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

3 points in the early hours.

The celebration banquet has ended.

Wall Street elites, reeking of alcohol, left with beautiful models in their arms.

Victor returned to his suite, but instead of sleeping, he stood alone on the terrace, wearing a cashmere coat.

November in New York already carried the chill of late autumn. The wind blowing from the Hudson River felt like a knife scraping across his cheek.

He held a lit cigarette between his fingers, the red tip flickering in the darkness like an eye peering into an abyss.

Victor took a deep drag of his cigarette and then slowly exhaled.

From the moment he was forced to collaborate with Fat Tony on the launch of Purple Water, he knew there was no going back. Capital will only ever greedily expand forward; it doesn't care whether you were one of the initial recipients. Getting off the train is impossible; if you don't want to be crushed, you can only keep running alongside it!

Just as Victor finished his cigarette and was about to light another one, the phone in the living room suddenly rang.

Victor frowned. Three in the morning. Who would call at this hour?

If it were Saul, he would call his personal phone or the landline in his hotel suite. If it were Katie, she would simply knock on the door.

Victor put away the cigarette case, turned around, and walked into the living room.

He picked up the receiver but didn't speak.

There was silence on the other end of the phone. Only a faint static noise, the background noise characteristic of long-distance lines.

About five seconds later, a deep, hoarse voice, altered by voice modulation, came through.

"Congratulations, Mr. Corleone."

Victor's pupils contracted slightly.

"Who are you?"

"Who I am is not important," the voice said flatly. "What is important is that your performance at the celebration party was impressive. 'Inventing a disease'? A very creative idea."

Victor's fingers tightened around the receiver.

"How did you know? Did you attend the victory celebration?"

"In this country, there are no secrets. As long as someone is willing to pay the price."

"Mr. Corleone, your painkiller business is doing well. VGT's stock price is impressive. But do you think you're some big shot now?"

Victor sneered. "Just say what you mean. I don't like riddles."

"Very good. That's straightforward."

The voice continued:

"You've taken a bite out of some people's cheese, Mr. Corleone. The painkiller market is big, but it's the territory of the 'old order.' Roche, Pfizer, Purdue... it took them fifty years to build up the current balance. And you, like a bull that stormed into a china shop, have broken all the rules."

"Rules are meant to be broken," Victor said casually.

"That's a child's mindset," the other person said sarcastically. "In the adult world, rules are for maintaining order. You think you're successful because your drug is good? No. It's because we allow you to succeed. We need a catfish to spur those lazy, established pharmaceutical companies on."

"Us?" Victor grasped the key word.

Yes, it's us.

"Are you representing the government? Or...?"

“You can call me ‘The Patriot,’” the other person interrupted him. “We’re concerned with bigger things, like the stability of the healthcare system and how healthcare funds are being used.”

Victor's heart skipped a beat.

PBM (Pharmacy Benefit Management).

This word instantly flashed into his mind. It was the behemoth he feared most in his past life. The real manipulators hidden behind insurance companies and pharmaceutical companies, they controlled the medication lists of hundreds of millions of people across the United States, deciding which pharmaceutical companies would live and which would die.

"What do you want?" Victor asked.

“We need to talk,” said the man who called himself “Patriot,” “about your new drug, about ADHD. About how to turn your ‘invention’ into a legitimate money-printing machine.”

Why should I believe you?

"You don't need to believe me..."

The other person's voice became stern.

"Next Tuesday, Washington, D.C., the lobby bar of the Willard Hotel. If you don't come, you'll find that the FDA's approval process for your new drug will become extremely long. Maybe ten years, maybe forever."

beep - beep - beep -

The phone hangs up.

"I thought I'd have to wait a few more years," Victor put down the receiver, walked to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a glass of whiskey, "I didn't expect you guys to be so impatient."

He always knew that the real players hadn't entered the game yet.

Those previous opponents—Fat Tony, Hank, Lewis... were just monsters in the beginner's village. They were only playing a game of "making money."

The person on the other end of the phone is playing a game of "rules".

"You want to teach me how to play?" Victor said softly. "No, my friend. I'll teach you what the real game is."