The holding cell in the 4th Precinct smelled of ammonia, drying blood, and the sour, metallic tang of unwashed bodies. It was a glass-fronted fishbowl facing the busy bullpen, illuminated by a flickering fluorescent strip that buzzed like a dying insect.
Pranav sat on the metal bench, his wrists handcuffed behind his back, the cold steel biting into his radius. He stared out into the station, watching the chaotic choreography of the police force. They were celebrating. High-fives, loud coffees, the swagger of detectives who thought they had just reeled in the catch of the decade.
He turned his head slowly to look at his empire.
Gautham was dissolving. He sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, rocking in a tight, frantic rhythm. His breathing was a ragged whistle.
"Variables," Gautham muttered, his eyes squeezed shut, vibrating with panic. "If the entry vector was unobserved, the exfiltration window closes in... no, no, the timeline doesn't match. If I confess to the trespass, maybe they drop the accessory charge? No, conspiracy carries a mandatory minimum. Escape velocity is zero. Zero."
He was running calculations for a world that no longer operated on math.
Sanvi was the opposite of collapse; she was pure, kinetic energy waiting for a target. She stood by the glass wall, pacing three steps left, three steps right. She glared at the detectives outside, her jaw clenched so tight a muscle feathered in her cheek. Every time a cop looked their way, she slammed her shoulder against the glass, a dull, heavy thud that made the officers flinch. She wanted them to come in. She wanted a reason to turn her handcuffs into a weapon.
Sathwik sat on the bench next to Pranav. He was a statue carved from granite. His breathing was slow, deep, and rhythmic. He watched the bullpen not with fear or aggression, but with the blank, patient stare of a predator waiting for the cage to open. He had been ordered to sit. He was sitting. The environment was irrelevant.
And then there was Arpika.
She sat alone at the far end of the bench. She still wore the dark silk dress, now stained with the grime of the arrest. She should have been terrified. She should have been weeping, her façade finally shattered by the reality of five murder charges.
But she wasn't.
She was staring at her own reflection in the darkened glass of the partition, and she was serene. There was a faint, terrifying half-smile on her lips. She wasn't in the cage; she was back in the penthouse, watching the light go out in Russo's eyes. She was still riding the cold, intoxicating high of her vengeance, completely detached from the consequences Pranav knew were coming.
"They have the ballistics," Pranav whispered, the words tasting like ash. "Arpika. They have the bodies. They have the motive."
Arpika didn't turn. "They have nothing," she said softy. "They have a story they can't prove and a room full of dead men who deserved it."
"This isn't a story!" Pranav hissed, panic finally cracking his voice. "This is life without parole! This is—"
The door to the holding area buzzed and clicked open.
A detective swaggered in. Detective Miller. He was a thick-necked man with a stained tie and the smug expression of someone who had already written his victory speech. He held a thick file under his arm.
"The Corvini Kids," Miller sneered, looking down at them. "Five bodies in a penthouse. Chemical agents. That's not gang violence, that's domestic terrorism. You're not going to juvie. You're going to the hole."
He pointed a thick finger at Gautham. "Get the weasel up. I want him in Interrogation A. He looks like he's ready to sing to save his skin."
Gautham let out a choked sob, scrambling backward against the wall. "I want a lawyer! I demand... I need..."
"You don't get a lawyer," Miller laughed. "You get me."
The air in the room shifted.
It wasn't a sound. It was a drop in pressure. The buzzing of the fluorescent light seemed to grow louder, sharper.
The bullpen outside, which had been a cacophony of ringing phones and shouting voices, suddenly went quiet. The silence rolled through the station like a wave, extinguishing the celebration instantly.
Pranav looked through the glass.
Asrit Corvini was walking through the precinct.
He didn't look like a savior. He looked like a shark swimming through a tank of minnows. He wore a charcoal suit that cost more than Detective Miller made in a year. He carried a slim leather briefcase. His expression was one of profound, icy irritation.
He wasn't walking fast. He didn't need to. The sea of blue uniforms parted for him, officers stepping back, averting their eyes, instinctively recognizing a predator that fed on a higher level of the food chain.
Asrit pushed open the door to the holding area. He didn't look at the recruits. He didn't check to see if they were hurt. He looked directly at Detective Miller.
"Detective," Asrit said. His voice was low, smooth, and laced with razor blades. "You are holding my clients in a localized holding cell without processing, legal counsel, or a formal charge sheet. That is a procedural violation."
Miller puffed up, trying to hold his ground. "Violation? I have five dead bodies and a penthouse full of fingerprints! I have a chemical signature linked to—"
"You have a theory," Asrit interrupted, stepping closer. He didn't shout. He didn't posture. He simply occupied the space with terrifying confidence. "You have a crime scene contaminated by your first response team. I counted three officers walking through the blood pools without shoe covers on the security feed."
Asrit dropped the briefcase onto the metal bench next to Arpika. The thud was heavy.
"I have already filed a motion to suppress all evidence gathered from the penthouse due to a warrantless entry," Asrit continued, his words coming fast, precise, surgical. "Your probable cause was an anonymous tip. I have the logs. The tip came from a burner phone traced to a rival cartel sector. Fruit of the poisonous tree, Detective. Everything you found is inadmissible."
Miller's face turned a mottled red. "I have them in custody! I have the girl!"
"You have a harassment lawsuit," Asrit countered, his eyes dead and cold. "And you have exactly three minutes to release them before I call the District Attorney—who, incidentally, is currently enjoying a dinner paid for by my firm's charitable foundation—and explain why you are wasting city resources harassing private citizens based on cartel gossip."
Asrit leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that Pranav could barely hear, but which made Miller flinch.
"You want to be the hero who took down the Corvini? Or do you want to be the cop who fumbled a capital case so badly he ends up guarding a mall in Jersey? Choose. Now."
Miller stared at Asrit. He looked at the file in his hand, then at the recruits. The victory drained out of him, replaced by the crushing realization of who he was actually fighting. He wasn't fighting five kids. He was fighting the institution.
"Cut them loose," Miller growled, throwing the file onto the floor. He stormed out, shouldering past the uniformed officers, defeated by paperwork and power.
Asrit didn't smile. He didn't relax.
He waited until the officers uncuffed them. He waited until they rubbed their wrists, looking at him with a mixture of relief and awe.
Then, he turned to them.
The look on Asrit's face was not relief. It was a fury so cold it burned. It was the look of a man who despised mess, looking at a stain.
"You think this is a rescue?" Asrit asked. His voice was quiet, but it carried across the room, silencing Sanvi's defiance and Gautham's whimpering.
He looked at Arpika. For the first time, her serenity cracked. She saw something in Asrit's eyes that terrified her more than the police ever could. She saw the ledger.
"You created noise," Asrit said. The word noise sounded like a slur. "Sirens. Reports. Inadmissible evidence. You dragged the family name into a police precinct."
He checked his watch, a sharp, dismissive gesture.
"I had to leave a briefing to deal with this. I had to burn favors. I had to spend political capital to clean up a mess made by children playing assassins."
He turned and walked toward the door, not waiting to see if they followed.
"Get in the car," Asrit commanded, not looking back. "The police are finished with you. We are not."
Pranav stood up, his legs shaking. He looked at the open door. It wasn't freedom. It was just a transfer of custody. They were leaving the cage of the state to return to the cage of the family, and the look in Asrit's eyes promised that the interrogation waiting for them at the compound would make Detective Miller look like a kindergarten teacher.
They walked out of the station in a single file line, heads down, following the predator back to the den.