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

The three-story parking garage beneath the Watergate Tower in Washington, D.C.

The autumn rain has been falling continuously for a whole week.

A black Lincoln Town Car with government license plates sat quietly in the shadows at the far end of the corner. The windows were closed and covered with expensive one-way privacy film, making it impossible to see inside from the outside.

"He's late."

In the back seat, David Rossi glanced at the priceless Patek Philippe on his wrist, an anonymous gift he had received last month for his "birthday." His fingers tapped impatiently on the leather armrest, his brow furrowed slightly.

"The rain is too heavy, Director," the driver, who was also his bodyguard and a former Secret Service agent, replied in a low voice. "Besides, the other party is usually very cautious about these kinds of meetings. Are you sure you don't need to notify the FBI? Under the Federal Witness Protection Act, we can..."

“No,” David Rossi interrupted him coldly. “The fewer people who know about this, the better. The FBI… their noses are too sensitive; sometimes they smell things they shouldn’t.”

Just then, a figure wearing a gray trench coat and a dark baseball cap appeared behind a pillar at the entrance. He walked slowly, glancing back with each step to make sure he wasn't followed.

The man walked to the Lincoln, hesitated for a long time, and then reached out and knocked on the window.

The car window rolled down a crack, just enough to let the sound through, but not enough to see Rossi's face clearly.

"Are you 'Deep Throat'?" David Rossi asked.

The man took off his hat, revealing a haggard face. His eyes were sunken, his stubble was unkempt, and his eyes were bloodshot.

He is Richard Evans, a former senior data analyst in the R&D department at Vought Pharmaceuticals. Three months ago, he suddenly resigned and disappeared without a trace, as if he had vanished into thin air.

"Chief Rossi," Richard's voice trembled, his teeth chattering, "Thank God...you really came. I thought...I thought nobody in the world dared to touch this."

He quickly pulled a yellow kraft paper envelope wrapped in layers of waterproof tape from his pocket.

"Here... is what you need. Evidence enough to send those devils to the electric chair."

"What exactly is it?" Rossi's voice remained calm, even carrying a hint of professional indifference.

"The raw data from the Apollo Phase III clinical trials." Richard swallowed hard, lowering his voice. "Not those fancy PowerPoint presentations, not the whitewashed data shown to the FDA panel. The real, raw records! Including the deleted 'abnormal brainwave' records, and... the self-harming behavior observed in the animal experiments."

David Rossi did not immediately take the envelope. He stared into Richard's eyes.

"Why would you do this? For money? According to the False Reporting Act, if you successfully report a whistleblower, you can receive up to 30% of the fine. That's hundreds of millions of dollars."

"Screw the money!"

Richard suddenly became agitated and grabbed the edge of the car window.

"My daughter... my 16-year-old daughter, Emily! She stole and ate the samples I brought home to lose weight. Now she's in a closed psychiatric ward at Georgetown Hospital!"

Richard's tears streamed down his face, mingling with the rain.

"She screams at the air every day, scratching her skin until it bleeds! She says bugs are biting her face! That's 'ants crawling' sensation, Chief! A classic withdrawal reaction to psychiatric medication! The doctor says it's permanent brain damage; her prefrontal cortex is damaged!"

He slammed the envelope against the car window.

"I'll make that bastard Corleone pay! I'll send him to hell! Even if God forgives him, I won't!"

David Rossi remained silent for a moment.

He reached out and took the envelope. It was more than just evidence; it was a sword that could pierce the heart of the Vought Empire, and Richard's final, desperate cry as a father.

"You will be protected. The Department of Justice will arrange a witness protection program for you. You and your daughter will have a new identity, a new life. We will send you to Montana or somewhere else where no one can find you."

"Thank you... thank you, Commissioner." Richard wiped away his tears. "I believe you. You're the only one who dares to say 'no' to big pharmaceutical companies. I saw your hearing; you're a true hero."

"Let's go. It's not safe here."

Richard nodded, pulled up his collar, bowed deeply to the car window, and then turned and disappeared into the dark rain.

David Rossi watched his figure disappear completely around the corner before slowly rolling up the car window.

He didn't open the envelope. He didn't even glance at it.

He took out a dedicated encrypted satellite phone and dialed a number.

The phone was answered after only one ring.

"Boss," David Rossi's previous sympathy for the victim vanished instantly, "we've caught the mouse."

A melodious opera tune came from the other end of the phone. It was Puccini's "Tosca," right at the climax of "For art, for love."

Clearly, Victor Corleone was enjoying an upper-class evening at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.

"Is that Richard?" Victor's voice was languid.

"Yes. He has the raw data. It's about the psychological side effects, the ant-walking sensation, and animal self-harm."

"What a pitiful fellow," Victor sighed, but there was no trace of pity in his voice. "How is his daughter?"

"In a mental hospital. Damage to the prefrontal cortex."

"Then let's reunite them. Perhaps there will be no suffering in another world."

"You know what to do, David. I don't want this data in tomorrow's Washington Post. Also, keep it clean."

"clear."

David Rossi hung up the phone.

He looked at the envelope in his hand. It contained the truth that Richard had obtained with his life.

But for David Rossi at this moment, it was simply an obstacle that had to be cleared away.

He pulled a gold-plated Zippo lighter from his suit pocket.

"Click."

The blue flames flickered, reflecting off his well-maintained face, making him appear somewhat ferocious.

He lit a corner of the envelope on fire.

The waterproof tape caught fire, emitting a pungent, acrid smell. The data concerning "justice," "truth," and "conscience" rapidly curled up in the flames, eventually turning to ashes and scattering across the Lincoln's carpet.

"Drive," he said to the driver.

"Where to, Chief?"

"Go to Vought's office in Washington." David Rossi straightened his tie. "I need to issue a new document. In light of Apollo's excellent performance in the three months since its launch, the FDA has decided to grant it a 'long-term safety certification' and reject the proposal to add a 'black box warning'."

The Lincoln sedan drove out of the parking lot and merged into the busy traffic of Washington.

Half an hour later.

Washington, D.C. Police Department received a call about a serious car accident at an intersection just three blocks from the Watergate building.

A concrete mixer truck with malfunctioning brakes failed to slow down at a red light and struck a pedestrian crossing the street. The deceased was identified as Richard Evans. The scene was horrific; the body was unrecognizable.

Police have preliminarily determined it to be an accident. While the driver is suspected of driving under the influence of alcohol, there is no apparent motive for murder.

The rain continued to fall. The rain washed away the bloodstains on the road, flushing the crimson blood into the sewers and into the murky Potomac River. Like the secrets of this city, it would eventually flow into the sea and disappear without a trace.

Meanwhile, in a warm office a few kilometers away.

David Rossi sat behind his large desk, solemnly signing his name with a pen on an official document bearing the FDA emblem.

...

Corleone Estate.

The fire in the fireplace burned brightly, dispelling the chill of late autumn.

Victor watched the brief news report about the car accident on TV—only fifteen seconds long, sandwiched between the weather forecast and sports news.

"David has finally grown up."

"He learned how to be a loyal dog. And a dog that can handle its own prey. I didn't even need to teach him how to bite through throats."

Sofia looked at Victor, a hint of coldness flashing in her eyes. She was wearing a silk nightgown and holding a biography of Machiavelli in her hand.

"But he has dirt on us," she warned. "He knows too much. What if one day he turns on us..."

"He won't."

Victor shook his head and picked up a blue capsule from the table—a sample of "Apollo." He twirled the tiny pill under the light, watching its captivating luster.

"Because he can't live without it either. Not just the drugs, but also the power. Power and money are more addictive than Apollo. Once he's tasted the sweetness of controlling life and death, he can never go back."

"That's 'regulatory capture,' my dear."

"His soul is now darker than this pill. And we are the holders of his soul."

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Even perfect attendance isn't enough, so there's nothing I can do. Brothers, get ready for the beginner's guide. From now on, updates here will be intermittent.