The air turned heavy the moment The Eagles stepped in. The atmosphere itself seemed to bow under the weight of their presence. Every culprit in that shadowed hall felt their heartbeat stumble, faces draining of color as recognition set in. The legends of the underworld—Ekaksh Singh Rathore, Shivank Singh Rathore, Ruhi Singh Rathore, Vidyut Singhaniya, Steffan Moretti, Darvin Romano; the names whispered through dark alleys like curses—were standing before them. No one dared to breathe too loudly. Every soul present knew the rule of this dominion: mercy did not exist here. In their world, redemption was a myth, and the only sentence that mattered was death.

A faint hum of electricity lingered in the silence, broken only by shallow breaths and the distant echo of boots against the concrete. Fear moved through the air like a living presence, crawling over every skin, settling deep into the bones of those who stood accused.