The echoes of the past, the slamming doors, the desperate whispers, the shattering glass faded back into the cold, sterile reality of the Corvini compound. Pranav blinked, shaking off the residual terror of his father's failure. The smell of expensive cologne and fear remained.
The "negotiation" had snapped back into place. Sam Corvini was still standing in the center of the room, still smiling, still offering his deal with the soothing warmth of a man offering salvation.
"The past is done, gentlemen," Sam repeated, his voice gentle, paternal. "The slate is clean. You simply need to decide if you wish to write your future with us, or if you prefer to let Vikram write the final chapter for you."
Behind him, Vikram didn't move. He didn't need to speak. The sheer, immutable weight of consequence radiated off him, a terrifying heat that made the concrete walls feel flimsy. He was the definition of absolute power, silent, patient, and terminal.
Sanvi was trembling. Not from cold, but from a barely contained, volcanic rage. Her fists were clenched so tight her knuckles were white, fighting the internal battle between the primal urge to lash out and the crushing certainty of Vikram's immediate retaliation. She was defeated, and the defeat was tearing her apart.
Arpika looked away, her jaw tight, staring at the blank white wall as if searching for a flaw in the masonry, a weakness in the foundation of Corvini power. Her carefully constructed worldview, where every person had a price and every situation could be charmed or manipulated, had been utterly refuted. Sam had seen through her, and that knowledge was a greater humiliation than any threat.
Pranav forced himself to sit upright, his spine rigid, clinging desperately to the pretense that this was a strategic move, not a surrender. We are reorganizing. We are infiltrating. This is the long play. He repeated the lie internally, trying to protect the fragile core of his ambition from the icy wind of reality. He was cornered, but he refused to look cornered.
Sathwik solved the problem of choice with simple obedience. He lowered his gaze, his eyes fixed on the cold concrete floor in automatic submission. He was wired to follow the strongest voice, and the strongest voice was now Corvini's. He had already accepted the new chain of command.
Gautham was the only one whose inner turmoil was visible to everyone. He was shaking uncontrollably, unable to keep the high, panicked whine out of his breathing. He wasn't thinking about strategy or power; he was thinking about the nearest functional exit, the nearest chance to flee. The weight of Vikram's silent presence was literally suffocating him.
---
The seconds stretched into an eternity, filled only by Gautham's frantic gasping and the low, constant snap-snap-snap of Vikram's knuckles.
The pressure became unbearable. The choice was an illusion; the only variable was how long they could hold out before the fear broke them.
Finally, Sanvi released a choked, wounded sound, a blend of fury and despair. She dropped her gaze, her shoulders slumping in absolute surrender. The rage had lost.
"Yes," she whispered, the word thin and brittle.
Sam nodded, his smile deepening with satisfaction. He didn't look at Sanvi. He looked at Pranav.
Pranav felt the entire weight of his failed empire, his cracked idealism, and his exposed fear descend upon him. He saw the cold, expectant look in Arpika's eyes, the pleading terror in Gautham's. There was no escape. Not yet.
"We accept," Pranav said, his voice flat, devoid of the forced confidence he usually wore. He hated the sound of the word, the taste of the failure.
Arpika, her jaw still tight with resentment, managed a single, clipped nod. Gautham simply collapsed against the wall, his whole body shaking with relief and shame.
One by one, they were bought.
---
Sam surveyed his new acquisitions with the satisfied air of a king accepting tribute.
"Excellent," he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing the corner of his eye, as if the whole tense exchange had been emotionally taxing for him. "Vikram will handle your onboarding. You have much to learn about efficiency, and about consequence."
Vikram, finally moving, stepped aside, his massive form opening a path behind Sam. Two large, identically dressed guards appeared instantly, motioning the New Blood forward.
The crew was led deeper into the compound. They walked down cold, echoing hallways of pristine white concrete. The facility felt less like a building and more like a subterranean monster, and the corridors felt like its arteries, leading them toward a monstrous, beating heart of crime and power.
They walked in silence. The air around them was thick with individual, palpable emotions: Sanvi's humiliation, Arpika's bitter resentment, Gautham's fear, Sathwik's apathy. And Pranav's shattered belief.
He had wanted an empire. He had wanted the gold, the power, the respect.
Instead, he realized they had simply been bought—heavy, valuable, and utterly owned. They were property now, currency in Sam Corvini's endless ledger.
As they rounded a corner, a massive, soundproof steel door hissed open, allowing them passage into the next phase of their forced servitude. It slid shut behind them with a heavy, final _thunk_. The Corvini doors had closed, sealing their fate inside.