297: Chapter 297 Memories of a Year Ago

"Mr. Duval, these are your food stamps for this month."

The social worker's voice came through the glass, so flat that no emotion could be detected.

Lansem Duval hung his head. On his outstretched fingers remained the thin calluses from years of holding a pen, though nowadays, this hand no longer touched contracts or seven-figure checks, nor did it sign off on budgets with over seven digits; he could only accept these few pieces of paper printed with government logos.

At the government-authorized store, Lansem used the food stamps to pick up some hard bread and a few cartons of milk nearing their expiration date.

As he walked out of the store, the cold wind, mingled with drizzle, lashed against Lansem's face. He subconsciously pulled the bag closer to his chest.

Lansem would never have stooped for a few pieces of bread, nor would he have endured others' cold faces for a few cartons of near-expired milk in the past.

At that time, he was the general manager of a biotechnology company. It had taken him only five years to push this small enterprise, once valued at 30 million U.S. dollars, to the throne of an industry upstart worth 1.3 billion U.S. dollars. Lansem had enjoyed a period of great prestige because of it.

Back then, his office liquor cabinet was always stocked with vintage champagne. He didn't need to worry about trifles; a single message was enough to have his assistant bring him the finest coffee.

Even his daughter's snacks were air-freighted from Europe.

But now...

Lansem returned to his rented room in Houston City, U.S., looking utterly dejected. After taking two bites of bread to keep himself from starving, Lansem sat on the floor, staring blankly at the sky.

If he were to starve to death, that would truly be the most painful way to die; that was the reason why he went to collect the food.

Three months ago, an unexpected turn of events caused the company's stock price to plummet by eighty percent in a single week, bringing it to the brink of bankruptcy.

As the person in charge of the company, Lansem became the primary target for the board of directors and the public. Partners withdrew their investments one after another, and debt collection notices from banks flew in like snowflakes. He sold all his equity and personal assets to fill the hole, but still couldn't save the company.

On the day the bank repossessed the house, his wife stood at the door with their daughter, holding a divorce agreement. "Lansem, I'm sorry. I cannot accompany you as you fall from the clouds into the mire, nor can I let our daughter follow you and not even be able to eat a hot meal..."

Who would believe it? Lansem smiled bitterly inside his rented room. In just a short time, he had fallen from a prominent figure at the top of the industry to a destitute man who had to rely on government relief just to have enough to eat.

If it were just this, it wouldn't make Lansem give up. He was only 40. He had once thought that as long as he could endure this most difficult period, he could save up money bit by bit and would eventually be able to stand up again. On the day he rose again, with his own talents, he could surely find a decent position anywhere.

But fate seemed determined to push him to a dead end. Not long ago, debt collectors found him fainted in his room. To prevent him from dying—so the debt wouldn't have no one to be responsible for—the debt collectors had kindly sent him to the hospital.

But the hospital's diagnostic report completely crushed Lansem's fighting spirit. He had late-stage lung cancer.

"Doctor, can I start the targeted cancer therapy first? I will pay back the money as soon as possible."

At that time, Lansem was humbly pleading. By now, late-stage cancer was no longer incurable; that company had already launched a series of effective cancer drugs, and this hospital could also provide treatment.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Duval..."

After the Doctor coldly finished this sentence, Lansem was driven out. Now, he had been living in a daze in his rented room.

Lansem closed his eyes, no longer looking at the pathetic light outside the window; it no longer belonged to him. Death was his only relief.

"Beep, beep, beep—"

At this moment, the phone in his pocket vibrated. Lansem took it out and saw it was an unknown number.

Who was calling him?

Lansem frowned slightly and hung up without hesitation. It might be debt collectors, or some scammer who got his number from who knows where.

Damn it, he had changed his number several times, but those people always found a way to get his number.

Before he could stuff the phone back into his pocket, the vibration sounded again. It was the same number. Lansem's patience was completely exhausted. He pressed the hang-up button with almost visible anger, muttering curses under his breath:

"Damn scammers, you won't even spare a dying man? Fuck!"

But the number seemed determined, persistently calling a third time. Lansem's chest heaved violently, and the dull pain brought on by the lung cancer made him double over. He simply pressed and held the power button until the screen went completely black, and the World finally returned to the familiar silence he knew.

Seeing the phone with no more activity, Lansem laughed and tossed it casually onto the bed.

Now, there should be no one to disturb his final moments.

"Knock, knock, knock..."

The door to Lansem's rented room was knocked upon. The sound was not loud, seemingly carrying a bit of hesitation, completely different from the violent pounding of the debt-collecting landlord.

Lansem did not respond; he just wanted to stay quiet now, let alone deal with uninvited guests.

The knocking sounded again, slightly heavier than before, and a crisp girl's voice came through the door panel.

"Excuse me... is Mr. Lansem Duval here?"

The voice sounded like that of a little girl. Lansem's body paused slightly; this didn't sound like a debt collector.

After hesitating for a moment, Lansem finally braced himself against the floor, slowly stood up, and shuffled toward the door step by step.

Opening the door, he found it was indeed just an ordinary little girl.

"Why are you calling for me?" Lansem asked, confused.

The girl looked up with wide eyes, confirming, "Are you Mr. Duval?"

"I am."

Hearing his reply, the little girl revealed a faint smile. Suddenly remembering the content of the phone call, her eyes filled with a pity unique to children.

"Mr. Duval, I just received a phone call. A company called Third-Party Technology wants to invite you to be their manager, and they can also help treat your cancer. But you didn't answer the phone, so that person gave me two dollars to pass the message on to you..."

Speaking of this, the little girl thought for a moment, then finally raised a finger, "He said you only have one last chance left."

Until the little girl skipped away, Lansem remained in a state of bewilderment and shock.

Did she just say Third-Party Technology?

Lansem's whole body began to tremble. That company that developed effective cancer drugs, spanned multiple fields, and was the largest biotechnology company in the World?

Compared to his original company, the latter was as insignificant as an insect.

What was she just saying? Only one last chance...

Lansem muttered this sentence. When his gaze fell upon the black-screen phone tossed on the bed, he felt as if he had been struck by a bolt of lightning. He instantly snapped out of his dazed shock, replaced by scrambling toward the bed.

He had actually hung up on them three times and even turned off the phone?!

It turned out he was the one who deserved to die most. If he missed this opportunity, he would be trapped in hell forever and never be able to crawl out.