The aftermath of the trial hung over the common area like toxic fog. The room was heavy with the weight of borrowed freedom and amplified debt. We were scattered across the floor and benches, five separate islands of fear and resentment, unable to form a coherent group.
Pranav sat curled inward, knees drawn to his chest, staring at the grey concrete floor. The courtroom, the cuffs, the horrifying clarity of Asrit's legal scalpel, it had hollowed him out. He felt like a suit of armour stripped of its occupant.
Sanvi watched him with barely disguised contempt. His failure, his capture, and his humiliating legal rescue had confirmed her disdain for his structured cowardice. Arpika and Gautham kept their distance, wary of the infection of failure. Sathwik stood silent in his corner, a shadow waiting for a command that never came. There was no unity, no trust, only the slow rot of defeat.
Then, the room changed temperature.
It wasn't a draft or a warning. It was the subtle, tightening pressure of the air itself.
John Corvini walked in.
Alone. No guards. No announcement. No menace. Just quiet, unassuming footsteps and a presence that made the air so thick it became difficult to breathe. He carried the weight of the entire city on his shoulders, yet he moved with the lightness of a man taking an evening stroll.
He didn't stand over them. He didn't issue threats or demand accountability for the disastrous mission. Instead, he simply pulled a plastic chair from beneath the folding table and sat down among them, literally becoming one of the figures in the room, like an exhausted teacher taking a moment with his students.
His tone was gentle, almost soothing. It was the quietest, most disarming voice Pranav had ever heard.
"The legal system is messy," John said, casually leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "That's why we buy it. It's cheaper than rebuilding after every minor dispute."
He looked at Pranav, and for the first time, his gaze settled, calm and assessing. Pranav felt the sheer force of the man's attention, and he instinctively wanted to apologize for existing.
"Your father, Pranav," John continued, the casual mention slicing through the air. "He was a good man. Tried to play by the rules. What did he call it? 'Honourable failure?' We don't believe in honour here. Only success."
He moved his attention to the others. He asked Arpika about her neighbourhood growing up, the one she'd been desperate to leave. He asked Gautham about his degree, the plans he had for a legitimate career before the chaos swallowed him. He spoke to them like a father who already knew all their sins, all their weaknesses, and loved them, not in spite of it, but for it.
"You're all running from something, aren't you?" John said, his voice soft, almost sympathetic. "A past you couldn't beat, a destiny you were told you couldn't change. Fear is a powerful tool. It's what drives the best of us."
Then, with the same calm, gentle voice, he told them why he had chosen them, why they were taken rather than simply killed after the first botched job.
"The Corvini Seven," he said, mentioning the legendary founders of the cartel, the high-status figures whose names commanded absolute loyalty in Santa Fortuna. "They were once exactly like you. Idiots. Young. Reckless. Hungry. And cornered."
He let the quiet weight of the comparison settle. Pranav's hollow feeling began to fill with a terrifying, impossible hope.
John smiled, faint, fond, and utterly horrifying.
"You believe the Corvini Seven were prodigies, born to this life. You believe they inherited this power, this city, this name." John paused, leaning back slightly, inviting them to watch the detonation.
"The truth is, the founders of the Corvini family were not heirs. They were not prodigies. They were not chosen."
His eyes swept over the five branded figures, and the smile widened, showing not cruelty, but a strange, dark pride.
"They were servants. They were the help. They worked for the real power, the old power-cleaning up messes, taking the risks, doing the tasks that were beneath their masters' dignity."
He let the image sink in: the founders of the great Corvini Cartel, the men they served, had once been them.
"And when the time was right, they murdered their masters, every single one of them. They took everything: the money, the territory, the name, and the power."
The realization hit Pranav with a physical shock. The entire history they had been taught, the mythology of the untouchable Corvini bloodline, was a magnificent lie.
"They weren't born into power," John finished, his voice hushed, reverent. "They stole it. That is the Corvini tradition. That is the true inheritance. The bloodline is not genetic. It is murderous opportunity."
John stood up, the plastic chair scraping softly against the concrete. He didn't offer a final threat. He didn't demand loyalty. He simply looked at them, a final, chilling assessment.
His look was not cruel. It was almost... welcoming.
He had revealed the secret: the path out of servitude was not compliance; it was betrayal.
And then he was gone, leaving the five recruits alone in the silent room, no longer just servants, but heirs to a tradition of treason.