right hand.

He slowly stood up, holding onto the back of the chair. The stitches on his left leg had become stiff after maintaining the same position for a long time. His calf was a little swollen, and when he stepped down, a dull pain traveled from his ankle all the way up to his knee.

The crew member in the overalls came over from the front cabin and helped him push open the windshield at the gangway entrance.

The morning breeze blew into the cabin door, a little cool, carrying a scent of autumn grass and earth that he hadn't smelled in a long time.

Christopher paused for a second at the top of the gangway.

On the concrete floor below the gangway, a doctor in a white coat was already pushing a wheelchair over.

"Shall I help you down again?" Xiao Sun asked.

He didn't answer. He pulled his left hand out of Xiao Sun's grasp, and then, surprisingly, he grabbed the handrail of the gangway himself, stepped down with his right foot, and dragged his left leg over the step.

He moved very slowly, gritting his teeth, but he had already walked down the gangway by himself before the ambulance crew arrived.

Then he sat in a wheelchair.

The doctor in the white coat squatted down, rolled up his trousers to his knees, removed the gauze to examine the wound, gently pressed the edge of the stitches with his fingers, and then looked up and said a few words in Chinese to the person next to him.

"He said the sutures were done well, but there was some fluid accumulation under the skin that needed to be treated immediately," Xiao Sun translated for him.

"Who stitched it up? Was it one of ours?"

"It was done by a white doctor in Seattle."

Christopher paused, recalling Thomas's blood-stained protective suit, and added, "A poor doctor whose license was revoked by the American healthcare system."

The ambulance's rear door closed, the blue warning lights were off, and the vehicle smoothly drove out of the parking area.

The Hongqi sedan followed behind, its windows covered with privacy film, so it was impossible to see how many people were inside from the outside.

Christopher had his blood pressure and blood oxygen levels checked again in the ambulance, and then Xiao Sun used the lid of a thermos to give him a small cup of water.

The ambulance took about forty minutes to arrive.

He looked out the car window the whole way, and Xiao Sun would occasionally point out buildings as they passed by: "This is the conference center, that's the economic development zone, we're almost in the city."

The ambulance took him directly to the international medical department of a top-tier hospital.

I took the direct elevator, which went straight up to the fourth floor from the underground parking garage. There was already a middle-aged man waiting at the elevator door.

The middle-aged man's surname is Zhou. He is a chief physician specializing in trauma surgery and orthopedics.

When discussing medical cases, some junior residents would mention his name with the prefix "Zhou Yidao" (周刀).

When Dr. Zhou was young, he performed Achilles tendon reconstruction for pilots at the training base. Later, he was transferred back to the main hospital and specialized in pelvic fractures and muscle tears. Over the past twenty years, he has restored at least four figures of joints and other physical injuries.

His hands, as a result, have a layer of light yellow calluses that have been there for many years. His knuckles are slightly thicker than normal, and when he stretches them out, there are traces of iodine that haven't been washed off.

"Professor Liu, welcome back."

Director Zhou extended his hand, said it once in English, and then said it again in Chinese.

Xiao Sun also reached out and shook hands with Dr. Zhou, then turned to Christopher.

"Professor Liu, according to procedure, you will need to be hospitalized for the next few days to have your leg treated."

"I'll take care of the rest of the living arrangements."

"Until you get used to things here, I'll handle all the arrangements, including meals, translation, shopping, and paperwork."

Christopher took the laminated ID card out of his pocket and glanced at it.

The private room is at the end of the corridor.

There was a large south-facing window in the ward, and the morning sunlight shone directly onto the white sheets of the hospital bed.

A fruit basket and a copy of the day's Chinese newspaper were placed on the bedside table, which Xiao Sun casually tidied up and put away in the cabinet.

Christopher was helped onto the bed by two nurses. Director Zhou performed another ultrasound examination on his leg, which confirmed that there was a small amount of fluid under the skin, but no signs of infection. He then scheduled a debridement procedure for half an hour later.

He leaned against the bed, looking at the sunlight outside the window, and then turned to look at the chief resident who was registering.

"How much does this hospital room cost per night?"

The chief resident paused for a moment, then glanced at Director Zhou. Director Zhou didn't even look up; he was still writing medical orders.

"The international ward costs about three times more than a regular ward. You can ask the administration for details."

"The prices at the international departments of public hospitals are approved and much cheaper than those at private hospitals."

Christopher paused for a moment.

"In your country, how much would this kind of injury cost for an ordinary person, including surgery?"

"It's probably around ten thousand here."

Christopher thought he had misheard.

He turned his face back from the window to look at Director Zhou, saying nothing, but the muscles at the corners of his eyes twitched twice.

"It's not the surgery that costs over ten thousand, it's the whole process, excluding rehabilitation, that costs over ten thousand," Director Zhou added.

Christopher touched his hairline with his finger.

"Then—what about the reimbursement rate?"

Director Zhou didn't quite understand that sentence.

"The reimbursement rate depends on what medication you use. Surgery and hospitalization are fully covered by medical insurance."

"Our country's medical insurance is universally applicable."

Christopher fell silent again.

Let me explain in more detail.

Director Zhou put the medical record folder back on his knees and loosened his legs a bit.

"For ordinary people in China, if medical insurance covers all aspects of this kind of injury, from surgery to hospitalization to discharge, the individual's share is very small."

"If the steel plates are removed later, the government will pay for it."

"If you have a chronic disease that requires long-term medication, you can also get direct reporting through chronic disease management."

"Of course, some imported consumables are not listed in the catalog, and those have to be paid for by the customer."

Christopher nodded.

"If I were to call an ambulance, go to the emergency room, get stitches, and stay in the hospital for three days, the final bill would probably be between $100,000 and $200,000."

Director Zhou closed the medical record folder.

"professor."

"Um."

"We'll treat your leg here so you can walk again. If there's a charge, it would be between 30,000 and 50,000 for a foreigner like you, no more."

Christopher did not respond immediately.

He looked down at his left leg. The gauze had just been changed and was tied more neatly than Thomas's. The tape was applied precisely, without a single peeling edge.

"What do you take healthcare for?"

"It's not a business transaction," Director Zhou said.

"The medical insurance system is run by the government, and money is being subsidized into it every year."

"We also negotiate drug prices with pharmaceutical companies, conduct centralized procurement, and lower prices through large-volume purchases. Although the prices of some drugs still cannot be reduced, the overall operating logic is to make medical care more affordable for more people, not to make insurance companies make money."

"Where's the doctor?"

"My monthly salary is about 30,000 to 40,000 RMB, and I get some performance bonuses at the end of the year, but it's about a zero less than my American counterparts."

Christopher's Adam's apple bobbed.

Xiao Sun stood by the door without saying a word.

She placed the thermos on the bedside table, poured a cup of hot water and placed it next to the empty glass, then gently closed the door, leaving only a crack.

Christopher did not drink water.

He looked out the window for a while, then turned back, his gaze falling on the name tag on Director Zhou's chest.

Are you discussing next-generation peptide ligand-modified targeted therapies led by Pfizer for breast and gastric cancer?

""

Director Zhou paused for a moment, then leaned back in his chair.

"In the direction of PROTACs?"

Christopher nodded.

"Yes. The delivery efficiency of peptide-ligand modified lipid nanoparticle carriers is about three to five times higher than that of existing commercial LNPs, and the effect is particularly obvious for extrahepatic targeting."

"For HER2-positive breast cancer or Claudin18.2-positive gastric cancer, as long as the specificity of the vector can be improved, the side effects will be much smaller than those of existing antibody-drug conjugates."

"I know that there are already generic versions of CDK4/6 inhibitors for breast cancer in China, but targeted therapies, especially conjugates, are still very expensive."

"I'm referring to carrier technology in this direction."

Director Zhou pushed his glasses up and his gaze towards him changed.

"We have been tracking the preclinical research data in this area, but the price is indeed an issue."

"During last year's medical insurance negotiations, the prices of several ADC drugs were still not negotiated."

"Multinational pharmaceutical companies have too many patent barriers in this area. Even if domestic brands develop biosimilars, it is difficult for them to bypass their process patents."

Christopher closed his eyes briefly.

He closed his eyes for about five seconds.

Then open your eyes.

"I see."