Chapter 4: Chapter Four: You

Cheng Yong felt utterly helpless right now.

His wife had divorced him, fighting for custody of their child, and his father was critically ill in bed, while his shop had been locked by the landlord.

The weight of life had crushed Cheng Yong so badly he could barely breathe.

After much effort, he finally tracked down Indian Gleevec, hearing the price difference between domestic and foreign markets was staggering—he made up his mind to take the risk.

But then he learned someone in China was already selling it, dashing the fragile hope he’d just ignited.

In his oil shop, Cheng Yong raged helplessly, smashing things with “ding gang” sounds to vent his unspeakable sorrow.

This was useless—otherwise he wouldn’t have ended up with his wife running away and his child nearly taken from him. Of course, the divorce wasn’t entirely because he hit her; there were multiple reasons.

The sun sank westward, dusk falling. Wang Yan stood at the door, listening to the “ding gang” noises inside, shaking his head.

He couldn’t say anything to Cheng Yong.

In the movie, Cheng Yong sold his distribution channel to the big fraudster Zhang Changlin, using the profits from Gleevec sales to open a clothing factory—his life then was truly happy. His child stayed with him, his father received treatment, and his life was no longer the tangled mess it once was. Wasn’t that his original goal?

After learning of Lv Shengyi’s death, his inner struggle was unimaginable. He blamed himself for Lv Shengyi’s death, abandoned everything he’d gained, and returned to selling medicine.

Was this more like self-redemption—or a rebellion against fate’s injustice?

Of course, Wang Yan’s thoughts were still about enforcing the law—no nonsense.

Without hesitation, he crawled through the shattered glass.

Cheng Yong, startled by Wang Yan’s movement, saw him enter and grabbed a hard object nearby, raising it defensively: “I’m not afraid of anything—I’m telling you, leave now while you still can.”

He was already hopeless—nothing left to fear. Even a cornered dog jumps over a wall; what about someone with no hope?

The atmosphere was tense as Cheng Yong watched him warily—but Wang Yan, seeing Cheng Yong’s thick, messy hair, barely restrained the urge to grab a handful.

Wang Yan smiled and waved his hand: “Brother, don’t be tense.”

“You want to sell Indian Gleevec, right?”

Watching Cheng Yong’s expression shift, Wang Yan leaned closer: “Put the thing down first. Calm down.”

Honestly, after all this time training in combat, Wang Yan wasn’t afraid of Cheng Yong.

Cheng Yong thought for a moment, set the object down, and asked: “What do you want to say?”

“I’ve got the domestic distribution rights,” Wang Yan continued. “I can give them to you—but only for Shanghai. That should be enough; there are tens of thousands of patients here alone.”

Wang Yan sat down and gestured for Cheng Yong to sit too.

“So here’s the question: what can you offer?”

Cheng Yong lowered his head, silent, calculating what he could possibly give. After endless thought, he only looked at Wang Yan with red-rimmed eyes.

Seeing Cheng Yong stare blankly at him, Wang Yan understood: “You’ve got nothing, right?”

“Then let’s try a different arrangement.”

Cheng Yong’s eyes lit up at Wang Yan’s words, waiting for him to continue.

“I’ve already learned most of your situation before I came.”

“Your wife divorced you and is fighting you in court for custody of your son. Your father is on the brink of death.”

“Under these circumstances, how much do you think your time is worth?”

Seeing Cheng Yong remain silent, Wang Yan assumed he didn’t understand and explained further.

“You’ve been smuggling for a while—you must know the consequences.”

“If you add selling counterfeit medicine to smuggling, you’re definitely caught. The law’s net is wide, and it never misses.”

“No one knows how many years you’d get—do you understand now?”

Cheng Yong replied: “You want me to go to prison for you?”

Wang Yan shook his head: “No, no, not for me—for all the leukemia patients. You’re saving them. They won’t have to bankrupt their families for medicine, won’t lose their wives and children, won’t see their homes destroyed. You’re not committing a crime—you’re saving lives.”

Seeing Cheng Yong struggle, unable to decide, Wang Yan added: “Don’t worry too much. If you’re caught, confess fully, cooperate actively—I’ll get you a good lawyer. Given what you’re doing—saving lives—you’ll definitely get a reduced sentence.”

“Alright, don’t worry about money. Think it over. Call me when you decide.”

He left a phone number, patted his ass, and walked out.

Back at Liu Sihui’s home, he ate a quick meal.

Liu Tiantian and Wang Yan got along wonderfully—she called him “Uncle Wang” sweetly, over and over.

After playing with Liu Tiantian for a while, she was exhausted—she’d been running around school all day—and soon fell asleep.

Liu Tiantian had no energy left, but old Wang had plenty.

Let’s be honest—Liu Sihui was really hot. She danced, had a great body, and was damn sexy.

Plus, now she ran a clothing factory with dozens of employees—she had her own kind of charm.

In the months they’d known each other, Wang Yan and Liu Sihui had unlocked nearly every position—her variety of tricks kept Wang Yan blissfully distracted.

After passion faded, Wang Yan opened the window, lit a cigarette, and crawled back under the covers, hugging Liu Sihui.

Was this some universal female movie trope? Liu Sihui curled in Wang Yan’s arms, running her hair across his skin, tickling him—leaving him aroused but powerless. He sighed repeatedly: “The body is the foundation of revolution—Comrade Xiao Wang still needs to work harder.”

Liu Sihui was deeply satisfied with her current life—since Wang Yan came, each day brought more hope.

She no longer worried about her daughter’s safety, no longer struggled with daily expenses, no longer had to dance for strangers and endure their stares.

Before, she’d felt nothing for Wang Yan—but now, she truly loved this man to her bones.

Wang Yan noticed all of this, deep inside.

Maybe at first it was for her daughter—but now, it was truly for himself.

Of course, Wang Yan refused to admit it—even though he was doing good. He stubbornly believed Liu Sihui had just been slept into submission. Yeah, that’s it.

“Let’s pause for now—we’ve sold millions in medicine. Novartis in Switzerland should’ve noticed something by now.”

“From now on, just focus on running the factory.”

Liu Sihui always did exactly what Wang Yan said—she had no objections.

“By the way, among your patients, is there anyone completely alone—no family, just left to die on their own?”

Liu Sihui thought a moment: “There’s one—Peng Hao. A rural kid. He got sick and ran to the city to avoid burdening his family. It’s tough. He bought medicine from us too. Kid’s solid—reliable.”

Wang Yan thought, recalling the plot: “That’s him. Give me his phone number—or if no phone, his address.”

Liu Sihui didn’t say more—she gave Wang Yan Peng Hao’s address.

Wang Yan finished his cigarette, regained his strength, flipped Liu Sihui onto her back, and Comrade Xiao Wang resumed the revolution.

The next day, after handling some matters, Wang Yan set out to find Peng Hao—the address was at a slaughterhouse on the outskirts of Shanghai.

Wang Yan drove the secondhand bread van he’d bought for easier transport. He’d originally wanted the International Wuling—but after asking around, he learned it wouldn’t be released until next year, 2003.

Arriving, he greeted someone, waited a moment, and out came Peng Hao with his bright yellow hair.

Peng Hao looked at Wang Yan’s ordinary face, puzzled: why was this guy calling him?

“You’re looking for me? I don’t know you—why?” Peng Hao asked, confused.

Wang Yan said: “Wang Yan. I’m here for a reason. Convenient? Let me buy you dinner—we’ll talk while we eat.”

Peng Hao was straightforward—he went back, said something, got in the car, and followed Wang Yan away. Compared to Cheng Yong, Peng Hao was truly fearless. Already half-giving-up due to his illness, and young and immature, he was reckless. Like so many real-life youths—he’d slash you without hesitation. It was damn terrifying.

Wang Yan knew Peng Hao’s living standards were poor—he picked a high-end restaurant to treat the kid, give him a proper meal.

Inside, they found a private room. Wang Yan handed Peng Hao the menu: “Order whatever you want.”

Peng Hao didn’t hold back—even though it was just the two of them—he ordered a full table.

That meal cost over a thousand yuan—Shanghai’s average monthly income was only around two thousand.

After ordering, Peng Hao noticed Wang Yan showed no sign of regret—wondering what the hell this old guy really wanted.

Wang Yan didn’t care—he was now qualified to call himself “Old Wang Five.” He had millions in assets—black money wasn’t money anymore, was it?

Only in this movie world could he do this. In real life, such a meal would’ve given Wang Yan a heart attack.

When the food arrived, Wang Yan dismissed the waiter, shut the door tight, and said to Peng Hao: “Eat first. Talk after.”

Then Wang Yan sipped his small glass of liquor, watching Peng Hao wolf down the food.

But this Peng Hao ate like a beast—hardly looked like a leukemia patient. He did physical labor, and in the movie, his chase with Cheng Yong was agile and quick.

Looking at Peng Hao, then remembering Lv Shengyi, his brother-in-law, thin as a monkey, Wang Yan could only conclude: Peng Hao was just naturally gifted.

When Peng Hao finished eating, Wang Yan poured him a glass of water: “Alright, you’ve eaten enough. Let’s get serious.”

Peng Hao said: “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

Wang Yan said: “You’re a leukemia patient—you know Gleevec. In China, it’s 37,000 yuan a bottle.”

“I’ve got Indian counterfeit Gleevec—I sell it for 5,000 yuan a bottle. You’ve bought it before, haven’t you?”

“You’re a straightforward kid—I won’t beat around the bush.”

“You know this business is illegal. I’m asking you to front the sales—if anything goes wrong, you take the blame.”

“Plainly put—if you get caught, you go to prison.”

“In return, I’ll pay you a sum. And if you match for a stem cell transplant, I’ll pay to cure you—every cent. What do you say?”

Wang Yan asked.

Regarding stem cell transplants, Wang Yan had already started matching tests for Lv Shengyi and Liu Tiantian—he’d spent a fortune.

Money could only bump up your priority—it couldn’t guarantee an instant match.

Of course, he still didn’t have enough.

Since ancient times, China has been a society of guanxi—this has never changed.

Plainly put: money and connections mean everything; no money, no connections means nothing.

Wang “Old Wang Five” Yan? He’s got connections!

Peng Hao thought a moment, then said, just like in the movie: “You’re doing this for money.”

Wang Yan paused, stunned by this utterly off-target reply.

"I won't deny it, but you should tell that to the people at Nova Corp."

"Brother, think about it. Thirty-seven thousand domestically—most people can't afford it. I sell it for five thousand—many people can."

"I feel I've saved quite a few lives. Isn't it fair for me to make some money?"

Huang Mao was reckless, but not stupid; after thinking it over, he stopped dwelling on it.

After a moment of silence, Huang Mao said, "Alright, let's do it."

He had nothing to lose—now there was hope of a cure, and that was better than anything.

Seeing him agree as expected, Wang Yan smiled: "Alright, it's settled. Take this money, go buy a phone. Here's my number—call me after you buy it. Use the rest as you like." With that, Wang Yan handed Huang Mao a stack of cash.

"Then it's settled. I'll be waiting for your call." Wang Yan stood up.

At the door, Wang Yan remembered something and turned back to give him several more stacks of cash.

"You haven't been home in a long time. Take this—go see your family."

"And take your family to the hospital for a checkup—see if they match with you."

"Oh, get your hair cut. What do you look like? You'll look terrible on TV."

Saying this, he shook his head and left, watching Huang Mao struggle to hold back tears.

Behind him, Huang Mao could no longer hold back—he burst into loud sobs.

Wang Yan was no saint, nor did he have the power to save everyone.

At least prison is better than being dead.

He thought it was a pity Huang Mao had been killed by a car—he might as well save him while he could.