The air in the print shop hideout was acrid, thick with unspent adrenaline and the metallic tang of dried blood clinging to their clothes. The victory—if it could even be called that—had lasted exactly as long as the drive back. Now, the tension, compressed by fear and the sheer speed of their escape, detonated.
Pranav stood in the middle of the room, still clutching the duffel bag, the supposed foundation of his empire. It felt less like a prize and more like a ticking bomb.
"You idiots!" Gautham shrieked, his voice vibrating with hysterics. He was pacing a tight, frantic circle, throwing his hands up in manic distress. "Three bodies! We left three unnecessary bodies! Do you understand the footprint that leaves? The heat? They'll run every database from here to Palermo, and your sloppy, amateur trauma signatures are going to be a neon sign pointing right back here!"
"Forensic signatures?" Sanvi roared back, her face flushed red, the feral grin gone, replaced by pure, defensive fury. "You spent the whole fight hiding behind a crate! I was the one keeping their heads down! I was the one fighting!"
With a grunt of pure frustration, she kicked over the flimsy Formica table where Pranav had laid out his elegant plan just an hour prior. The map scattered, a pathetic mess of crumpled paper and spilled, lukewarm coffee.
"Enough!" Pranav tried to roar, but the sound was thin, frayed by exhaustion and the creeping realization that Gautham was right. They had made a catastrophic mess. "The plan is salvageable! We secure the product, we lay low for forty-eight hours, we establish the—"
"The plan," Arpika interrupted, her voice a dangerous monotone that cut through the hysteria like a razor wire. She was meticulously wiping a minuscule speck of blood off her sleeve with a clean cloth. "The plan was minimal noise. We have achieved maximal noise, maximal risk, and maximal exposure. Our reputation is now 'idiots who leave three bodies over a few ounces of pills.' Your ambition, Pranav, has been noted by the entire city."
The sheer, cold logic of her contempt silenced him instantly. He saw the cracks—the widening, irreparable fractures in his New Blood. They were screaming, accusing, blaming. Every fault line he had tried to mask with his grand pronouncements was now a chasm of mutual distrust.
Sathwik sat on an upturned crate, oblivious to the shouting. He was methodically scrubbing the dried blood off his hands with a stiff brush and a bucket of grey water. He said nothing, radiating a dangerous, heavy calm. His silent presence was the only thing preventing Sanvi and Gautham from physically attacking each other. Pranav looked at him, the only man who had executed his role perfectly, and felt a wave of hopeless envy. Sathwik had no fear, no regret—just task completion.
We're compromised, Pranav thought, the truth cold and sharp as glass. The noise was too loud.
Before he could form the next futile command—before Gautham could launch into another panic attack or Sanvi could break another piece of furniture—it happened.
Not a knock. Not a stealthy approach.
Just a BOOM.
The blast hit the reinforced door like a physical wave, shattering the locks and tearing the metal frame away from the wall. The sound was deafening, primal. Dust and smoke instantly flooded the hideout, the sudden darkness blinding them.
Every muscle in Pranav's body seized up. He dropped the duffel bag. Not the cops. Cops knock.
The initial smoke swirled, backlit by the ugly orange glow of the streetlights outside. Then, with an unnerving, deliberate slowness, two silhouettes stepped through the wreckage.
They didn't posture. They didn't rush. They didn't even seem armed. They simply entered.
The man in front was shorter, impeccably dressed in a pale suit that seemed immune to the dust. He had soft, almost paternal features, and an expression of gentle concern. This was Sam Corvini. The charming, soft-spoken horror.
Behind him, towering and silent, was Vikram Corvini. He moved like a depth charge—a slow, inexorable force of nature. He was pure, distilled brutality in a bespoke suit.
The entire, frantic energy of the room—the shouting, the panic, the accusations—collapsed instantly, violently. The air was sucked out, leaving only a cold, paralyzing vacuum. They weren't surrounded; they were contained.
Vikram didn't wait. He moved across the space in three predatory strides. He zeroed in on the immediate threat: Sanvi, who had automatically reached for her knife, her primal reflexes still functioning even as her brain screamed danger.
Vikram didn't strike. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply grabbed her wrist. Not a struggle, not a fight—a decisive termination. He twisted her forearm with brutal, surgical precision, and the sound of the small bones grating was a sickening counterpoint to the silence. Her knife clattered to the concrete. Sanvi gasped, her eyes wide, stunned, her violence neutralized in a single, masterful motion.
Sam, meanwhile, stepped lightly over the cowering, hyperventilating form of Gautham, who was already huddled behind an overturned chair, uselessly muttering escape routes that didn't involve the front door. Sam didn't look at him. He was surveying the room, the wreckage of Pranav's ambition.
He stopped directly in front of Pranav, who stood frozen, mouth dry, unable to move a muscle. Sam's face split into a warm, friendly, almost regretful smile. It was the smile of a compassionate father about to deliver deeply disappointing news. It chilled Pranav to his core more than the violence Vikram had just inflicted.
Sam finally looked down at the bodies the young crew had made, the scattered ammo, the discarded duffel bag containing the evidence of their hubris. The scene was ruinous, embarrassing.
"Well now," Sam said, his voice soft, almost conversational, as if they were discussing the poor weather. "This is a mess, isn't it? A truly magnificent mess. And messy is expensive."
He took a slow, deliberate step forward, crowding Pranav, forcing him to smell the expensive cologne and the faint, metallic scent of ozone from the blast.
"Don't worry, boys. We're here to help you clean up," Sam continued, his eyes gleaming with a terrible, patient amusement. "One way or another."
The Serpents of the city had not just coiled around them; they had swallowed them whole. Pranav could feel the immense, crushing weight of the Corvini power pressing down. He was no founder. He was trapped.