The room was not a dungeon. It was a storage closet in the sub-basement of the laboratory wing, soundproofed not for torture, but for the containment of volatile chemical reactions. The walls were lined with acoustic foam that had yellowed with age and fumes. The only light came from a single, caged bulb that hummed with a headache-inducing vibration.
Kevin threw Pranav inside.
Pranav stumbled, his shoes skidding on the linoleum, and crashed into a stack of metal shelving units. The hollow clang was swallowed instantly by the foam walls.
He scrambled to turn around, his hands raised in a pathetic, defensive posture.
Kevin stood by the door. He locked it. Then he took off his silver suit jacket, folding it carefully and placing it on top of a drum of industrial solvent. He rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. His forearms were thin, pale, and trembling.
"You have a big mouth, Pranav," Kevin said. His voice was soft, conversational. He picked up a heavy, rubber-handled wrench from the workbench. "It writes checks your body can't cash. Isn't that the cliché? Isn't that what people say in the movies you think you're living in?"
Pranav backed away until his spine hit the foam. "Mr. Corvini, I apologize. It was a moment of frustration. Asrit—"
"Don't talk about Asrit!" Kevin screamed.
The sudden shift in volume was terrifying. Kevin swung the wrench. He didn't aim for the head or the ribs. He swung it wildly, smashing it into the metal shelf inches from Pranav's face. The shelf buckled.
Kevin was breathing hard, his eyes wide and wet. He wasn't looking at Pranav; he was looking through him.
"Asrit is perfect," Kevin whispered, pacing the small room, the wrench dangling from his hand. "Asrit passes the bar exam at twenty-two. Asrit balances the books. Asrit cleans up the blood."
He stopped pacing and turned to Pranav.
"And what are you? You're the guy with the plan. The guy with the structure. The guy who thinks if he just organizes the crime well enough, nobody will notice he's a fraud."
Kevin stepped in close. He smelled of vodka and sulfur.
"You remind me of someone," Kevin said.
He swung the wrench again. This time he connected. The heavy rubber handle slammed into Pranav's thigh.
Pranav cried out, his leg buckling, and he collapsed to the floor. The pain was a dull, thudding explosion in his muscle. He curled into a ball, trying to protect his head.
"Get up!" Kevin shrieked. He kicked Pranav in the ribs. It wasn't a tactical kick; it was a tantrum kick. "Stand up! Look at me!"
Pranav scrambled up, gasping, tears leaking from his eyes. He leaned against the shelves, favoring his good leg.
"You think you're special because you can think?" Kevin asked, his face inches from Pranav's. Spittle flew from his lips. "You think your little diagrams and your codes make you valuable? My father eats plans for breakfast. My father looks at structure and sees weakness."
Kevin dropped the wrench. It clattered to the floor. He grabbed Pranav's face with both hands, his fingers digging into Pranav's cheeks, forcing eye contact.
"You know what John calls people like us?" Kevin whispered, his voice trembling with a deep, corrosive shame. "Rust."
The word hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.
"He calls us rust," Kevin repeated, his eyes filling with tears that he refused to let fall. "Because we oxidize. We degrade the integrity of the iron. We're the corruption on the surface."
Pranav stared into Kevin's eyes. He saw the madness there, but it wasn't the madness of a monster. It was the madness of a disappointment. Kevin wasn't beating Pranav because Pranav had threatened Asrit. Kevin was beating Pranav because Pranav was a mirror.
Pranav was the smart one who failed. Pranav was the one with the plans that fell apart. Pranav was the one desperate for approval he would never get.
Kevin saw his own inadequacy reflected in Pranav's face, and he wanted to smash it.
"I am not rust," Kevin hissed. He slapped Pranav. It was a messy, open-palmed strike that stung more than it hurt. "Say it."
Pranav blinked, dazed. "What?"
"Say you are rust," Kevin commanded. He shoved Pranav hard against the foam. "Say you are nothing. Say you are just a flaw in the metal."
"I... I am an asset," Pranav stammered, clinging to the one word Asrit had given him. "I proved my worth. The penthouse—"
Kevin punched him. A closed fist to the stomach. It was weak, lacking the torque of a fighter, but it knocked the wind out of Pranav. He doubled over, wheezing.
"The penthouse was Arpika!" Kevin shouted, his voice cracking into a high whine. "Arpika has the iron! She acted! You? You stood in a locker room and talked about what you should have done. Just like me. Always talking about what we could do if they just gave us a chance."
Kevin grabbed Pranav's hair, yanking his head up.
"You are not a leader," Kevin spat. "You are a mimic. You are a child wearing a suit, pretending you belong at the table. Just. Like. Me."
The truth of it hit Pranav harder than the wrench.
He wasn't being tortured for information. He wasn't being punished for a crime. He was being used as a therapy doll for a rich kid with daddy issues. There was no dignity in this beating. There was no lesson to be learned, other than the fact that he was completely, utterly powerless against the whims of the family.
"Say it!" Kevin screamed, shaking him. "Admit what you are!"
Pranav looked at Kevin. He saw the terror in the Corvini son's eyes—the terror of being found out, of being useless. And Pranav broke.
He didn't break because of the pain in his leg or the ache in his ribs. He broke because he realized that his ambition, his intellect, and his strategy meant absolutely nothing in the face of this petty, emotional violence.
"I'm rust," Pranav whispered.
"Louder!" Kevin roared.
"I'm rust!" Pranav yelled, his voice breaking, tears streaming down his face. "I'm rust! I'm nothing! I'm just a flaw!"
Kevin let go.
Pranav slid down the wall, collapsing into a heap on the floor. He sobbed, not from pain, but from the total, hollowed-out shame of the confession. He had renounced himself. He had agreed with the monster.
Kevin stood over him, panting. He adjusted his shirt cuffs. He smoothed his hair. The manic energy seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a sullen, exhausted calm. He looked down at Pranav with a mixture of disgust and pity.
"Good," Kevin said softly. "Now we understand each other."
He picked up his silver jacket from the solvent drum and put it on. He checked his reflection in the polished metal of a cabinet, fixing his collar.
"Don't make plans, Pranav," Kevin said, his hand on the doorknob. "Just do what you're told. It's easier that way. Trust me."
Kevin opened the door and walked out.
The lock clicked shut.
The light bulb hummed.
Pranav lay on the cold linoleum, staring at the bottom of the metal shelves. His leg throbbed. His throat burned. But the emptiness in his chest was the worst part.
He had spent weeks telling himself he was a dreamer, a founder, a strategist. He had believed that his mind was his weapon, that he could navigate the Corvini maze if he just found the right angle.
Kevin had just shattered that compass.
Pranav closed his eyes, letting the darkness of the room wrap around him. He wasn't a founder. He wasn't even an enemy worth killing.
He was just rust, waiting to be scraped away.