The heavy oak doors of the courthouse swung open.
Arpika stepped out first. The midday sun hit her like a physical weight, blinding and hot, bleaching the color out of the world for a split second. It was the same violent, exposing light that had greeted Pranav months ago, but Arpika didn't shrink from it. She walked into it.
She felt light. The air tasted of exhaust fumes and victory. She had walked into a penthouse, executed five of the city's most dangerous men, and then walked out of a judge's chambers without a single charge sticking. The fear of the holding cell had evaporated, replaced by an intoxicating rush of invincibility. She wasn't just a recruit anymore. She was a ghost. She was untouchable.
She smoothed the front of her silk dress. She noticed the press gathered at the bottom of the wide stone steps—cameras flashing, reporters shouting questions that dissolved into the general roar of traffic. They weren't here for her specifically, but for the spectacle of the Corvini lawyer dismantling the DA.
Arpika lifted her chin. Let them look. Let them see the woman who beat the system.
Beside her, Pranav squinted against the glare, looking less like a conqueror and more like a man who had just dodged a bullet. Sanvi was cracking her knuckles, restless energy radiating off her. Gautham was practically running down the steps, desperate to disappear.
Asrit walked a few paces ahead. He stopped on the first landing, silhouetted against the city skyline.
He turned around. He didn't look at the cameras. He didn't look at the cars. He looked at Arpika.
She slowed, stopping a few feet from him. She expected a nod. Maybe a cold acknowledgement of her efficiency, or a subtle signal to get in the car. She met his gaze, keeping her expression cool, professional. She was ready to be treated as a peer.
Asrit stepped forward.
His movement was a blur—too fast to track, too casual to be a threat.
Crack.
The sound was shockingly loud. It echoed off the stone pillars, cutting through the noise of the street like a gunshot.
Arpika's head snapped to the side. A sharp, stinging heat exploded across her left cheek. She stumbled, her heel catching on the uneven stone, and she barely grabbed the handrail to keep from falling.
The world stopped.
The cameras kept flashing, capturing the moment in high-definition bursts. The reporters went silent. The recruits—Pranav, Sanvi, Sathwik—froze in their tracks.
Arpika stood there, her hand hovering near her face, her mind unable to process the data. He had hit her. Not in a basement. Not in a cell. On the courthouse steps. In front of the city. In front of everyone.
The humiliation was instant and total. It burned hotter than the slap. The image of the "ice-cold executioner" shattered, leaving only a disciplined child being corrected by a disappointed parent.
Asrit didn't step back. He didn't look angry. He looked bored. He adjusted his cufflink, the motion smooth and unbothered.
He stepped into her personal space, forcing her to look up at him. She tasted copper in her mouth. Her cheek was throbbing, a red handprint already blooming on her pale skin.
Asrit leaned down. His voice was a low, guttural snarl, pitched so only she could hear it, but the venom in it was heavy enough to crush her.
"You think I care about the bodies?" Asrit whispered. "You think I care about Mancini's men?"
He shook his head slightly, a microscopic movement of disgust.
"Kill them all. Burn the city. I don't care."
He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye. His grip was iron.
"But you were messy. You were loud. And you forced me to spend three hours fixing a problem that shouldn't have existed."
He released her chin with a dismissive shove.
"My time is the most expensive asset this family possesses, Arpika. And you just wasted it."
Asrit straightened up. He turned his back on her, dismissing her existence entirely, and walked down the remaining steps toward the waiting black sedan.
"Get in the car," he called out, his voice flat and professional again.
Arpika stood on the steps, the sun beating down on her burning face. The cameras were still flashing. The "future" she had claimed in the penthouse felt very far away. She wasn't a queen. She was just an employee who had been publicly reprimanded for poor performance.
She lowered her head, hiding the red mark from the lenses, and followed him down.