The room smelled like stale printer toner and desperation. Pranav planted his palms flat on the warped Formica table, trying to absorb the cold, hard logic of the plan through his fingertips. He was trying to feel grounded, certain, but his mind was a kaleidoscope of interlocking variables, each one threatening collapse.
He looked at the small, ambitious faces arrayed around him. His vision was reflected back in their tired, hungry eyes. The New Blood. It wasn't just a name; it was a manifesto. They were not destined to run petty errands beneath the suffocating shadow of the Corvini family. They were here to build. To take the decaying, neon-choked carcass of Santa Fortuna and forge a crown from its ruin.
"Respect," Pranav stated, forcing the word to sound weighty, like a law of physics. "Respect is not given. It is only taken. And for too long, we've been waiting our turn."
He tapped the crude, photocopied map of the docklands. The lines were jagged, the landmarks blurry, but to Pranav, it was a blueprint for a future where his name meant something. Where his father's failures were just footnotes to his own grand ascension.
"Tonight, we change the ledger," he continued, carefully maintaining eye contact with each member of his crew, except maybe Gautham. "This isn't a smash-and-grab. This is the seed money for the new empire. A small-time deal, easily hit, easily forgotten. They've been moving product through Warehouse 4 for months—lazy, comfortable, complacent. That complacency is our weakness, but more importantly, it is their undoing."
The rhetoric was meant to mask the tight, cold knot in his stomach. The knot that insisted the plan was paper-thin, that ambition was blinding him, that he was talking about an empire to hide the fact he was genuinely terrified of getting arrested, or worse, noticed by the wrong people. Refuse to acknowledge it, he coached himself. Fear is a choice. Power is destiny.
Arpika watched him. She was the only one in the room who saw the sweat gathering at his hairline, the fractional tremor in his hands. She sat with an unnatural stillness, her posture perfect, observing the room with the predatory calm of a snake assessing the dimensions of its prey. She wasn't interested in the dream of the empire; she was interested in the percentage of the take and the precise moment when Pranav's ambition became more dangerous than useful.
"The window is tight," she murmured, her voice silk wrapped around a razor edge. She wasn't speaking to Pranav, but to the logistics. "The local patrol sweep hits that quadrant in forty-seven minutes. We must be in, acquire the product, and be through the secondary extraction point before then. The risk profile increases exponentially for every minute past the window."
It was not encouragement, merely a statement of leverage. She was reminding the room that the timing was hers, and therefore, the success was contingent on her calculation. Pranav hated that he needed her precision, but he knew the truth: without Arpika, his grand plans were just hopeful geometry.
Sanvi didn't do geometry. She paced the cramped space, the scent of her cheap perfume clashing violently with the warehouse dust. She was restless, a coiled spring itching for release. She kept catching her own reflection in the grimy windows, tossing her dark, severe haircut and cracking her knuckles.
"Stop running numbers," Sanvi snapped, her voice blunt and impatient. She hated the talk, the meticulous planning. For her, the plan was simple: Go. Hit. Take. "It's two thugs, maybe three. If they talk, we make them stop. Less chatter, more action. I need to break something before I start breaking you."
Her wit was dark, a coping mechanism for the deep-seated impulse to fight everything that felt threatening or boring. Pranav knew she was a liability—impulsive, violent, loyal only to the surge of adrenaline. But when the chaos arrived, she would be the only one moving toward it, not away.
Gautham, meanwhile, was doing all the things Pranav was desperately trying to avoid. He was overthinking out loud. His eyes darted constantly to the fire-exit door, his breathing shallow and rapid.
"I still think we need a third diversion vehicle," Gautham stammered, pulling nervously at the collar of his shirt. "Warehouse 4's load-out area is blind to the street view, yes, but the CCTV coverage on the north corner is still partially active, even with the power flicker. If the local authorities—not the Corvini, just the cops—decide to run facial recognition on the approach, the license plate will flag instantly. The only viable backup plan involves breaching the sea wall two miles south, and that's only at high tide—"
"We are not planning for failure, Gautham," Pranav said, his voice clipped and sharp. He allowed a flicker of coldness into his tone. "We are planning for success. Your job is the clock and the extraction logistics. Focus on the in and the out. Not the if we get caught."
Gautham instantly quieted, retreating into himself, but Pranav knew he wasn't finished. He'd be muttering exit routes and hypotheticals the entire drive. He was a cowardly survivor, but his anxiety made him the most intelligent member of the crew—the only one instinctively looking for every possible escape hatch.
Sathwik remained a mute, menacing presence. He stood in the darkest corner, draped in silence and loyalty. He carried a heavy-gauge shotgun, his index finger resting loosely on the trigger guard. He never spoke unless spoken to, and when he did, his words were short, functional, and absolute.
He wasn't part of the debate. He was the certainty. The instrument that ensured the discussion ended and the plan began. His entire personality was expressed in the clean, polished gleam of the weapon he carried. Pranav didn't need to ask him about backup plans; Sathwik was the backup plan.
The meeting broke up swiftly. The confidence Pranav projected had solidified the group, but it hadn't banished the anxiety. It had merely been stuffed down, compressed by the weight of their ambition.
They piled into the battered, stolen van. The drive toward the docks was a nervous, adrenaline-fueled crawl through the glittering, decaying heart of Santa Fortuna. The city was a monument to vice, its ancient stone buildings choked by garish neon advertisements for casinos and cheap liquor.
Pranav gripped the wheel, the smell of salt and diesel fumes filling the cab. He could feel the overconfidence swelling in the air, mixing with Gautham's palpable anxiety, Sanvi's simmering bloodlust, and Arpika's quiet calculation.
The perfect cocktail for disaster, Pranav thought, a flash of fatalistic honesty cutting through his idealism. They were punching above their weight, challenging ghosts who had been in the game since Pranav was in kindergarten. They were convinced they could "outsmart" people who had built empires on cold calculation and casual cruelty.
He pulled the van into the oily shadow of the Warehouse 4 district. The heat of the city had dissipated, replaced by a damp, bone-chilling cold that seemed to emanate from the ocean.
This was it. The launchpad. The risk was terrifying. The reward, however, was everything.
"Gear up," Pranav whispered, his voice suddenly sharp and decisive. The time for overthinking was over. The time for action—reckless, terrifying, necessary action—had arrived.