**Chapter 7: A World of Calculated Cruelty**
"Krishna? Are you awake?"
Radha's voice, cool and clear, cut through the fog in his mind. He forced his eyes open, the world slowly coming into focus. It wasn't a cave or a dungeon. They were lying on a rough, grey canvas tarp on a cold concrete floor. The air was stale and carried the faint metallic tang of an industrial space. Bare fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a stark, unflattering glow on the windowless room. It felt like an abandoned factory floor, a place forgotten by the world.
"Radha! Are you okay?" Krishna managed, his voice raspy as he pushed himself up. He saw her sitting a few feet away, her expression unnervingly calm as she brushed non-existent dust from her elegant clothes.
She moved closer, her movements fluid and graceful even in this grim setting, and sat beside him on the tarp. Her eyes, though shadowed with fatigue, were sharp and intelligent. "I'm fine. That chloroform was potent, but I'm alright." She scanned the bare, cold room, her gaze lingering on the heavy metal door. "Krishna, this wasn't random. They didn't take us by accident."
Krishna looked at her, his mind still struggling to catch up. The last thing he remembered was the searing pain in his head and the terrifying sight of Radha being dragged away. "Do you know why we were kidnapped?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Radha nodded, her expression hardening with a grim certainty. "Yes. It's because of my mother and her company. They're on the verge of releasing a cure for cancer. A true, complete cure."
Krishna blinked, the words echoing in the silent room. A cure for cancer? He thought of the endless news reports, the staggering statistics, the quiet, devastating suffering he had seen in his own community. "A cure? For cancer?"
"A real one," Radha confirmed, her voice low and steady. "Not just treatments that prolong the inevitable. But there are powerful people—people who make billions of dollars every year from chemotherapy and an endless cycle of treatments—who cannot allow a true cure to be released. It would destroy their entire profit machine." She took a deep breath, her eyes suddenly blazing with a fierce, righteous anger. "Think about it, Krishna. They are actively suppressing a medicine that could save millions of lives. People are dying, every single day, because this cure exists, but it will never see the light of day. Their suffering, their pain, their deaths… it's all just collateral damage in a war for profit."
Her gaze grew distant, her eyes fixed on something Krishna couldn't see. A deep, ancient pain was etched into her features. "It's not just 'letting them die,' Krishna. It's an entire system built on their suffering." She took another breath, gathering herself. "You see the world in facts and figures, right? Let me give you some."
She began to speak, her voice low and steady, painting a grim, horrifying picture of the global health industry. "The chemotherapy market alone is astronomical. As of last year, 2024, it was worth over ten billion dollars. By 2031, it's projected to reach over eighteen billion dollars. Eighteen billion dollars spent every year on treatments that, in many cases, only manage the disease, not cure it."
Krishna absorbed the numbers, trying to reconcile the cold, hard figures with the image of a suffering patient, a desperate family. "That's… a lot of money."
"It's more than just that," Radha continued, her voice gaining a sharp, cutting edge. "The entire field of oncology is one of the most profitable sectors in the world. In 2021, global sales for cancer drugs hit a staggering $176 billion. That's more than double what was made from all vaccines combined in the same year. Think about that. The world spends twice as much money on barely keeping cancer patients alive as it does on preventing disease in the first place."
A cold knot tightened in Krishna's stomach. "So… they know? They know they could stop it?"
"They know," Radha said, her voice heavy with certainty. "Companies like Roche are making nearly $320 billion. This isn't about medicine; it's a global economic engine fueled by sickness. A cure would shut that engine down. It would mean the end of their profits."
Krishna stared at her, the cold, brutal logic of it all hitting him like a physical blow. "But… wouldn't the company that developed the cure make massive profits anyway? Enough to satisfy anyone?" He was thinking like a human, calculating greed and incentive.
Radha gave a humorless, bitter smile. "That's because you're still thinking about this on a human scale. This isn't about one person getting rich, Krishna. This is a machine. An ecosystem." Her eyes locked onto his, suddenly fierce. "You're right, one company could profit. But only if it stood alone. If one company released a cure that made its competitors obsolete, the entire structure would collapse. The other pharmaceutical giants—Roche, Merck, Pfizer, all of them—they wouldn't just sit back. They would unite and crush that one company at all costs. Their shared interest is protecting their income source."
She emphasized the danger with a sweeping gesture that encompassed the cold, grim reality of their prison. "Imagine, Krishna. You're strong, I can see that. But imagine you have to fight fifty trained killers at once, all trying to stop you from speaking a single sentence. That's the reality they face. They don't fight fair. They fight to destroy any threat to their system. It's easier, and more profitable, for everyone to keep the tragedy going than to risk it all by introducing a real solution."
Krishna leaned back, the cold, monstrous logic of her statement hitting him hard. It wasn't simple villainy; it was economic self-preservation on a massive, cruel, and inhuman scale. "So, it's not about one bad guy. The whole structure is rotten."
"Yes," Radha confirmed, a flicker of relief in her eyes that he finally understood the true scope of the problem. "It's one against fifty. And the fifty have trillions of dollars and control over the laws that govern medicine. That's the war we're fighting."
Suddenly, a sharp clang of metal on metal echoed from outside the room. Someone was coming. "Shh," Radha whispered, her body instantly tense. "They're back."
The heavy metal door clicked open, and two men in sharp, dark suits stood in the doorway, their faces cold and professional. One man stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Radha. His voice was smooth, but icy with a chilling lack of emotion. "Ms. Radha, Mr. Krishna. This was a necessary interruption. Your mother was… reasonable. She has cooperated with us, and so this ends quietly."
He held up a tablet, its screen displaying legal documents with signatures already affixed. Radha's face went pale, but she gave a small, defeated nod. Krishna understood immediately: they had been forced to sign something to buy their freedom, a deal that would bury the cure for now. He thought of the countless lives, the families devastated by cancer, all lost because of this cold, cruel calculation.
The men led them out of the grim room and down a sterile hallway to a waiting van. The drive was silent, thick with a tension so heavy it was hard to breathe. Finally, the van stopped. The doors opened, and Krishna stepped out onto soft, perfectly manicured grass. They were at the gates of an enormous villa, the kind of place that belonged in a movie.
As the kidnappers sped away without a backward glance, floodlights snapped on, bathing the area in sharp white light. Security guards materialized from the shadows, their weapons drawn but instantly recognizing Radha.
"Miss Radha! Thank God you're safe," the lead guard exclaimed, rushing forward.
Immediately, Krishna and Radha were ushered past the massive wrought-iron gates and into the warmth of the magnificent house. As they entered the main hall, Krishna stopped dead, his jaw slackening. The foyer was vast—marble floors, soaring ceilings, and priceless art adorning the walls. *This is a billionaire's house,* he thought, feeling suddenly and completely out of place.
Before they could take another step, Radha's parents rushed in, their faces etched with worry. Radha's mother ran to her daughter, hugging her tight and checking her for injuries. Seeing none, a wave of relief washed over her. "Oh, Radha! Are you alright, my dear?"
Her eyes then fell on Krishna. She saw the dark, ugly bruise blooming on his temple, a sharp, violent reminder of the price he had paid for trying to protect her daughter. A look of deep, profound guilt crossed her face. "Oh, Krishna, you poor boy. You were hurt because of our mess. Are you truly okay?"
Krishna forced a weak smile. "It's just a scrape, Auntie. I'm fine."
Radha's father stood back slightly, his sharp, intelligent eyes studying Krishna. He looked him up and down, but his expression held no judgment about Krishna's simple clothes or humble background. He just looked like a man assessing a situation. He nodded towards the dining room. "Come in, both of you. Dinner is ready. You need to eat."
*To be continued.*