8: Chapter 8 Whose Cake Was Touched?

Day seven.

Chen Feng took the last batch of ruisu out of the refrigerator and counted them twice. Forty-eight vials, divided into three portions, arranged in foam layers, and sealed in cold storage bags.

This was his fourth large-scale delivery in the past seven days.

Tony squatted nearby, counting on his fingers: "Old Tom's side replenished thirty vials, Dr. Ruan took thirty, Okafor forty, Ricardo came by again for ten, plus the scattered walk-ins... Boss, how many have we sent out this week?"

"One hundred and fifty-two vials," Chen Feng replied without looking up.

Tony gasped. "That means... seventy-six thousand dollars?"

"Seventy-six thousand. Subtracting the cost of raw materials and consumables, the net profit is about seventy-three thousand."

Tony stood up, paced around in a circle, and then squatted back down. "Boss, let me speak from the heart."

"Speak."

"A week ago, we were still worrying about a seven-hundred-and-twenty-three-dollar electricity bill. Now there's over seventy thousand sitting in the account—I haven't been sleeping well these past few nights, always feeling like I'm dreaming."

"Stop dreaming." Chen Feng zipped up the three backpacks. "We're still eight hundred thousand short of the eight-hundred-and-seventy-thousand-dollar loan, and the countdown is at twenty days. If you have extra energy to dream, you'd better help me think about how to double our production capacity again."

Tony's smile froze on his face.

Chen Feng handed him two backpacks. "These two—deliver one to Ruan Wenhui and the other to Okafor. Same old rules: count the cash in person, no receipts. I'll deliver the third one to Old Tom myself."

"I'm going alone?"

"Marcus is going with you."

Tony glanced at Marcus standing by the door—his 1.92-meter frame stood there like a pillar, making the entire doorframe look a size too small.

"Alright then." Tony took the backpacks and asked another question, "Boss, more and more people have been asking for the medicine lately. Someone from the Central District came by yesterday, said he was a gym owner with a knee injury, and was willing to pay fifteen hundred a vial. Do we take the deal?"

Chen Feng's movements paused.

"From the Central District?"

"Yeah, said a friend recommended us, but he didn't say which friend specifically."

"Don't take it."

"Why? It's fifteen hundred—"

"News from the South District spreading to the Central District—you think that's a good thing?"

Tony blinked a few times and remained silent.

Chen Feng slung the third bag over his shoulder and walked toward the door. "Remember, for now, all shipments only go through three channels: Old Tom, Ruan Wenhui, and Okafor. Don't sell to anyone else who comes to the door."

"What about Ricardo? If he comes again—"

"I'll handle the Iron Fist Gang's orders myself. Don't touch them."

Tony nodded, clutched the two bags, and followed Marcus out the door.

Da Hei stood up from the corner and followed silently behind Chen Feng.

—

Old Tom's clinic.

When Chen Feng arrived, nine people were sitting in the waiting area.

Seven days ago, this place was deserted. Now, there weren't enough plastic chairs, and two people were standing and waiting. A young man with gauze wrapped around his arm, an old man leaning on a cane, a woman holding a child—all sorts of people, their only commonality being that none wore decent clothes; they were the lowest class of the South District.

Old Tom was busy in the back room. Chen Feng didn't go in to disturb him and placed the backpack on the consultation desk.

After waiting for five minutes, Old Tom came out.

His white coat was stained with traces of iodine, and his reading glasses were crooked on the bridge of his nose. He looked three years older than he had a week ago.

"Eighteen vials." Chen Feng patted the backpack.

Old Tom didn't rush to take the money; instead, he took off his reading glasses and rubbed the corners of his eyes.

"Chen."

"Yeah?"

"I'll tell you a number." Old Tom leaned against the medicine cabinet. "This week, counting the first batch, a total of forty-six vials of ruisu have passed through my hands. Guess how many patients were treated?"

"You tell me."

"One hundred and seventeen."

Chen Feng raised an eyebrow.

"One hundred and seventeen. Fractures, burns, chronic inflammation, rheumatism, post-operative pain—all cured. Not 'somewhat relieved,' not 'symptoms alleviated,' but cured." Old Tom's voice was very low. "I've practiced medicine for thirty-two years, and there has never—never been a medicine that could do this."

Chen Feng didn't respond.

"But," Old Tom's tone shifted, "more than half of the patients I see every day now are coming for the ruisu. They aren't here to see a doctor; they're here for the medicine. Do you understand the difference?"

"I understand."

"Some people have stopped going to the community hospitals. Before, for shoulder pain, knee pain, swollen gums—these minor ailments—they would go to the community hospital and use their health insurance. Not anymore. They come straight to me and ask if I have 'that green medicine'."

Chen Feng pushed the backpack over. "What do you mean?"

Old Tom stared at him for two seconds. "I mean—you've touched someone's cake, Chen."

The clinic fell silent for a moment. The sound of a child crying came from the waiting area.

"Fewer patients in the community hospital ER means fewer prescriptions, and fewer prescriptions means less insurance reimbursement. You know this chain better than I do—the one connected at the top is the insurance company. Who holds the insurance business in the South District? United Shield Health Insurance."

Chen Feng leaned against the consultation desk and unzipped the backpack.

"Dr. White, you're talking more than usual today."

"Because someone came to my clinic to ask questions yesterday."

Chen Feng's hand stopped on the backpack.

"Who?"

"Two men in suits. Said they were from United Shield Health Insurance, here to do a 'community medical service satisfaction survey.' Asked me how my outpatient volume has been lately, what illnesses patients are seeing me for, and what medicines are being used." Old Tom adjusted his reading glasses on his nose again. "They asked very politely, but they didn't seem like they were doing a survey."

"How did you answer?"

"I said the outpatient volume has always been the same, the people coming in are all old patients, and they're all using Enhancers."

"Did they believe it?"

"I don't know if they believed it. But before they left, they stood at the door for a while and took two photos with their phones. They took photos of my clinic's sign and the house number."

Chen Feng took the eighteen vials of ruisu out of the backpack one by one and arranged them in the medicine cabinet.

"Dr. White."

"Yes."

"The money."

Old Tom was stunned for a moment, then pulled an envelope from the drawer and slapped it on the table.

"Nine thousand."

Chen Feng opened it to check the thickness, then tucked it into his inner pocket.

"When do you want the next batch?"

"Don't worry about the next batch yet." Old Tom lowered his voice. "Chen, United Shield Health Insurance isn't the Iron Fist Gang; it's not a few thugs kicking in your door. It's a 1.2-billion-dollar public company. If they want to get you, they don't need to send people to beat you up—one phone call to the FDA, and you're finished."

"I know."

"You know, and yet—"

"Dr. White." Chen Feng closed the medicine cabinet and turned to face him. "Do you still want to renew the contract?"

Old Tom opened his mouth but didn't make a sound.

"If you want to renew, then don't worry about the upstream matters. You just focus on seeing patients, selling medicine, and collecting money. I'll handle the outside matters."

Chen Feng patted his shoulder and left the clinic with Da Hei.

—

On the way back to the company, Chen Feng didn't walk fast.

Da Hei followed silently to his left, occasionally looking up to sniff the air.

United Shield Health Insurance.

He was no stranger to this name. Tony had mentioned it when organizing the company's files—when Maple Leaf Bio was first registered, the original owner, this body's father, had once tried to talk to United Shield about a drug supply cooperation, only to be turned away by the receptionist.

1.2 billion dollars in annual revenue. The largest health insurance group in the South and East Districts. They have contracts with over 70% of the formal medical institutions in the South District.

And he, a three-person company in a dilapidated building, using an unapproved green liquid, had caused a significant drop in the South District community hospitals' ER volume within seven days.

Old Tom was right—he had touched someone's cake.

But Old Tom wasn't entirely correct either.

It wasn't that he actively went to touch it. It was that this cake was already rotten. The poor in the South District couldn't afford proper insurance or proper hospitals; minor illnesses dragged on until they became major ones, and major ones dragged on until they became permanent disabilities. United Shield Health Insurance profited from these people being forced into the insurance system—every painkiller prescription, every ER registration, every bottle of overpriced anti-inflammatory medicine was profit squeezed out of the people at the very bottom by United Shield.

Now with ruisu, something that costs eight dollars to make can replace hundreds of dollars worth of prescription drugs, and a three-minute treatment can resolve a three-day course.

The poor stopped going to hospitals.

United Shield's profits decreased.

So United Shield wants to destroy him.

The logic was simple. Simple to the point of being disgusting.

Chen Feng walked to the bottom of the company building and paused.

He looked up at the exterior wall of the three-story dilapidated building; the concrete was peeling, the window frames were rusted, and the "Maple Leaf Bio" sign was tilted at one corner.

"Da Hei."

Da Hei looked up.

Chen Feng squatted down and rubbed its head.

"We might be in trouble."