The rescue exploded into a ten-minute nightmare. It was not artful. It was not clean. It was not coordinated. It was a raw, ugly symphony of survival, driven by adrenaline and the sheer necessity of getting out of that gilded cage alive.
Mancini's guards, shocked by the roof entry and the contradictory commands I was shouting, "Regroup north side! Fireteam Beta advance!", were momentarily disorganized, but their numbers were overwhelming.
The confrontation was immediate and brutal.
Bullets missed by inches, screaming past my ears. We used broken furniture, priceless antique chairs, mahogany desks, as flimsy, temporary shields. The walls, paneled in fine wood and expensive silk, were instantly stained with panic, powder burns, and blood. Every sound was loud, amplified by the confined space: screams, the metallic click of misfires, the desperate sound of improvised weapons, a shard of glass, a broken table leg.
I directed through gasps and adrenaline, my commands now less about strategy and more about pointing to the next immediate threat.
Sanvi was magnificent and terrifying. Unleashed, she tore through guards like vengeance incarnate, her movement a blur of pure, feral momentum. She didn't pause to secure a kill; she just moved to the next target, leaving a trail of bodies without intention or finesse.
Sathwik lived up to his designation as the shield. He absorbed blows meant for others with dull indifference. I watched, horrified, as a guard managed to drive a long kitchen knife into his ribs. Sathwik didn't scream. He didn't even stumble. He twisted, crushed the man's windpipe with a single, massive hand, and pulled the knife out, his face barely reacting to the crimson bloom spreading across his shirt. He was a machine, impervious to pain.
Arpika, once unchained, proved she was no damsel. Her venom was palpable. She didn't rely on charm now; she fought with savage, calculated efficiency, kicking, biting, and using the broken restraints on her wrists as flails. She had been humiliated. Now she was settling the score.
And then came Gautham's moment.
He had been cornered in the opulent art wing, a terrible room filled with statues and oil paintings, far from the main action. He was pinned down by two guards who had flanked the main hallway. He had a gap, a clean, clear line to a service corridor that led to the city streets. He could escape. Alone. He could finally execute the only plan his instinct understood.
But he didn't.
I saw the decision flash across his sweat-streaked face, terror battling logic. He grabbed the nearest ignition source, a massive candelabra, and with a strangled cry sparked a fire in Mancini's priceless art collection. He knew the building's defense. He knew the suppression system. The moment the flames licked the canvas, the automatic fire suppression system activated.
The mansion became confusion incarnate. Smoke billowed instantly, thick and acrid. High-pressure water nozzles erupted from the ceilings and walls, flooding the hallway and blinding everyone.
It was a coward's move, running from the fight. It was a genius move, exploiting the building's own safety mechanism against its owner. It was a betrayal of the mission's tactical goal, but a salvation for the unit.
The torrent of smoke, chaos, and water covered our frantic retreat. We sprinted, slipping on the soaked marble, following Sanvi's intuitive sense of direction.
We spilled out into the back alley, crashing against a chain-link fence, gasping for breath. We were blood-soaked, bruised, panting, the silence of the night wrapping around us. We were not polished soldiers. We were something far more dangerous: a functioning unit built on the bedrock of shared trauma and successful, layered chaos.
Arpika, leaning against the fence, ran a hand across her bruised lip. She looked at me, her eyes hard, predatory.
"Took you long enough, Pranav."
I wiped the blood and water from my face, the exhaustion a heavy, sweet weight. I felt an exhilarating, cold satisfaction.
"Had to wait for my turn," I replied, the truth simple and sharp. My turn to lead, my turn to dictate the chaos, my turn to survive.
When we returned to the compound hours later, battered and smelling of smoke and dried blood, the air was still, quiet.
John Corvini stood at a high window overlooking the compound entrance. He was watching us approach, a silent, monolithic figure framed in the glass.
He didn't come down. He didn't congratulate. He didn't speak.
He just stood there, the distance emphasizing his absolute authority. Even from that height, Pranav could feel the pressure of his gaze. And then John Corvini smiled, faint, microscopic, terrifying. It was an acknowledgment.
The test was over. We had passed the only metric that truly mattered. We survived. We had proven capable of wielding our own dysfunction to achieve the master's goals. The fear was still there, but now it was tempered by the chilling realization that we were not just liabilities anymore.
We were dangerous.