Employees hadn't gone home the night before. Some were still in wrinkled shirts, some had bloodshot eyes, and one poor intern was passed out over a pile of spreadsheets, drooling onto the paper. Nobody dared to wake him — the general consensus was: better to let him die in sleep than die under Rudra's glare.
When Rudra's elevator dinged, chaos broke into instant silence. People shoved coffee cups out of sight, straightened their ties, and smacked their own cheeks to look awake.
Rudra stepped out, immaculate as always, not a single crease on his suit. He walked past rows of employees, his cold gaze sweeping once over the floor. One unlucky analyst sneezed.
The sound echoed.
Rudra's eyes flicked toward him.
The analyst whispered a shaky, "S-sorry, sir."
Rudra said nothing. Just kept walking. But the man looked like he had seen his own funeral invitation.
In the conference room, the project team was already waiting, hearts pounding, files stacked like fortresses in front of them.
"Status," Rudra said, taking his seat.
This time, the manager nearly fell over himself. "C-complete, sir! All sections! Every chart, every graph, every detail!" He shoved the file forward with trembling hands. "We… we didn't sleep. We didn't even blink."
Rudra flipped open the file, eyes scanning with that deadly calm silence. Page after page. The only sound was his finger turning sheets. The team sat in collective agony.
Finally, he closed it. "Acceptable."
Acceptable.
That one word nearly caused three people to faint. The head manager's knees gave out under the table, and he grabbed onto the chair leg like a drowning man. Someone whispered, "We survived…" and instantly covered their mouth in horror at speaking aloud.
Rudra rose, buttoning his coat. "Do not make me repeat myself next quarter."
"Yes, sir!" The chorus was shaky but unified — the sound of soldiers who'd just returned from battle.
When Rudra left, the room exploded in relief.
"Acceptable! He said acceptable! That's basically a compliment!"
"Compliment? That's salvation! I'm framing that word on my wall!"
"Does anyone else feel like crying?"
"I think I aged ten years last night."
"Same. My son doesn't even recognize me anymore."
Out in the hallway, Rudra's secretary trailed after him nervously with his schedule. "Sir, you have three investor calls, a lunch meeting, and…" she gulped, "…your mother called twice this morning."
Rudra's steps didn't slow. "Ignore her."
"Yes, sir."
She scribbled notes with trembling hands, wondering how a man could sound so casual about dismissing both investors and his own mother. But then again, this was Rudra Malhotra. The man who feared no one, and made everyone else fear him.