The world of the Corvini Cartel was a stratified pyramid of competence. While Kevin played the petty tyrant over the new recruits in the lab, Sam moved in the distant world of diplomacy, deals, and shadow negotiations. Still wounded from the fallout of the New Blood's earlier mistakes, Sam was determined to maintain his myth, the polished face of the family. He took Sathwik as backup for a meeting with a new supplier.
The setting was a forgotten industrial yard off the main highway, quiet, grim, wrong. The concrete was cracked, the air heavy with dust and the metallic scent of abandoned machinery. Even the air felt like it was waiting to snap.
Sam was talking, his voice low and charming, standing near a corrugated steel wall. Sathwik stood two paces behind him, a silent, unmoving column of vigilance.
The ambush detonated without warning.
It wasn't slick. Not cinematic. Not professional. It was messy, violent, frantic. A sudden surge of shouts, heavy footsteps, and the deafening report of cheap, unregistered guns.
A bullet ripped through the concrete wall right beside Sam's head, spraying white dust. Sam shouted, not the controlled roar of a leader, but a sharp, panicked sound. A second shot tore into his leg. Sam crumpled, his polished mask cracking instantly, revealing the raw, visceral terror beneath. He screamed, his hands clutching his shattered thigh.
Sathwik reacted instantly.
No training. No finesse. No thought about the plan or the debt. Just instinct—brutal, efficient, animalistic survival. His mind emptied, leaving only the cold certainty of action. His primary directive was absolute: protect the body.
He slammed his own body over Sam's torso, using his mass as a shield. Bullets spat against the steel wall, whistling inches above his head. He reached out, grabbed a piece of thick, rusted metal pipe lying near a dismantled engine, and stood, roaring soundlessly.
Sathwik charged.
He moved low, fast, a shadow of pure, focused aggression. He didn't use tactics; he used momentum and mass. Bodies crashed. The pipe became a flail, striking bone with sickening force. He was fighting with whatever was near, broken glass, the metal pipe, his bare hands, tearing and striking with a desperation that mirrored the raw terror in his own heart. Every kill was ugly and desperate. He didn't hesitate. Didn't think. He just moved, a creature of pure reflex.
They were moments away from being overwhelmed. The remaining attackers were closing in, their shouts growing louder, their coordination improving.
And then the world shifted.
The fighting attackers suddenly stopped moving. The shouts died in their throats.
Vikram arrived.
Not running. Not shouting. Just appearing, stepping out from behind a colossal stack of discarded tires, a shadow with a heartbeat. There was no sound cue, no buildup, no hesitation, just his sudden, crushing presence in the frame. He looked like a horror monster walking onto the stage.
And then he killed.
Fast. Final. Absolute.
Vikram's movements were fluid and minimal. His hands were a blur of knives and precise, bone-breaking strikes. Attackers dropped before they even understood they were dead, collapsing with silent, efficient finality. It was violence so precise, so devoid of wasted effort, that it felt supernatural, like watching a wind-up machine execute its only, terrible function.
When the smoke cleared, the silence was immediate and thick with the metallic reek of blood and oil. Vikram was the only figure still standing entirely upright.
He walked to Sam, who was whimpering, clutching his shattered leg. Vikram knelt, lifted Sam's body without comment, carrying him like a wounded child, heavy, valuable, and helpless.
Sathwik remained standing where he had fought, soaked in the blood of his enemies, his chest heaving, his body slick with sweat and grime. He was bruised, cut, but miraculously, functionally whole.
Vikram glanced at him. For the first time ever, the silent executioner looked directly at Sathwik, his dark eyes penetrating and assessing.
"You held the line," Vikram's voice was a low, rough rumble. It was the longest sentence Sathwik had ever heard him speak. "Get him in the car."
That single sentence was not an order for a recruit. It was an acknowledgment of survival and skill. It was worth more than a medal, more than any empty praise from Sam. It was validation from the silent, absolute power of the family's violence.
Sathwik followed orders, moving to the designated getaway vehicle. Battered, blood-soaked, and exhausted, he walked with a new gravity, because Vikram Corvini, the family's silent executioner, had just acknowledged him.
Not as a recruit.
As a soldier.