The air in the courtroom tasted like stale coffee, cheap defeat, and the buzzing apathy of fluorescent lights. Pranav sat shackled to the table, facing charges that would drown any ordinary kid for a decade: drug trafficking, assault on an officer, resisting arrest. He was ruined. Abandoned by the crew, sacrificed by Sam.
He was waiting for the gavel to seal his fate when the room suddenly stilled.
The Corvini solution was not bullets through a window.
It was Asrit.
He walked in wearing a charcoal suit so sharp it looked like it could cut glass, his posture impeccable, his entire presence freezing the slow churn of courtroom bureaucracy. He had switched from fixer to attorney without dropping an ounce of his cold, surgical menace. It was the same icy stare, the same meticulous air, just dressed in the costume of respectability.
Asrit approached the defense table and laid a slim leather briefcase down, the soft thud echoing in the sudden silence. He didn't offer a word of comfort or a glance of acknowledgment to Pranav.
The trial began. Asrit never tried to claim Pranav's innocence; that would be messy. He went after the system instead.
He moved through the prosecution's case like a surgeon with a scalpel, quiet and merciless. Every word was precise, every pause calculated.
He began by dissecting the arresting officers' reports, exposing procedural mistakes they'd made in the chaos of the fish market, failure to read Miranda rights at the moment of apprehension, improper chain of custody for evidence found under the overturned barrel. The cops hadn't known they were walking into a cartel situation, they'd been sloppily chasing a rival gang, and Asrit used their poor training manuals to paint them as incompetent or corrupt.
He then dragged out inconsistencies in the witnesses' statements. Did the officer state the suspect was "wielding" the package, or merely "reaching for" it? He ripped open the credibility of the market vendors who had stayed to give statements, implying (without stating) that their testimony was influenced by rival gang intimidation.
The cross-examination of the arresting officer was the centerpiece, a chilling masterclass in intellectual violence. Asrit's voice never once rose. There was no raised voice, no theatrical flair, just pure, relentless logic.
"Officer," Asrit asked, his voice calm, almost bored. "You testified that the suspect was violently resisting arrest. Yet, the forensic report indicates a compound fracture on the suspect's wrist consistent with an improper restraint technique, not resistance. Please confirm, did you use the standard, two-person takedown, or did you employ the unauthorized knee-on-back maneuver?"
Every question was tighter than the last. Every statement was a blade slicing through the officer's credibility. The cop, flustered and outmatched, stammered and contradicted his own report.
Pranav lifted his eyes to the gallery. Under Sam's explicit orders, the rest of the New Blood was there, witnesses to the power that now owned them.
Sanvi's jaw was clenched, but her eyes were fixed on Asrit, a flicker of grudging respect mixing with her habitual rage. She was almost impressed by the clean, quiet destruction.
Arpika's eyes tracked every movement, not out of concern for Pranav, but out of calculation. This was the true, invisible power, and she was absorbing every nuance, learning how to track the scent of real influence.
Sathwik watched, unmoving, his expression empty, observing a kill. A demonstration of power was a demonstration of the new order, and he absorbed it without judgment.
Gautham, however, was shrinking into his chair, his face pale. He was terrified, realizing that the clean power of the law, owned by the Corvini, was far scarier than any street fight. There was no escape route from institutional control.
By the time Asrit was finished, he had eviscerated the prosecution's case so efficiently that the judge, stone-faced but legally bound, had no choice.
"The court finds that the chain of custody for the key evidence, the package, was irreparably compromised, and the testimony regarding the resisting arrest charge is deemed unreliable," the judge ruled, his voice heavy with bureaucratic defeat. "Major charges dismissed."
What was left was a joke, a minor public nuisance charge, time served, release ordered.
Pranav stood, his shackles removed, technically "free." He walked out of the courtroom, breathing the relatively clean air of the street, the sun hitting his face.
But he didn't look free.
He looked owned. He had been yanked out of the system's grip not by his own strength, but by the effortless reach of the Corvini hand. He had gone from prisoner of the state to chattel of the cartel. The debt was still there. The brand was still burning.
Asrit paused only long enough to give Pranav a final, chilling look. "The Corvini family pays its taxes, Pranav. And its bills. You are still indebted to us for the legal costs. Do not fail another assignment."
Then, he walked away, his charcoal suit gliding through the crowd, leaving Pranav standing alone on the courthouse steps, a technically free man carrying the full weight of a master's claim.