The sauna was a cedar womb sweating sap and ambition. The benches glistened like freshly varnished regrets. Steam coiled through the air in slow, philosophical snakes, hissing softly each time a drop of water kissed the stones. Somewhere beyond the wooden walls, Palo Alto pretended to be calm—eucalyptus trees standing still, Teslas gliding by like obedient thoughts—but inside the sauna, reality had loosened its tie.
Tesla had three weeks of cash left. Twenty-one days. A lunar cycle measured not by tides but by payroll.
Elon Musk sat upright, eyes half-closed, pores wide open like venture capitalists at a demo day. Across from him sat his brother, Kimbal, wrapped in a towel the color of overcooked quinoa. Kimbal smelled faintly of eucalyptus oil and moral certainty. Elon smelled like electricity and insomnia.
The heat pressed down on them, a physical force, like gravity had decided to lean in and whisper.
“Elon,” Kimbal said, wiping sweat from his mustache, “you okay?”
Elon opened one eye. The steam bent around his face, turning his features into a half-rendered video game character.
“Do you think,” Elon said slowly, “that we are in a simulation?”
The words fell into the sauna like a wrench into a gearbox.
Kimbal blinked. Once. Twice. A bead of sweat ran down his temple, not from the heat but from a sudden internal weather event.
“What?” he said.
“I mean,” Elon continued, conversationally, as if discussing salad dressing, “statistically speaking. The odds favor it. One base reality, infinite simulations. It’s like… the Costco model of existence.”
Kimbal laughed, a short, nervous bark. “Haha. Right. Sure. Fun thought. Very… sci-fi.”
But Elon leaned forward. The wooden bench creaked like a stressed balance sheet.
“Think about it,” Elon said. “Physics has pixels. Time has a frame rate. And every time I try to save this company, reality throws another boss level at me.”
Kimbal’s towel slipped slightly. He adjusted it with the seriousness of a man whose soul was now exposed.
“Elon,” he said, lowering his voice, as if the sauna itself might be listening, “it’s one thing to lose a company. Companies come and go. Pets.com. Webvan. That one with the juice machines.”
“Juicero,” Elon said.
“Yes, that one,” Kimbal said. “It is quite another to lose one’s mind.”
The sauna stones hissed. Steam surged upward, briefly forming what looked like a loading icon.
Elon smiled. Not a big smile. A thin one. A smile like a blade.
“But if it is a simulation,” Elon said, “then running out of cash is just a parameter. A constraint. And constraints are where creativity happens.”
Kimbal stood up too fast. The heat slapped him like a cosmic punchline.
“I’m going to step outside,” he said. “Get some air. Real air. Non-simulated air.”
He reached for the door, fingers trembling. The handle was hot. Painfully real.
Behind him, Elon reclined, steam crowning his head like a digital halo.
“Hey, Kimbal,” Elon called out gently. “If this is a simulation…”
Kimbal paused, hand on the door.
“…make sure you save your progress.”
Kimbal fled into the cool night, heart pounding, grateful for gravity, mosquitoes, and all the stubborn evidence that the world was solid.
Inside the sauna, Elon poured another ladle of water onto the stones.
The universe hissed back.
Six Weeks From Zero https://t.co/PEZEon1uMJ
— Paramendra Kumar Bhagat (@paramendra) December 30, 2025
— Paramendra Kumar Bhagat (@paramendra) December 30, 2025
Tesla: Three Weeks From Zero (Short Story) https://t.co/7DcW85z0Qy
— Paramendra Kumar Bhagat (@paramendra) December 30, 2025
