Among the 7 companies and 11 drugs accused of clinical data fraud in this announcement, New Hope Pharmaceuticals was prominently listed.
Facing scrutiny and accountability, New Hope issued a statement on its official website: "The clinical trial data was provided by a third-party institution. The company is currently investigating and cannot yet determine who is responsible."
A classic case of passing the buck.
The camera cut back to the studio, where a news commentator was saying, "Clinical trials, as the sole standard for verifying drug safety and efficacy, are currently plagued by widespread issues of unauthorized data modification, concealment, and other incomplete or non-compliant practices—beyond just companies blindly pursuing unreasonable cost reductions..." Meanwhile, Sheng Qingrang stepped out of the convenience store.
Despite New Hope's persistent evasion of responsibility, the inevitable investigations and penalties would still come.
Aside from severe damage to its corporate image, under the new policy stating that "applicants found guilty of falsifying clinical research data will not be permitted to submit new drug registration applications for three years," New Hope would be barred from filing any drug registrations for the next three years.
Moreover, multiple online exposés surfaced about New Hope’s past data fraud. Some even speculated: "Yan Man, the former head of New Hope’s early R&D department, died because of this. It’s said the internal power struggles at New Hope were fierce back then—Yan Man had already lost control of the R&D department before her death. Xing Xueyi, who recently died in the 723 incident, was in the same position."
Rumors abounded, but only those directly involved knew the full truth.
Yet those involved were either behind bars or had already departed this world. Nearly three months after the 723 incident, the police released a new investigation report.
Compared to the heated discussions at the time of the incident, public attention to the results now seemed lukewarm.
Three months was long enough for the fervor to fade.
Shanghai had also grown colder, with temperatures dropping below 20°C. The stretch of clear weather finally gave way to a steady autumn drizzle.
Zong Ying had come down with a severe cold and was in poor condition, hospitalized for several days. When Xue Xuanqing arrived with the lab report, she had just woken up after receiving her last IV drip.
Opening her eyes, she saw the overhead light glowing softly. Outside, the sky was a pale white, veiled in misty rain.
Xue Xuanqing handed her the forensic report on Yan Man’s fatal fall. Zong Ying took it and placed it on her lap but hesitated to open it.
Xue Xuanqing asked, "Do you want to visit your mother?"
After a moment of silence, Zong Ying nodded.
Putting on her coat, she stepped outside into the wind and rain. Xue Xuanqing hurried through the downpour to fetch the car, and once inside, Zong Ying folded her umbrella.
Glancing at the black umbrella with printed numbers and a Möbius strip, Xue Xuanqing remarked, "Still using this, huh?"
Two years ago, a friend had invited them to the opening of a gift shop. It had been raining that day, and Zong Ying had the umbrella custom-printed there. At first, Xue Xuanqing thought "9.14" was just her birthday—but now she realized it must have been for Yan Man.
The car splashed through puddles on the way to the cemetery. By the time they arrived, the rain had lightened, the air damp, a sliver of sunlight breaking through the clouds.
The cemetery was quiet in the rain, rows upon rows of tombstones standing in silence, evergreen shrubs keeping watch. The two stopped before Yan Man’s grave. Zong Ying gazed at the headstone, then carefully smoothed out the forensic report in her hands.Back then, due to lack of evidence for homicide, the case was never filed. Yan Man became the target of malicious speculation, while the person who pushed her off the building during the argument and let her die remained at large. Now, everything had finally come to a conclusion, yet there was no relief of seeing the truth come to light after the clouds had parted.
After all, death was an eternal separation—they could never meet again.
If possible, she even wished none of this had ever happened—
September 14th, as night fell, the front door opened. Moonlight and autumn wind slipped inside, and the sound of a car braking echoed outside. Yan Man stepped out holding a birthday gift, hurriedly walking in to find her half-asleep self waiting before a cream cake and candles. "I'm back late," she said.
Back late—not never coming back again.
Zong Ying bent down, placing the forensic report and white flowers before the tombstone. Raindrops pattered down, quickly soaking the paper. Petals bore the weight of rainwater, while the stems and leaves grew ever greener.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Since she truly couldn’t return, then... let her rest in memory.
The rain continued into the next day, which was also the final day before the surgery.
The surgical plan was meticulously prepared, with her former mentor, Director Xu, as the lead surgeon. Everyone told Zong Ying to relax, but she still arranged a meeting with Lawyer Zhang to confirm the contents of her will in writing.
Before finalizing, Lawyer Zhang asked, "Aside from the estate arrangements, there’s one more thing to confirm. Back in medical school, you signed an organ donation pledge. Do you wish to revoke it now?"
Zong Ying recalled the phone recording she had overheard last month in Zong Yu’s hospital room. After a long silence, she looked up and replied, "No need."
Lawyer Zhang handed her the will. By the time she finished signing, it was already dark outside.
Late October, the days grew shorter.
The humidifier in the hospital room emitted a steady mist. The nightstand was bare—no fresh sunflowers wrapped in newspapers had appeared for a long time, which likely meant Sheng Qingrang hadn’t returned to Shanghai yet.
Perhaps it was better that he hadn’t returned yet. In just over ten days, Shanghai in 1937 would fall, and the concessions would become completely isolated. Returning now would be the most dangerous.
Zong Ying silently reflected—the lively chaos of the family on Bubbling Well Road, the fallen leaves carpeting the ground outside the small building; the old apartment in the French Concession, the impeccably groomed Mr. Ye at the service desk, the sunlit stairwell, the morning tea boiling on sunny days, the freshly printed North-China Daily News, the hand-cranked gramophone crooning "Such a splendid scene in the foreign settlement..."
Then she remembered the tense relocation meeting at the Tilanqiao Coppersmith Guild, the blood-red Huangpu River at sunset, her own bloodied feet after being jostled across the Garden Bridge, the flattened body of Xiao Nan against the wall of the Cathay Hotel’s first floor from the bomb’s shockwave, the British destroyer evacuating women and children, the refugees shivering under makeshift shelters in the autumn rain, Old Four’s blood-streaked face, the cold and lifeless body of Second Sister, and Qinghui, who had no choice but to leave Shanghai.
Lost in somber thought, Zong Ying was abruptly brought back when a nurse handed her several consent forms to sign.
She signed them one by one, and the nurse reminded her, "Your surgery is first thing tomorrow. No more water from now on, okay?"
Zong Ying nodded. "Understood."After the nurse left, the ward was empty except for Zong Ying. She turned her head to gaze blankly out the window, then composed herself and got out of bed. Slipping on her coat, she wandered the hallway for a while before deciding to return to her apartment.
The streets were nearly deserted. When she reached the apartment building, she looked up—most windows were lit, except for two on the second floor and her own, both pitch black.
She swiped her card to enter, took the stairs to the top floor, unlocked her door, and turned on the hallway light. The bulb flickered for a few seconds before steadying. Zong Ying averted her gaze and walked straight to the study, bending to switch on the desk lamp. Warm light instantly flooded the desktop.
She sat down, picked up a pen and paper, and thought for a long while before finally writing: "Mr. Sheng: I don’t know when you’ll return to Shanghai or this apartment, nor whether you’ll ever see this letter. I’m having surgery tomorrow."
The metal nib glided smoothly across the paper. She paused mid-sentence, lifted her head, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath before continuing: "I hope we can meet again."
Before she could sign it, a knock sounded at the door.
Who could it be at this hour? Zong Ying set down the pen and stood up, checking the time—past 9 p.m. It couldn’t possibly be Sheng Qingrang.
She opened the door to find the building’s security guard standing outside.
The guard handed her a stack of express envelopes. "These are your packages, right? They’ve been piling up for days. The phone number listed wasn’t working, so we accepted them on your behalf. But since you never came back, we couldn’t deliver them. Just now, when we saw your light on, we rushed them over. You should check them—seems they’re all from the same sender."
Zong Ying glanced at the shipping labels and immediately recognized Sheng Qingrang’s handwriting. The mailing dates started almost from the day he left Nanjing.
She quickly tore open the packages, pulling out thin letters one after another—each documenting his travels, assuring his safety, and sending his regards.
"Miss Zong, I’ve arrived in Hankou. It’s pouring here, and the forecast says it’s raining where you are too. The weather’s turned cold—please keep warm."
"Miss Zong, I’ve reached Wuchang. The moon is bright, the breeze gentle—another beautiful night. When is your surgery? I hope all goes well."
"Miss Zong, I’m returning to Shanghai, but the route back is no longer smooth. I’ll have to go from Yangzhou to Taizhou, then take a boat to Shanghai. I hope you’re safe."
The phone suddenly rang.
Zong Ying snapped back to attention, clutching the stack of letters as she hurried to the landline.
It was an overseas call—her uncle’s voice on the other end. "Xiao Ying, I hope I’m not disturbing your rest?"
"I’m still awake," she replied. "What’s the matter?"
"Your grandmother’s surgery was very successful, and she’s recovering well. Today, she was able to get out of bed and move around without trouble. Only then did she agree to call and reassure you."
Zong Ying exhaled in relief.
Her uncle continued, "She hopes you can come stay with us during your next vacation." He paused, as if smiling, then added, "And she said she hopes you won’t come alone."
Zong Ying made a questioning sound.
"I heard from her that you have a boyfriend. She showed me a photo hidden in her phone—he seems like a fine young man. Actually, he reminds me a bit of—"
Zong Ying’s brow suddenly furrowed.
"—a lawyer from the 1930s."
She held her breath. "Which lawyer?"The little uncle replied, "His surname is Sheng. He earned his doctorate in law in Paris and lived in our family's apartment after returning to China. He was probably one of the earliest tenants. He didn’t live there for many years before passing away. It must have been during the Battle of Shanghai—I don’t remember the exact date. Heaven envies talent—what a pity."
Zong Ying stood frozen by the table.
The voice on the phone continued, "Why am I telling you this? You live alone and work so much—take care of your health. Come visit Grandma when you have time."
She didn’t even notice when the call ended. Coming back to her senses, Zong Ying abruptly flipped to the last page of the letter, where only a few sparse words remained: "Miss Zong, I return to Shanghai tomorrow. May all go well for you. I miss you dearly."
Her hands and feet turned cold. She turned back to the study, opened her computer, and entered the search page. Typing out "Sheng Qingrang," she finally pressed the search key she had been too afraid to press before.
A black-and-white photo appeared. Clicking on the profile, she found a life story condensed into just half a page—for one among the countless masses in turbulent times, even this much was a luxury.
She didn’t even need to scroll before the date of death leaped out at her—
October 27, 1937.
Zong Ying’s breath caught. Her gaze shifted to the computer’s taskbar—the date displayed: October 26.
He would die tomorrow—in 1937.
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