The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 434

Evening fell.

Inside the top-floor office of DeepBlue, the city skyline stretched beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the blue-gray twilight slowly creeping between the skyscrapers.

A female assistant hurried into the room, holding a file.

"Mr. Lennox," she said, placing the document on the desk. "Garrison Foster is making moves. Vitas-1 has officially been submitted for market approval. At this rate, he could have the permit in just three months."

The man sitting behind the desk looked to be in his thirties.

He wore a tailored, charcoal-gray suit with no tie, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt casually undone. His features were remarkably sharp—a strong brow, deep-set eyes, thin lips, and a jawline that looked carved from stone. He was thumbing through some paperwork. Hearing the report, his fingers paused, but his expression didn't change.

"Understood."

Grant Lennox closed the file, leaning back in his chair, tapping his fingertips rhythmically against the mahogany desk. The last traces of the sunset faded behind him, casting half his face in deep shadow, while the floor lamp illuminated the other half with a cold, blade-like sheen.

The next morning, at the Riverdale University administration building.

Someone knocked on Lawrence Sterling's office door.

"Come in," Lawrence said, looking over the rim of his reading glasses.

The door opened, but it wasn't a student or faculty member. Grant walked in wearing a camel cashmere coat with a gray scarf draped over his arm, carrying two exquisitely wrapped boxes of tea. His smile was warm, his posture deeply respectful, looking exactly like a distinguished alumnus paying his old mentor a visit.

Grant sat down across from him, placing the tea on the corner of the desk. He didn't beat around the bush, though his tone remained respectful. "I heard Garrison's Vitas-1 is applying for market approval."

He paused, leaning forward slightly, lowering his voice as if discussing a state secret. "Professor, you promised me—you said you wouldn't let Vitas-1 hit the market."

Lawrence didn't look at him.

He picked up his clay teacup. The tea inside had gone cold. He took a slow sip, then set the cup back on the tray, the ceramic clinking softly against the wood.

"Grant, I reviewed the post-market clinical feedback data for Genesis-1. The objective response rate is only thirty-seven percent. That is drastically lower than the sixty-two percent you promised during the application phase."

"The incidence of grade-three adverse reactions has surpassed forty percent. Specifically, immune-related pneumonitis and liver toxicity. Three patients have already progressed to acute liver failure. Patient compliance is abysmal, and the dropout rate is nearing twenty percent... With data like that, how long do you honestly think you can survive in the market?"