I am a necromancer, and I absolutely love America.

Chapter 163 Tessa's Weight (9K long chapter, please vote and subscribe)

The paper was densely covered with court judgment summaries, drug driving test reports, search records, and lawyer's statements.

Marty read it once, then again, making sure he hadn't missed any information, before finally pursing his lips.

Anna lost.

He knew all along that she would lose.

She is a tool, a consumable; once she's used up, she should be thrown away.

He didn't care how many years she was sentenced to, whether she could pay off the loan sharks, or whether she would die in prison.

He was concerned about something else: Anna hadn't held Brian back.

The sexual harassment suspect was cleared of charges and became a victim of blackmail by a drug addict.

The public sympathizes with the victims.

The public will feel a strange sense of empathy for the old man who was wrongly accused.

Brian now holds a certain advantage in public opinion.

This is unacceptable to Marty.

He spent a month pushing Brian into the mud, but now Brian has climbed out on his own and has even turned the mud into his own stage.

Marty walked to the floor-to-ceiling window with his coffee, looking down at Manhattan below.

Traffic moved slowly along the street, and the glass curtain wall reflected the sunlight.

He was never the kind of spineless coward that others thought he was.

He graduated from Harvard Law School with top honors and worked at a well-known law firm for more than a decade, rising from a junior assistant to a senior partner. He personally participated in more than 30 large-scale mergers and acquisitions. Behind each transaction, countless people were ousted by him, and countless people wanted to oust him.

But he was ultimately the winner.

Marty is 41 years old this year, which is the prime of a politician's life.

The mixed-race individuals, a white person and a high-caste Indian, have skin that is neither too light nor too dark, falling somewhere between "people of color" and "white middle class."

The middle ground.

His wife, Servais Heath, was a Harvard classmate. She is of mixed race (Black and White) and they have five children, plus two adopted children.

He is young, loves his family, and his social media is full of photos of family meals, with nine people crammed onto a sofa and smiling at the camera.

No one can attack his family.

No one can attack his position.

He is a perfect candidate.

Brian?

An old white man, about to be crushed by the times, is still living in the political logic of twenty years ago, thinking that he can intimidate everyone with the lingering influence of his time as police chief.

Theodore?

He was also an old man, more cunning than Brian, but also not part of the future.

Menterson?

A spineless coward, sidelined by the city council and police department, sitting in the mayor's office like a decoration.

Marty's ambitions were never limited to the congressman's chair that Brian sat on.

That chair was a springboard.

He plans to spend three or four years securing his position as a congressman, accumulating sufficient exposure and connections, and then oust Mattson from City Hall in the mayoral election four years later.

Yes, all he needs is exposure and connections; nothing else matters.

For example, political achievements.

Political achievements are the most ridiculous prostitute, to be dressed up by anyone.

Marty also plans to completely remove Theodore from New York politics within five years.

This city needs someone who truly belongs to the future to manage it, not a bunch of old dogs tearing each other apart.

Marty pulled out a photo of Brian and Isabella leaning against each other.

This photo was originally intended for use during a public debate.

Unfortunately, Anna was defeated too quickly, and he couldn't do anything about it.

To be honest, these photos don't capture anything substantial.

However, no substantial content is needed.

A blurry, intimate, and ambiguous photograph is more lethal than a clear video.

Because ambiguity means that the audience can fill in the blanks themselves.

Human imagination is always richer than reality.

Katrina Clinic.

Richard stood in the operating room.

All the equipment has been moved back: liposuction machines, monitors, anesthesia machines, centrifuges—each one is spotless, with power cords neatly bundled and labeled with new tags.

The old equipment that Christina had urgently provided has been disposed of, and what's left here now are all the equipment that was confiscated last time.

Catherine bribed officials and secretly smuggled it back.

The serial number was worn away, making it look like those old, scrapped devices.

Catherine stood beside the control panel and smiled, "Everything is ready."

Richard nodded in satisfaction: "What about the anesthesiologist Oliver and the nurse Claire? Any abnormalities?"

"Thankfully, they're waiting for our news," Catherine said seriously. "They're under a lot of financial pressure. The clinic has been closed for a while, and their income has plummeted. Claire's child's tuition is due next month, and Oliver's mortgage is two weeks overdue. I lent them some money, which barely managed to stabilize the situation."

"What did they say?"

"They didn't say anything," Catherine shook her head. "They just said they understood and would let us know later. They didn't ask why it had been stopped for so long, they didn't ask how the equipment got back, they didn't ask if you had any problems."

Richard nodded.

A person who can keep quiet when they're about to collapse is more valuable than someone who is usually eloquent.

Richard could easily resolve their troubles in the simplest way.

However, killing is the worst option.

Because the vacancies left by the dead still need to be filled, and no newcomer knows whether they can keep quiet.

Since these two individuals have weathered this period of silence, they are trustworthy and can be continued.

Money can never solve big problems.

"How's the situation in the state now?" Richard asked.

"It's over," Catherine said. "I've been keeping an eye on the Queens Hospital case. It's closed, all the necessary sentences have been handed down, and no one will bring it up again."

""

Richard understood that the Katrina Clinic could reopen.

Only Eugene, the state attorney general's son, remains as a problem.

"What about Daniel?"

Catherine's lips curled into a slight smile: "He's been quite happy lately. Eugene's in trouble; he poached two doctors from the Bello Clinic chain, and they're furious."

Richard knew this was almost inevitable.

Eugene's plan is to make the Queens Hospital Plastic Surgery Department the largest public plastic surgery center in New York City.

He recklessly wielded the state attorney general's big stick, which inevitably offended some people he couldn't afford to mess with.

The current situation in the US medical aesthetics industry is that two chain giants are vying for market share.

Bello Medical Aesthetics Chain and Decano Medical Aesthetics Chain.

These two listed companies have market capitalizations exceeding 10 billion and wield enormous influence, far surpassing the reach of a small clinic like Katrina.

Bello Medical Aesthetics Chain will not be so easily manipulated. Even if Eugene is just the son of the state attorney general, they will not easily bow down, let alone the governor himself.

All he had to do was set a fire, and Eugene would be dead without a burial place.

Now, the blood collection point is accumulating fresh blood and flesh at a slower and slower rate, and it takes four or five hours each time to fill the blood and flesh box.

If the clinic reopens, both liposuction machines will be fully occupied.

Richard needs the clinic to open immediately.

"How many days do you need to prepare?" Richard asked.

Catherine did the math: "Three days. Notify Claire and Oliver to come back, check all the equipment, re-sterilize it, and contact a few long-term clients to confirm the schedule. Three days should be enough."

"OK, we'll reopen in three days." Richard stood up.

Eugene's problem also needs to be addressed.

The reversal in Anna's case was like a stone thrown into a pond, the ripples spreading faster than Brian had anticipated.

By the third morning, his phone had fallen silent.

The reporters who had previously been chasing after him asking "What is your response to the charges?" are now all waiting outside the courthouse for Anna's lawyer to issue a statement.

Meanwhile, Brian's campaign office was ringing ten times more frequently than the previous week.

Brian sat in the leather chair in his congressman's office, a coffee in his hand, with a rare clear sky outside the window, a sight unseen in New York winter.

The bright snow made everyone feel good.

Doug stood in the doorway, a relaxed look on his face that he hadn't seen in a long time.

"I've already called Killian," Brian said, a long-suppressed lightness in his voice. "The Hart Island Act can proceed. I'll handle Payne. Can you schedule an appointment with Killian for me, this afternoon or tomorrow, the sooner the better?"

Anna's case dragged on for a month, during which he was constantly being chased by the media, and every hearing felt like walking a tightrope.

Now it's all over.

Brian felt he had finally pulled his feet out of the mire and regained his footing.

It was already dark when I got off work.

On his way home, Brian passed a dessert shop that Tessa liked, and he asked the driver to stop so he could go in and buy a box of her favorite cookies.

When Brian opened the door, the living room lights were off.

Brian stood in the entryway, one hand still on the doorknob, his gaze sweeping across the dark living room.

The curtains were half-drawn, and the streetlights outside shone through the gaps, casting a thin, elongated patch of light on the floor.

Tessa sat on the sofa in the dark, not moving, and did not look up and say "You're back" as usual when she heard the door open.

An envelope and several documents were placed in front of her.

Brian's heart sank.

He didn't know why, and he hadn't even seen what the document was, but he already sensed something was wrong.

Tessa's posture while sitting there was inappropriate.

Her back wasn't relaxed against the cushion as usual; instead, it was straight and stiff, as if she were waiting for some outcome.

He had never seen her like this in decades.

Brian didn't change his shoes; he simply placed his bag in the entryway and slowly walked over.

The living room was so quiet that he could almost hear his own heartbeat.

Brian placed the cookie box on the edge of the coffee table and then sat down opposite her.

"Tessa?" he asked tentatively, his voice a little strained.

Tessa didn't look at him.

Her eyes were unfocused, and her fingers rested on her knees, motionless.

Brian reached out and picked up the document from the envelope.

It's a photo.

Seven or eight photos, all posed from different angles.

He and Isabella were in the corridor of a private club, his hand on Isabella's waist.

He leaned down and spoke into Isabella's ear.

Isabella leaned against the wall, smiling as she looked up at him.

The timestamp was printed on the edge of the photo, the date being some time ago, the night he told Tessa he was working overtime.

The two people in the photo are standing side by side, very close to each other, which is definitely not a normal social distance.

Every woman knows what this means.

Brian's mind went blank.

He usually has a solution to any problem, but not this time; his mind went completely blank.

Brian wanted to argue that "it's a misunderstanding" or "Marty forged it," but he knew it was pointless.

He could only raise his head and look at Tessa.

Tessa finally turned her attention to him.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she didn't cry. She just looked at him quietly and said in a soft voice, "You two were together just a few days ago, weren't you?"

Brian opened his mouth, but said nothing.

Tessa understood.

Something was slowly changing in her eyes. It wasn't anger or sadness, but a calmer, more desperate feeling, as if she had finally given up after confirming something.

Then, Tessa stood up, went into the bedroom, and closed the door.

Click.

The door is locked from the inside.

Brian sat in the living room, clutching the photos in his hand.

For decades, Tessa never locked her bedroom door, not even when they were arguing the most.

Tessa has now locked the bedroom door.

Brian put the photo back in the envelope, then leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

He didn't know when he fell asleep.

When I woke up, it was just dawn, and the bedroom door was still closed.

Brian stood up, walked to the bedroom door, raised his hand and hovered it on the door for a few seconds before lowering it.

He didn't knock, but turned and went into the bathroom to wash up, change his clothes, and straighten his tie, just like he always did.

When he went downstairs, he saw the cookie box still on the coffee table.

So he picked it up and placed it on the kitchen island, Tessa's favorite spot, where she would definitely see it.

Doug waited at the door and noticed that Brian seemed off, but he didn't ask him anything.

At noon, Brian made a special trip home, and on the way, he had Doug stop to buy Tessa's favorite snacks.

When I opened the door again, the living room was empty.

Brian put down the paper bag and saw a note on the coffee table with an Armitron ladies' watch on top of it.

Brian walked closer to look at the watch.

This was the birthday gift he bought for Tessa with his first month's salary after becoming a detective.

She has worn it for over forty years and has never changed it.

He picked up the watch, turned it over, and saw a line of small print on the bottom: "B&T·1973", the initials of his and her names, and the year they got married.

The silver metal strap had some scratches, and there was a small dent on the edge of the dial, but it was cleaned very well, as if it had been wiped repeatedly with a soft cloth.

Brian pursed his lips and picked up the note.

The writing on the note was so light, as if it were about to drift away on the wind.

"Lisa said she wants to visit Lyon at the University of Tokyo, and I'll go with her. You take care of your business. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about your health issues, and you don't need to worry about our relationship."

Brian stared at that line of text for a long time.

His fingers slowly clenched, crumpling the paper into a ball.

He didn't make a phone call, send a message, or chase after her to the airport.

He simply sat in the spot Tessa had sat in, clutching the watch in his hand, folding the note and putting it in his inside pocket, and sat there in the room.

As the sun set, he went into his study.

The lights were off in the study.

He opened the desk drawer and pulled out an old photo frame from the bottom.

The wooden frame of the picture frame has been worn white, and the photo inside was taken more than forty years ago.

He was wearing an NYPD patrolman's uniform, standing in front of a run-down apartment building. Tessa, wearing a floral dress, was next to him, her arm linked with his, smiling carefree.

The rent for that apartment took up a third of his monthly salary, leaving just enough for food and bus fares.

Brian placed the picture frame on the table and sat down in the chair.

The orange-red on the horizon turned into deep blue, and then into purplish-black.

Brian stared at the photo until one in the morning, unable to recall when he had changed.

Was it the day I became sheriff, the day I became the NYPD chief, or the day I was elected a congressman?

The smiling young man in the photo is gone; he and the person sitting in the chair now are completely different people.

Tessa hasn't changed; she's been waiting for that young man.

Tessa is still the same Tessa.

Brian is not the same Brian he used to be.

Brian stood up, put the picture frame into the bottom of the drawer, and then locked the drawer.

He walked out of the room with no expression on his face.

Doug's car was waiting at the door.

The moment Doug saw Brian, his gaze lingered on Brian's face for a second.

He had worked for Brian for nearly twenty years and had never seen Brian with such an expression.

It's not anger, it's not sadness, it's something that remains after all the heat has been completely shut off.

"Marty must die." Brian sat in the back seat, his voice utterly calm. "Not just lose the election, but die."

Doug didn't ask why, he just nodded: "OK, we need a plan."

Brian didn't respond.

As Doug closed the car door, he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Brian looking out the window, his gaze fixed on the streetlights flashing by.

The car drove through the night, with bright lights and a constant flow of traffic outside the window.

Brian felt a little unreal, as if there was a pane of glass separating him from them.

When he used to sit in this position, he was always calculating what kind of support this senator could get, how many votes that policy could garner, and his wife Tessa was waiting for him to come home for dinner.

The calculators are still there, but the house is empty now.

“Before, when Tessa sat there, I had to worry about what she thought of me, and I had to pretend to be a decent person. Now…” Brian began, as if talking to himself, “I don’t need to anymore.”

Doug drove in silence.

When Brian arrived at the office, Isabella was already waiting at the door.

She was wearing a deep red suit and high heels, leaning against the wall of the corridor, holding a cup of coffee in her hand, looking like she had been waiting for a while.

Doug wisely refrained from following them inside.

He stood outside the door and closed it.

Isabella walked into the office, placed her coffee cup on Brian's desk, and exclaimed excitedly, "I knew you were a strong lion! Well done! You handled Anna's matter flawlessly!"

Brian didn't look at her.

He took off his coat, hung it up, sat down behind his desk, opened a document, and put on his glasses: "Keep an eye on your NYPD, don't mess it up. I've worked in the House of Representatives for twenty years, I know how to handle my problems."

Don't make me worry at the slightest sign of trouble. This is the last time I'm reminding you. Otherwise, I won't hesitate to find a different partner.

Isabella's smile faded slightly.

She instinctively wanted to go back, but then she instinctively sensed that something was wrong with Brian.

It wasn't exhaustion, nor anger, but a calm that comes after all the warmth has been lost.

Isabella was silent for a moment:

OK.

""

"Then go do what you're supposed to do," Brian said.

Isabella did not move.

She stood there looking at him for a few seconds, then walked around the table, stood in front of him, and put her arms around him.

Brian's body did not respond.

He just sat there, letting her hug him.

“Listen, Brian! I don’t know what you’ve been through,” Isabella whispered in his ear, “but we won! We are lions, we are predators! Winning is the most important thing! You beat your opponents, and you will continue to beat them! Look at yourself now! Like a child who has lost his candy!”

Brian's eyes turned cold, and he suddenly grabbed her neck with his right hand, slamming her heavily onto the table.

Bang!

Isabella was pushed down and lay on the table.

The documents were swept to the ground, the coffee cup overturned, and the dark brown liquid soaked several sheets of white paper.

"Enough!" Brian's voice seemed to be squeezed from deep in his throat, his face contorted in a grimace.

Isabella's back was against the table, her head tilted back, but she didn't struggle or cry out in pain.

She simply looked at him, a defiant smile playing on her lips: "You think you're worthy of being my partner in this state? I don't need a颓废 old lion!"

Brian's forehead veins bulged, and his fingers tightened.

Isabella's face began to flush red. She couldn't make a sound or breathe, but she didn't raise her hand to pry his hand off or scratch Brian's wrist with her nails.

She simply lay on the desk covered in files, looking at Brian defiantly.

Brian stared fiercely into Isabella's eyes.

In those eyes, Brian saw something completely reckless, indifferent to life and death, exactly the same as what was in his heart at that moment.

He let go.

Isabella took a deep breath, coughed violently a few times, and then laughed.

"Hahaha!" She lay on the desk, her breath coming in hoarse gasps, laughing wildly. "Like this! Harder! Like a man! Come on!"

Brian looked down at Isabella.

Her suit was torn, the neckline was open, and there was a ring of reddish handprints around her neck.

His long hair was spread out on the table, his chest heaved, and he coughed violently, but his eyes showed no sign of backing down.

"Bitch!" Brian suddenly reached out and grabbed her neck, then pulled her collar down.

The sound of tearing fabric was particularly clear in the quiet office.

Doug stood in the doorway.

"The boss is already 68..." Doug sighed and took a few steps further down the corridor.

After a while, his phone lit up.

Brian's voice was hoarser than usual: "Go buy a shirt and a pair of pants."

Isabella's voice came through the receiver, carrying an indescribable languor: "A top and pants will do. And a scarf too."

More than an hour later, the office had returned to normal.

The overturned coffee cup was picked up, and the wet documents were replaced with new ones.

Isabella sat in the guest chair, wearing black trousers and a white shirt that Doug had just bought, the shirt buttons undone, revealing red marks on her neck.

She was reapplying her lipstick, her movements unhurried, as if she had just finished a routine body treatment.

Brian sat behind his desk, his shirt buttoned up and his tie retied.

He picked up the landline and started calling city councilors.

"Hey, Stuart," Brian's voice regained its characteristic politician's excitement and fullness, "I have something I'd like to discuss with you. The Hart Island Act may need to be re-entered into the City Council vote, and I hope that when you vote—"

An impatient voice came from the other end of the phone: "Fine, Brian, I know what you're up to. You NYPD tyrant! Don't expect me to support unlimited powers!"

Brian didn't pause, as if he had anticipated this reaction: "Unlimited powers aside. I can designate your district as a good district, but I need your support for the Hart Island Act."

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

"Brian, that's enough. Do you think I'll believe you?" City Councilor Stewart said, but his hostility had subsided considerably.

Brian leaned forward, as if Stewart were sitting right in front of him. "Stewart. I can get the NYPD to cooperate with you. There are always some people in your district who don't support you, right? I can designate those neighborhoods as bad zones. Do you need me to point out which neighborhoods?"

Stuart remained silent, calculating the benefits of the proposal.

Doug immediately placed a stack of documents in front of Brian, all of them from political opponents in the Stewart district.

Brian glanced at the document.

For example...

..." Brian pressed his finger on the document, examining it carefully, his tone as casual as if he were talking about the weather: "The Collins Street area, and the two blocks east of Seventh Avenue. I remember during the last election, there were a few community leaders there who openly opposed you, right? I can help you designate their territories as bad zones."

Stuart's breathing became heavier.

Brian knew that Stewart needed some time to think things through.

Turn districts that don't support you into bad districts, get the NYPD to withdraw its forces from those areas, increase crime rates, and make voters regret not voting for you, thereby damaging the leaders of the opposition and winning over the hearts of your supporters.

This is something every city councilor has thought about in their dreams late at night, but no one dares to say it out loud.

Isabella's eyes also began to shine.

Why didn't I think of this method!

The old lion truly lives up to its reputation!

"I'll think about it," Stewart said.

"Give me an answer by tomorrow afternoon," Brian said, and hung up without waiting for a response.

He glanced down at the list on the table and dialed the next number.

Isabella had already reapplied her lipstick. She sat in the guest chair, watching Brian make one phone call after another, each one taking roughly the same amount of time and tone.

First, they proposed the Hart Island Act, then offered a trade-off: designating areas that did not support city councilors as bad zones.

The other party's silence time is getting shorter and shorter, and their acceptance speed is getting faster and faster.

Doug stood by the window, listening to Brian's phone call.

He had followed Brian for so many years and had seen him use all sorts of means to bribe congressmen, offering money, positions, and policy concessions.

But he had never seen this move before.

The good-bad zoning policy turned most city council members into enemies of Brian and Killian.

However, if the city council districts are subdivided, with areas where the city councilor's opponents live designated as bad districts and areas where the city councilor's supporters live designated as good districts, then the city councilor can be transformed into a friend of Brian and Killian in one fell swoop.

The conflicts arising from good and bad districts are further subdivided into conflicts within each city councilor's district, and at the same time, they become weapons for city councilors to suppress their political opponents.

Brian didn't bribe City Council Speaker Payne; he only needed to bribe most of the city council members.

Isabella stood up, walked over to Brian, and glanced down at the list in his hand: "You're very good at this."

Brian scoffed, "Killian's a complete waste. He's been arguing in the council for so long, and he hasn't accomplished anything."

He dialed the next number, his voice regaining its perfectly cheerful tone: "Hey, Marcus. I have a suggestion, see if it's worth a talk..."

Isabella kissed Brian, casually wrapped the scarf around her neck, and left.

The NYPD is really a great thing!

This weapon is mine!

After hanging up the sixth call, Brian leaned back in his chair to rest.

He reached into his pocket, stroking the lady's watch, his face expressionless, like a cold statue sitting on a throne.

Just then, Brian's phone rang.

The name displayed on the screen made him hesitate to answer immediately.

Marty!

Brian gestured with his eyes.

Doug immediately went to the table, put on his glasses, and listened intently.

Brian then pressed the speakerphone button, his voice as calm as if he were chatting with a regular colleague: "Hey, Marty."

Marty's voice came through the receiver, with his characteristic ease and gentleness, as if he were catching up with an old friend, as if he hadn't just stabbed someone in the back: "Brian, I heard Tessa went to East University?"

"Yes." Brian's eyes turned cold for a moment, but his tone remained flat: "My granddaughter Lisa wants to visit her boyfriend, and Tessa is going with her. They might stay there for a while."

"Oh," Marty responded, as if discussing something trivial. "So, is she coming back?"

Brian didn't pause: "Of course. It just takes a little time. She's never been to Dongda before, so she might want to explore a bit more and might not be back for a few days."

"That's good." Marty's voice remained relaxed. "I called to discuss something with you. I think we can postpone the public debate for a while. I have some financial troubles that I need to deal with."

Brian narrowed his eyes, covered the microphone, and looked at Doug.

Doug nodded and mouthed a few words: "Public opinion is on your side."

Brian immediately understood.

If Tessa makes a public scene, Brian's "good husband image" will collapse, and Marty will immediately engage in a public debate.

However, Tessa did not cause a scene, did not hold a press conference, and did not provide Marty with any material that could be used to attack her.

She simply left quietly, without saying a word.

This caused Marty's attack to fail.

Brian is now portrayed as a "victim framed by Anna," and the public sympathizes with him.

Marty needs time to cool down this image, otherwise it will be very disadvantageous for him in public debates.

Brian also needs time.

He has three bills to advance: the Hart Island Act, the Unlimited Jurisdiction Act, and the NYPD's federal subsidies bill.

Public debates would pin him to the public eye, rendering him powerless.

Postponing the debate would also be advantageous for him.

"Okay." Brian feigned a sigh of relief. "How long do you think would be appropriate to postpone it?"

"Three weeks, or four weeks, depending on the situation," Marty's voice returned to its lighthearted tone.

Four weeks later, Anna's affair completely disappeared! Brian scoffed, "Two weeks then."

Marty paused for a second, then said, "Brian, you're quite the cunning fellow."

Brian smirked slightly. "Likewise. Let me show you something real, stop just talking."

"If I had your resources, you would have been finished long ago," Marty retorted.

The phone hangs up.

Brian put the phone back on the table.

Doug calmly analyzed, "He thought Tessa would let him get the evidence. But Tessa said nothing, did nothing. He's out of cards. And you have the upper hand in public opinion; your image is very good now. Next, I'll attack Marty on the point that politicians who 'speak for the people' are being manipulated by big capital through media attacks."

"No problem. Hold Marty back." Brian nodded. "I have the energy to deal with the bill now. The public debate is postponed for two weeks, which is enough time for me to get things done."

"Pass the Hart Island Act first," Doug analyzed. He didn't understand why Brian kept insisting on this bill, but Brian's orders were his direction.

Cell laboratory.

Christina held a printed data report in her hand, a barely suppressed smile playing on her lips—an expression rarely seen by outsiders: "I found it. I found a way to increase the survival rate of the Adolescent Virus."

Richard was surprised; the research had been going too smoothly lately: "Tell me."

Christina flipped to the middle page of the advertisement and pointed to a data line circled in red: "Two specific gene targets. By simultaneously editing these two targets, the survival rate of the adolescent virus will increase dramatically. The lab has replicated the experiment seventeen times, with a survival rate exceeding 95%. 95%!"

Richard looked down at the page of the report.

The data curve rises sharply at the location circled in red, and then stabilizes at a relatively high level.

He looked up: "What's missing before it's practically applicable?"

Christina suppressed her excitement: "We need to confine the adolescent virus to the skin layer, ensuring it doesn't spread below the dermis. Once we can do that, the adolescent virus can enter the human trial phase. Maybe three months, maybe longer, but the direction is set, and the rest is just a matter of time."

Richard pondered.

The faster-than-expected pace of research and development means that other things also need to be adjusted.

Christina closed the comic book, her expression shifting from excitement to seriousness: "However, this is also a potential danger."

Richard looked at her.

"The Adolescent Virus evolved from the Ivan Virus, and I suspect the Ivan Virus also has the same target site." Christina's voice deepened. "If this gene in the Ivan Virus mutates, whether due to environmental factors, pre-existing immune stress, or any unknown factors, the spread of the Ivan Virus could skyrocket. At that point, the Ivan Virus will spread at an unimaginable speed."

Richard calmly said, "The Ivan virus issue is Rosenberg's problem, not mine. I'll deal with the Youth Virus problem first."

OK.

""