The period of quiet evaluation was over. The tests, designed by the Corvini Seven to slice directly into the deepest weaknesses of the recruits, had reached their conclusion.
Every recruit failed.
Arpika's assignment unfolded inside the dim, opulent study of Mancini's historic mansion. Everything about her performance was flawless. She sat across from the aging mob boss, her posture relaxed, her voice soft, the silk of her dress catching the low light. The persona she wore was intricate and believable. Vulnerable. Intelligent. Desirable. The poison hidden in the heel of her shoe was seconds away from ending it.
Mancini smiled.
It wasn't charming. It was tired. Knowing.
"You're a beautiful lie," he said, slowly stirring the amber liquid in his glass. "But do you really think you're the first pretty girl sent to kill an old man?"
The realization hit her too late. He had always known.
The doors opened at once. Guards flooded the room, heavy men carved from silence and muscle. Arpika's confidence collapsed into terror. The mask shattered. Mancini adjusted his robe with mild irritation, looking at her the way one looks at an inconvenience that refuses to go away.
"You have elegant hands," he said. "A pity."
In the chemical lab, Gautham's twelve hours came to an end in failure.
He had lived inside the equations, chasing solutions through panic and exhaustion. He had come close. Close enough to see the flaw in the synthesis, close enough to know it was never meant to be solved. The structure of the assignment was broken by design.
The batch combusted with a hollow rush of air. Not an explosion, but something worse. Toxic yellow smoke poured into the lab, acrid and choking. The equipment was ruined. The space was contaminated.
Kevin stepped out from the observation deck, not disappointed but elated. He drove Gautham back against a workbench, his face twisted with triumph.
"You choked," Kevin screamed, his voice cracking. "You proved me right."
He struck Gautham again and again, the violence fueled by his own insecurity rather than discipline. Gautham collapsed, coughing, his lungs burning, his mind reeling with the understanding that intelligence meant nothing when the test itself was rigged and the judge wanted blood.
Sanvi's plan detonated in real time.
Her assault blueprint relied on overwhelming force. Speed. Pressure. Noise. The crew followed it exactly. The moment they breached the perimeter, everything went wrong. They were trapped in a tight kill zone, pinned down almost instantly. Gunfire shredded concrete. Smoke clogged the air. Panic screamed through the comms as bodies dropped and angles collapsed.
The operation turned into chaos within seconds.
And then came the contrast.
In the streets, violence consumed itself in sound and blood. Sanvi's strategy drowned in its own aggression.
Miles away, behind reinforced glass and steel, the world was silent.
Asuma sat in her office, untouched. The air smelled faintly of cedar. She held a phone to her ear and spoke a single coded phrase, quiet and precise.
That was all.
In the alley, the rival gang leader staggered mid-command. His eyes widened. He clutched his chest and fell without a sound. His own bodyguard stood over him, weapon lowered, having waited months for that moment.
The gunfire stopped.
The confusion evaporated. Resistance collapsed. What had nearly become a massacre resolved itself into silence and cleanup. No more shots were fired. No further force was needed. The reinforced door stood unopened beside a single corpse.
In seconds, Asuma had solved what Sanvi had tried to crush with violence.
The lesson was unmistakable. Arpika's charm, Gautham's intellect, Sanvi's fury were not strengths on their own. They were tools. Messy. Replaceable. Disposable.
Against the Corvini family's quiet network of patience, leverage, and control, individual brilliance meant nothing at all.
The recruits had been tested.
And they had learned exactly how small they were.