The chaos of the fish market was a terrifying, sickening blur. Everything was slicked with fish blood and water, the air ringing with shouts, screams, and the chaotic thud of bodies. Pranav was scrambling backward, clutching the package, the single, fragile piece of evidence that defined his worth, when an attacker slammed into a stall.
In the frenzy, the package, a small, dark, taped brick flew from Pranav's numb fingers. It skidded across the wet, dark concrete floor, finally stopping beneath an overturned barrel, dangerously close to the fighting.
A path opened.
Sathwik, moving with inhuman, silent efficiency, had just cleared a line of sight for him, neutralizing two attackers with brutal, decisive strikes. It was a clean chance to escape. The others were sprinting for their lives, Arpika's dark hair disappeared around a stack of empty ice bins; Sanvi was using a fish crate as cover, her fury undimmed. The sound of running feet, screams, and the distant, rising wail of sirens shook the flimsy market structure.
He had a fraction of a second to run. Survival was the only logical choice.
But Pranav stopped. He turned back toward the dark spot where the package lay.
The world seemed to slow, the cacophony of the fight fading into a high, distant drone. His face twisted, caught in the unbearable torque between ambition and raw panic.
If he leaves the package, he fails the mission. The plan is ruined. The transaction is aborted.
If he fails the mission, he's useless. He proves Asuma right. He proves John Corvini right.
If he's useless, he's disposable.
The realization was a cold, sharp blade. The package wasn't currency; it was his last remaining lifeline to being an "asset." He had to retrieve it. He had to prove his worth.
He lunged for the package and that was the moment the police hit the market.
It wasn't a trickle, it was a tidal wave of blue uniforms, boots splashing through the fish guts and water. They weren't here for the Corvini job, they were tailing the rival crew, but the chaos had delivered Pranav straight into the kill zone.
A massive wave of force slammed into him. An officer tackled him to the ground, smashing his head and chest into the fish-soaked concrete. The impact knocked the air completely out of his lungs in a wheezing, desperate gasp. The agonizing smell of ammonia and brine filled his nostrils.
His arms were yanked violently behind his back, the sharp pain of the plastic cuffs clicking shut. He was pinned, powerless, face pressed against the foul floor, the entire world reduced to the damp, cold smell of defeat. Above him, the screams of the remaining fighting faded as the police overwhelmed the market.
The others - Arpika, Sanvi, Sathwik, Gautham had vanished into the maze of stalls and service exits. They were gone. He was alone.
The world blurred into patches of blue uniform and flashing red lights. Pranav was hauled to his feet, dizzy and shivering. He stood there, soaked, humiliated, breathing raggedly, his terror raw and unheroic. Not a cinematic hero taking a bullet, just a kid crushed under the weight of an incompetent plan.
Miles away, in a quiet, climate-controlled office, Sam Corvini took the call. The voice on the other end was quiet, relaying the details of the raid, the clean escape of the other four, and the capture of one, identified only as the young man who had been frantically reaching for the package.
Sam listened, the gentle smile never leaving his lips. He finally spoke, his voice the coldest thing Pranav could have ever imagined.
"Yes, a complication," Sam said softly. He didn't sound stressed, merely mildly inconvenienced. "The dreamer is in a cage."
A slight pause, a breath of calculated cruelty.
"No, leave him. A lesson has more value than a pawn."
Pranav was being shoved toward the blinding glare of the police cars. He looked back one last time at the wreckage of the fish market, his eyes falling on the overturned barrel, just seeing the corner of the small, dark package still sitting exactly where it fell. Mission failed.
The crushing realization hit him. The Corvini machine wouldn't break a sweat losing him. They wouldn't send a rescue. They wouldn't even notice the dent he left. His failure to retrieve the package sealed his fate, not because it cost them product, but because it confirmed his dispensability.
He wanted to prove his worth.
Instead, he proved the opposite.
The door of the police car slammed shut with a final, echoing clang. The last image in Pranav's mind was the knowledge that his life had been judged and found to be cheaper than a clean escape.