For example, ERO’s largest shareholder is Biotechnology, the third is Military Technology, and the fourth is the Ye Group. It’s normal for them to want to settle things with these companies, but they probably didn’t expect the Trauma Team to be so resolute in establishing their authority—a small company probably can’t withstand Trauma Team’s pressure and protect them to the death.
Lin Miao immediately reacted, bringing up the stock market segment in the task hall, and quickly searched for ERO Medical Company’s stock price. Sure enough, the already plummeting stock price crashed completely, with no signs of rebounding. This was not the kind of speed that could be achieved by retail investors selling off.
It could only be that the major shareholders behind it were preparing to abandon ERO, thereby selling off their stocks to trigger a collapse.
Lin Miao couldn’t believe that Biotechnology and Military Technology would so decisively give up ERO, which served as their drug testing ground hospital.
He was still considering taking over before, but now it’s fine.
No need to take over, because this plate is shattering, and as long as ERO’s stock price closes below 1 Euro gold for three consecutive trading days and the market value falls below 150W Euro gold, the Night City Stock Exchange will immediately announce its delisting, and ERO is not far from this red line.
This is unavoidable. ERO’s poor management has led to this. When it went public in the twenties, its market value exceeded 2500W Euro gold, and due to the inherently lucrative North American medical industry, it enjoyed a period of comfort.
But who knew a disruptor like the Trauma Team would emerge, delivering a heavy blow to ERO? In just over ten years, they completely took over the high-end market, and not to mention the inept middle and senior management, who allowed the hospital to be used as a testing ground for big corporations, trading investments for drug and prosthetic trials.
The investment obtained didn’t go to salaries or equipment, but into the board of directors’ pockets.
They took everything from above, then from below, consuming investors and then patients, using exorbitant treatment fees as an excuse to reclaim deceased patients’ prosthetics. Even when patients died, they continued to charge families for treatment, keeping corpses in the emergency room for a whole week before moving them to the morgue when they began to rot, declaring treatment failure.
Who is there to supervise?
In a city built by corporations, who can supervise the companies?
A completely free capital market implies no one bears responsibility, so no one will come to supervise.
Then, as the example set by higher-ups trickles down, even doctors and nurses are stealing prosthetics to sell, sometimes intentionally killing patients in ambulances for money (if you watch closely in the animation, you’ll see the ambulance Lucy sends David to has its paramedics wearing the same uniform as Gloria).
When Lin Miao arrived in Night City, its market value was less than eight million, its stock price hovering around 1.8. The hospitals in Westbrook and Watson District were already mortgaged for bank loans, leaving only those in Santo Domingo and Haywood.
Over decades, the company’s survival would have been impossible without the annual injections from the municipal government.
Although things have not developed exactly along the lines he estimated, they haven’t deviated far either. It was time for him to advance the next step of his plan.
A not too big or small basement, filled with all sorts of mechanical parts and processing tools, requiring careful steps to avoid tripping over a drill or prosthetic limb lying on the floor.
Under dim lighting, occasional dazzling sparks from welding fill the air with the smell of steel and lubricating oil.
A man covered in oil and grime, wearing goggles, continuously works on the final processing of his creation.
In front of him is an all-metal humanoid frame, its outer shell unpolished and rough, made with parts delivered by the gangs. Those guys didn’t bother to follow specifications, leaving many pipelines exposed outright.
Although plagiarizing others’ ideas was something he used to despise, he has no choice but to do it for the sake of livelihood and survival.
Completing two imitation exoskeletons within a week and handing them over to the Karma Fire Gang would earn him five thousand Euros. Since the components are provided by others, he naturally doesn’t need to spend money on them and can even withhold a little for personal use under this pretext.
The door behind him opened, and footsteps approached.
Relying on his familiarity with the basement, just by sound alone, a clear picture forms in his mind.
A person slowly navigates around the piles of trash on the floor, sitting down on a worn-out sofa he usually rests on, watching him intently as they speak.
"Arthur Clarke, 44 years old, after graduating from university, worked in the Military Technology’s Equipment Research and Development Department as a designer for 14 years. You were fired due to a project failure causing company losses. Because of the non-compete agreement, no similar company has dared to hire you since. You left Virginia in 2073 for Night City, to repay the company’s prosthetic loan, seeking out this basement to take on gang and mercenary work to make money."
Arthur turned around, the poor lighting casting a shadow over the figures’ upper body, leaving only their eyes with a hint of red light visible but sounding quite young.
Silently reaching for the pistol on the nearby shelf, he asked,
"Who I am is not important; what’s important is who you are."
"A dignified Military Technology designer, now hiding in this dark and gloomy basement, saddled with debt, dealing with this pile of stuff, just looking at you fills me with pity."