The hallways of the Corvini compound were cold, the air thick with the faint, persistent smell of disinfectant struggling to mask old violence. They were marched deeper, down stairwells that corkscrewed into the earth, the light growing dimmer, the silence heavier. The guards' footsteps were the only sound, measured and relentless.
They were delivered to a room that felt less like an initiation chamber and more like a slaughterhouse that hadn't been properly sanitized. The walls were stripped concrete, the floor stained dark, and the single bare bulb hanging overhead cast harsh, unforgiving shadows.
Waiting for them was Asrit. The lawyer. The strategist. He stood by a metal table, cold and expressionless, dressed in a sharp, dark suit that made him look like he was preparing for a closing argument, not a branding ceremony. He held a clipboard, studying them with the detached scrutiny of a man assessing paperwork, not people.
Beside him, the tattoo artist prepped his tools. He was a silent, massive man with arms covered in swirling black ink, his movements precise and unsettling, the silence of a surgeon preparing for a brutal, non-consensual operation. Needles, ink pots, fresh razor blades, all laid out with clinical symmetry.
Asrit barely glanced up. "Dignity is a distraction," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, like a courtroom ruling. "You are property. The marks confirm the ownership."
---
One by one, they were called forward.
"Shirts off." The demand was absolute. No defiance was allowed.
Gautham fumbled first, his fingers trembling as he pulled his vest and shirt over his head. Pranav followed, the sudden, sharp rush of cold air against his bare skin feeling like the first cut. Arpika moved last, her usual grace replaced by slow, agonizing reluctance. Her back was bare, exposed to the pitiless light, her vulnerability a fresh wound.
---
The branding began with Sathwik. He was the first sacrifice.
He sat on the stool, rigid. The tattoo gun buzzed, a high, angry whine that vibrated through the silent room. The needle carved the "Corvini crow" into his upper back, high on the shoulder blade, aggressive lines, sharp angles, the ink forced deep into the muscle. The crow was stylized, brutal, a promise of predatory violence.
Sathwik barely flinched. He absorbed the pain like it was just another order he was born to follow, his face empty, his obedience absolute. He was a stone taking an inscription.
---
Then came Sanvi.
The moment the artist touched the vibrating needle to her skin, she combusted. Her rage, suppressed by Vikram's presence and her earlier humiliation, detonated.
"Get your damn hands off me!" she screamed, swinging blindly, thrashing against the guard holding her arms. She cursed, wild and feral, trying to regain the lost ground, the lost autonomy.
Vikram, standing sentinel in the doorway, moved instantly. He didn't shout. He didn't punch. His grip slammed down on her rebellious body, crushing her fight, his immense strength an absolute counter to her raw, untamed fury. Her muffled screams turned into pained sobs, humiliatingly loud in the silence, as the needle carved the permanent, indelible mark of the crow onto her skin. With every second the ink burned her flesh, her pride was broken, stamped down by the power she had sworn to fight.
---
Arpika watched Sanvi's collapse with tight-lipped horror. When her name was called, she walked to the stool with forced poise, forcing herself to breathe slowly, deeply. She tried to hold her composure, tried to retreat into the icy fortress of her mind, pretending she was above the pain, above the ritual, above the ownership.
The needle began its work. She made no sound, but the effort to contain the agony was visible, her shoulders tightening, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on her temples. Then, the tears slipped out. Silent, slow, uncontrollable tracks running down her cheeks. The tears of humiliation. The visible evidence that she was not above the pain, not above the claim, exposed and vulnerable in front of the very men she desperately wanted leverage over.
---
Pranav watched it all, fury boiling under his skin, a helpless, useless heat. He felt the cold, hard weight of the chains closing around the future he used to dream about. His empire was dead, replaced by this brutal, physical subjugation. He had sought power, and now power was literally being branded onto his flesh.
When his turn came, he sat ramrod straight, focusing on the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge the artist, the needle, or the pain. The crow dug into his back, a burning reminder of the night his ambition had delivered him into servitude. He would not scream. He would not cry. He would simply endure the pain and let the resentment curdle into something colder, something more dangerous.
---
The crow was the mark of ownership, aggressive and external. Then came the second mark: the smaller symbol over their hearts. More intricate, more intimate—a claim on their pulse, their very breath.
Gautham was desperate. As the artist approached his chest, he started bargaining, whispering requests to Asrit.
"A lower placement, please. Something hidden. Under the armpit, perhaps? Something less… visible?"
Asrit's icy stare met his, clinical and absolute. "It is a mark of ownership," Asrit repeated, the tone flat, dismissive of Gautham's pleading for anonymity. "It is meant to be visible, Gautham. It is meant to remind you, and everyone who sees you, precisely who you belong to."
Gautham froze. His survival instinct, the quick wit that always sought an exit, was useless here. He submitted, terrified, as the delicate, proprietary Corvini sigil, the symbol of their internal structure, was etched over his heart.
---
As the five bruised and marked figures were helped back into their shirts, Asrit made a brief mention of the Corvini heavy hitters.
"You are now privy to certain operations. Kevin is out on a major distribution deal in the north. James is handling matters in Mexico."
The names alone tightened the air in the room, ghosts with reputations sharp enough to cut. They were surrounded by power they didn't understand, serving forces they couldn't possibly contend with.
Asrit dismissed them with a curt nod. "You are marked. You are owned. Get used to the pain."
The New Blood left the room, their backs burning, their shame absolute. They walked back toward the surface, no longer a crew, but a branded collection of Corvini property. The price of ambition had just been paid in blood and ink.