One week later.
Umbrella Biotech First Factory Office.
Raindrops outside drummed against the glass, making a dull sound, just like the suffocating air pressure inside the room.
Sarah Mason slammed a thick stack of documents onto the mahogany desk, her face pale and weary after being battered by the laws of reality.
"Alice, they refused. Or rather, they offered death clauses that we simply cannot accept."
Sarah slumped in her chair, rubbing her temples, her voice raspy.
"Look at this. The Vice President of Walmart's procurement department told me bluntly: even with Osborn's endorsement, in their eyes, Umbrella Corporation is still a high-risk company with no reputation, no capital, and no scale. But if we provide exclusive sales rights for the t-1 essence at Sam's Club, they might allow the Generation I Repair Cream to enter. However, the listing fee for a single item of repair cream is as high as $500,000, and the payment term is a goddamn Net 90. This means we sell the goods but won't see the money until three months later."
"Sephora is even more arrogant." Sarah gritted her teeth. "They said Umbrella Corporation is a zero-recognition brand in the mass market, and putting it on the shelves would lower their prestige. So, they opened their mouths wide and demanded 65% of the gross profit from the repair cream, and a mandatory three-year exclusivity agreement."
"Three years! During these three years, as long as we're in Sephora, our products absolutely cannot appear on the shelves of supermarkets, pharmacies, or convenience stores. They want to lock us into that tiny counter and use us as tools to harvest the 'IQ tax' of the middle class."
Sarah's voice grew lower and lower, finally leaving only a helpless sigh.
"Alice, they know we just expanded our production line, that the warehouse is full of raw materials and finished products, and they know we desperately need cash flow to keep running. These giants have joined forces to block our channels, trying to force us to submit. If we sign, we'll be an OEM working for them for the rest of our lives; if we don't, the inventory that just came off the line will just rot and mold in the warehouse."
The office fell into a brief silence.
Alice wasn't as angry as Sarah; her gaze as she flipped through the contract was as cold as if she were reading an autopsy report.
"Typical channel hegemony."
Alice closed the file and casually tossed it into the trash can.
"They see that t-1 is a strategic weapon, and this $20 repair cream is just a cheap byproduct we're using to make a quick buck. They want to use the channel traffic they control to 'hold the emperor hostage to command the nobles,' squeezing out every last drop of our profit."
She stood up and walked to the huge floor-to-ceiling window.
Under the curtain of rain outside, the neon lights of Manhattan loomed in the distance.
On every bustling street there, CVS's blue signs and Walmart's massive stores were everywhere.
On every street there, CVS and Walmart stores were scattered about.
"Sarah, t-1 essence is a strategically controlled material. Except for specific private clinics and Osborn channels, it can never enter the mass retail system. As for the Generation I Repair Cream, tell them we won't sign a single punctuation mark of those terms."
"You're going to reject all mainstream channels?" Sarah was stunned. "Then who are we selling our goods to? The warehouse is already full!"
"Traditional channels want to choke us, so we'll change our tactics."
Alice walked to the desk, her fingers lightly tapping on the surface.
She took a new file out of the drawer; the cover read 'Target Pioneer Store Pop-up Plan.'
"Since Walmart is slow and arrogant because of its size, we'll go to its arch-rival, Target—the young, fashionable one that prides itself on understanding middle-class trends better."
"But Target hasn't agreed to meet us yet," Sarah said doubtfully.
"They will, because we're going to exploit the most primal fear among giants: FOMO—the Fear Of Missing Out."
"But before that, we need a man-made miracle to light this fire. Sarah, remember every step that follows; this will be Umbrella Corporation's turnaround battle."
"First, precision targeting. Stop all TV and newspaper ads. I want you to put the remaining budget of over two million dollars entirely into precision distribution. Take the ten thousand units of stock in the warehouse and send them for free via FedEx to every registered guitarist, tattoo artist, rock climbing club coach, and ER head Nurse in New York."
"Why these people?" Sarah asked instinctively.
"Because their hands undergo high-intensity wear, cuts, and chemical corrosion every day,"
Alice explained.
"They are the people in this World with the most urgent and sensitive need for hand repair, and they have the most say in their respective circles. Send it to them, and include a black card with the package that says only one sentence: 'It can repair your hands, and it can also repair your perception of skincare products. If you don't believe it, throw it away; if you do, please tell your friends.'"
Saying this, Alice held up a second finger.
"Second, a direct sales network. Have the tech department work overtime tonight to ensure the direct sales page on the official website goes live tomorrow morning. Since Walmart thinks the profit is too low, we'll sell it ourselves. Convert all of the 40% profit that was originally meant for distributors into logistics subsidies. I want the price for users ordering online to be cheaper than buying it at a supermarket."
"Third, the tipping point."
Alice glanced at the calendar on the wall, the corners of her mouth curling up slightly.
"Get Taylor Swift ready. For the performance in three days, we're going to put on a good show for those arrogant retail giants."
"..."
Three days later, East Village, Manhattan, The Mercury Lounge.
This is a well-known live house in the New York underground music scene.
Although Taylor Swift was still just a Nashville country girl with a guitar in the eyes of the mainstream media at this time, because of Umbrella Corporation's early precision hype in the independent music scene and online, tonight's venue was packed with hundreds of fanatical young people.
And in the VIP area on the second floor, there were several independent music critics known for their sharp tongues, who had been specially invited.
By the second half of the performance, the atmosphere was already extremely heated.
Taylor wore a simple sequined dress, holding her signature Taylor acoustic guitar.
She looked radiant under the stage lights, entering the climactic guitar solo of a fast-paced song.
Her fingers danced rapidly across the strings, her strumming intensity increasing, her emotions becoming more full.
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