3: Chapter 3 The Miracle of Three Minutes

Chen Feng pushed open the door to Old Tom White's Clinic, and the smell of disinfectant mixed with the aroma of cheap coffee hit him in the face.

The clinic wasn't large, about thirty square meters, packed with two treatment beds, a row of medicine cabinets, and an old X-ray machine. Most of the wall paint had peeled off, and of the two fluorescent tubes on the ceiling, one was out while the other flickered incessantly.

Old Tom sat behind the consultation desk. He was in his sixties with thinning white hair and a pair of reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, currently using a cotton swab to clean a wound for a construction worker.

The worker was in his early thirties, Latino, with a left calf swollen like a steamed bun. His work pants had been cut open, revealing a large area of purplish bruising. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead one by one, and his jaw was clenched so tight it creaked.

"Dr. White," Chen Feng walked over.

Old Tom glanced up at him without stopping his work. "Chen family kid, are you here for a checkup?"

"Not for a checkup, but to talk business."

"Business?" Old Tom tossed the cotton swab aside and sized him up over the top of his glasses. "Hasn't your Maple Leaf Bio gone bankrupt yet?"

"Almost. That's why I'm here to find a way to keep it alive."

Old Tom shook his head and continued treating the worker's wound. "I just run a clinic and can barely put food on my own table. I can't help you."

"You haven't even heard what the business is yet."

"I don't need to hear it. Your father borrowed money from me three times while he was alive, and he still owes me to this day."

Chen Feng didn't take the bait. He pulled a test tube from his inner jacket pocket and placed it on the consultation desk.

The pale green liquid shimmered under the flickering light.

Old Tom glanced at it. "What is this?"

"An analgesic and anti-inflammatory drug. I developed it myself."

Old Tom's hand paused for a second, then he laughed.

"Kid, I've practiced medicine for thirty years; what drugs haven't I seen? Johnson & Johnson, Pfizer, Merck—those giants spend billions of dollars to develop a single new drug. You, with a bankrupt company in a dilapidated building in the South District—you're telling me you've developed a new drug?"

"Yes."

"What did you develop it with? The power of love?"

"Something like that." Chen Feng pushed the test tube forward. "Talk is cheap. You'll know once you try it."

Old Tom stared at the tube of liquid for a long time without reaching for it.

"Do you know that using unapproved drugs on patients is illegal?"

"I know. But the patients your clinic takes in—" Chen Feng glanced at the construction worker, "how many of them come through official channels?"

Old Tom's expression shifted slightly.

Clinics in the South District were inherently a gray area. Only people without insurance, without status, or those who didn't want to leave a record came here. The rules here weren't dictated by the FDA; they were dictated by results.

"Even if I wanted to try it, why should I trust you? If someone dies—"

"Look at him," Chen Feng pointed at the construction worker.

The Latino man's face was contorted in pain, his hands gripping the edges of the treatment bed so hard his knuckles were white.

"Worksite accident, hit by a heavy object, right?" Chen Feng looked at the injury. "Soft tissue contusion plus periosteal damage. What are you prescribing him now? Ibuprofen? Tramadol?"

Old Tom remained silent.

"Ibuprofen is useless for an injury of this level. Tramadol can barely suppress the pain, but the anti-inflammatory effect won't keep up. If the swelling in his leg doesn't go down and he waits another two days, he'll have to amputate."

Old Tom's brow furrowed. It wasn't because Chen Feng was wrong, but precisely because he was absolutely right.

"Did you study medicine?"

"What are you talking about? I run a pharmaceutical company; I'm practically in the same trade." Chen Feng picked up the test tube, unscrewed the cap, and drew 0.5 milliliters with a syringe from the desk. "External use, just apply it to the wound. No injection, no oral intake, risk is minimized."

He handed the syringe over. "If it doesn't work, just consider that I've wasted five minutes of your time."

Old Tom took the syringe and turned it over, examining the pale green liquid inside.

The construction worker was already in so much pain he had started cursing, mixing Spanish and English, his voice hoarse from shouting.

"Damn it... Doctor... can't you give me a shot of morphine... I can't take it..."

Old Tom hesitated for about ten seconds.

Then he sighed, squeezed the liquid from the syringe onto a piece of medical gauze, and applied it to the worker's wound.

Chen Feng checked the time on his phone. 1:14 PM.

One minute.

The worker was still cursing, but his voice grew quieter.

Two minutes.

He stopped cursing. The sweat on his forehead began to dry.

Two and a half minutes.

He looked down at his leg, his eyes widening further and further.

Three minutes.

"My God..."

The worker's voice was trembling, but not from pain.

The purplish bruising was fading—from deep purple to light purple, then to pale yellow, at an unnaturally fast speed. The calf that had been swollen like a bun was visibly shrinking.

Old Tom's coffee cup slipped from his hand.

The cup smashed on the floor, splashing coffee everywhere. He didn't react, his eyes fixed intently on the leg.

"This..."

The construction worker tried to move his ankle—the same ankle that had been too painful to even touch before. He moved it. There was no pain.

"It doesn't hurt." The worker looked up at Old Tom, his face a mix of terror and ecstasy. "Doctor, it really doesn't hurt! Not at all!"

Old Tom knelt down and pressed his hand against the now-unswollen calf. The hard swelling had softened, the temperature was normal, and the subcutaneous bruising was being absorbed rapidly.

When he stood up, his knees nearly gave way.

"This is impossible."

"What's impossible?"

"This kind of healing speed—no drug can do this. Even the top-tier steroids combined with hyperbaric oxygen therapy would take at least three to five days to achieve this effect. This stuff of yours... three minutes?"

"Not bad, right?" Chen Feng screwed the cap back onto the test tube and tucked it back into his pocket.

Old Tom stared at him. The look in his eyes was completely different from before—previously he saw a poor kid who liked to brag, now he saw a... he hadn't decided what word to use to describe him yet.

"What is this called?"

"ruisu."

"The ingredients?"

"Trade secret."

Old Tom licked his lips. Thirty years of medical practice made him very aware of one thing—what the scene he just witnessed meant. This wasn't just the concept of a 'good drug'; this was something that would rewrite the entire market for analgesics and anti-inflammatories.

"How do you want to cooperate?"

"I need fifty thousand dollars in startup capital." Chen Feng held up one finger. "You invest, and I'll give you exclusive distribution rights for the South District."

"Fifty thousand?" Old Tom's heart jolted. For a small clinic in the South District, fifty thousand dollars was no small sum.

"Think it's too expensive?"

"It's not that it's expensive, it's—"

Before Old Tom could finish, the clinic door was burst open.

The glass door slammed against the wall, bounced back, and was caught by a hand.

Raymond Cole stood at the entrance.

He was in his forties, bald, with a scar on his left face running from the corner of his eyebrow to his chin. He wore a black leather jacket, with tattoos spreading from the collar all the way up his neck.

Six people followed behind him. 'Fatty' Eddie was among them, grinning when he saw Chen Feng.

Cole's gaze swept around the clinic before finally landing on Chen Feng. He walked over, pulled out a chair to sit down, took a cigar from his pocket, and leisurely struck a match to light it.

"Chen." He blew out a puff of smoke. "I heard you said some interesting things to my men yesterday?"

The air in the clinic suddenly turned cold.

The construction worker had already scrambled to hide behind the medicine cabinet. Old Tom retreated into a corner, his fingers trembling.

Chen Feng sat by the consultation desk, unmoving.

"Your dogs run pretty fast."

"There are no secrets in the South District." Cole flicked his ash, the cigar ash falling onto the floor. "I'll give you a chance—kneel down now and pay next month's and the following month's protection fees together, and I'll pretend I never heard those words."

Chen Feng looked at him.

"I said, I'm not paying."

Cole took a drag of his cigar. Smoke billowed from his nostrils, slowly dissipating.

"Break this little brat's legs."

Eddie was the first to rush forward, followed by another man holding a baseball bat.

Chen Feng's heart rate accelerated. He wasn't afraid, but he certainly didn't have the ability to fight six people.

Just as the baseball bat was raised—

A figure flashed in from the doorway, blocking Chen Feng's front.

Marcus Turner.

He was 192 centimeters tall, so thin his cheekbones protruded, wearing an old jacket Chen Feng had found for him; it was too short, revealing a section of his wrists.

Chen Feng didn't know when he had followed. Nor did he know how long Marcus had been standing outside the door. But he was here.

"Move it, n*gger," the thug with the baseball bat cursed.

Marcus didn't say a word.