The journey had been a blur of disorientation. Blindfolds, the muffled roar of a high-end engine, and the terrifying, non-negotiable grip of Vikram Corvini's men. Now, the blindfolds were gone.
They were in a room carved from cold, white concrete. It was nameless, fortified, and utterly sterile, a place designed for processing secrets and disposing of mistakes. They were seated on hard, low benches, lined up against the wall like sacrificial offerings. Pranav felt less like the founder of an empire and more like an item on a butcher's block.
Sam Corvini took the center of the room, radiating an easy, gentle authority that felt infinitely heavier than any physical force. He stood beneath a single, blinding overhead light, his expensive suit pristine.
Behind him, massive and silent, stood Vikram. Vikram wasn't an enforcer; he was a monument to finality. He didn't need to speak to convey the fate that awaited them if they refused. He simply stood, slowly and rhythmically cracking his massive knuckles, the dry _snap-snap-snap_ echoing in the sterile silence like the sound of a guillotine being readied.
"Let's talk about that mess you made, shall we?" Sam began, his voice warm, almost conversational. He was smiling—a wide, polite, understanding smile that promised hell.
Pranav tried to steady his breathing. He had to regain control of the narrative, the only weapon he had left. He had to appeal to Sam's logic, his business sense.
"Mr. Corvini, with respect, the noise was unintended," Pranav started, forcing his voice to remain level. "It was a necessary, if sloppy, initial venture. But we recovered the product. We have shown initiative. We are prepared to offer you seventy percent of the future revenue stream, in exchange for territorial security and a non-interference clause. We can be assets."
Sam's smile widened, pity replacing warmth. He didn't shout. He didn't interrupt. He simply waited for Pranav to finish his sentence and then dismantled him with clinical, soft precision.
"You offer me seventy percent of a future revenue stream generated by a crew who can't even execute a simple hijack without creating three capital crimes on my turf?" Sam asked. He tilted his head slightly, as if confused by Pranav's generosity. "That's adorable, Pranav. You think this is a negotiation. You think I need your revenue, or your security, or your initiative. You are not assets. You are a liability that needs managing."
Pranav felt the blood rush from his head. His structure, his logic, the entire framework of his ambition, was crumbling under Sam's quiet scorn.
"There are no options, son," Sam continued, the word son dripping with patronizing finality. "There is only life under the Corvini family, or the fate that Vikram here is patiently waiting to deliver."
The cracking of Vikram's knuckles intensified, punctuation marks in a sentence of death.
---
Gautham was hyperventilating, his eyes darting wildly between Sam's smile and Vikram's bulk. He needed to speak. He needed to find the escape route, even if it was verbal.
"Look, I can provide intelligence," Gautham stammered, his voice thin and reedy. "I handle the logistics, the surveillance, the forensics! I know the blind spots, the patrol sweeps! We don't need the muscle; we need the brain. I can be valuable! I can—"
Sam turned his calm, assessing gaze toward Gautham. He didn't need to speak a threat; his presence was enough. Gautham froze mid-sentence, his entire body locking up like a cheap mechanism. The cold realization of his own utter insignificance silenced him more effectively than any gun.
---
Sanvi couldn't endure the quiet humiliation. Her coping mechanism was always aggression, her loyalty emotional and volatile.
"Go to hell," Sanvi spat, her voice laced with venom, ignoring the throbbing agony in her arm. "We don't work for anyone. We're New Blood. We burn our own path."
Vikram's eyes, dead and dark, turned slowly toward her. He didn't move an inch, but the silent, heavy promise of violence emanating from him was overwhelming. Sanvi, for the first time in her life, snapped shut. Her jaw clenched, her bravado dissolved into a shiver, and she stared straight ahead, knowing that one more word, one more flicker of defiance, would earn her an immediate, agonizing death at the hands of the giant behind Sam.
---
Arpika, the master manipulator, attempted her counter. She saw the opportunity in Sam's detached politeness, sensing a psychological angle. She leaned forward slightly on the bench, her posture suddenly elegant, her eyes locking onto Sam's with a seductive, calculated charm.
"You, of all people, understand leverage, Mr. Corvini," Arpika purred, her voice smooth and confident. "A messy problem requires a clean solution. We are young, hungry, and easily controllable. Why waste the resource? We could be your eyes on the street, given the right motivation."
She offered him a slow, knowing smile, the same calculated expression that had melted rivals and manipulated allies.
Sam didn't blink. His polite smile remained fixed, widening just a fraction.
"Predictable," he stated simply, his voice devoid of praise or judgment, as if remarking on a known mathematical constant. "It's the first angle every amateur uses. You trade sex for power, boys trade violence for territory. It's all so very… tired."
Arpika's expression faltered. The sudden, absolute failure of her most trusted weapon was a visible shock. Her confident posture crumbled. For the first time, Pranav saw genuine uncertainty flash in her cold, green eyes. Sam had not just resisted her charm; he had classified it, dismissed it, and exposed it as a childish trick.
---
The awful realization dawned on Pranav, spreading through the New Blood like a slow-acting poison. Their identities, Pranav's ambition, Gautham's intelligence, Sanvi's aggression, Arpika's charm, meant nothing here. They weren't schemes, tactics, or leverage. They were simply predictable flaws waiting to be exploited.
They weren't choosing a path. They were being chosen for a role.
"Here is the deal, New Blood," Sam concluded, stepping back and regaining his conversational distance. "You work for me. You clean up the messes. You handle the operations that are beneath the dignity of my family. And in return, you get to live. You get to learn. You get to graduate from idiots to tools."
He gestured to the duffel bag of product, which a guard had placed neatly beside the bench.
"Welcome to the family. Your first assignment is to clean up that warehouse before the sun rises. Do not disappoint me again."
Sam nodded to Vikram, who immediately turned and strode out through the shattered doorway, the sound of his heavy steps receding quickly. Sam offered one last, terrible smile to the five broken figures on the bench.
"Don't let the door hit you on the way out," he said, the politeness making the dismissal feel like a death sentence.
Pranav stared at the empty space where Sam had stood. His empire was dead. His freedom was gone. They hadn't won anything; they had merely earned the right to serve the masters they had tried to usurp.