Night crept slowly over the Glass House, brushing the tall windows with indigo shadows. From the outside, the mansion glowed faintly with generator lights. From the inside, it pulsed with paranoia. Hostages whispered theories behind closed doors, their imaginations weaving stories darker than the truth.
Raahil was awake, sitting at the corner of the main hallway, a black chess piece in his hand—the missing king. He had found it in a hidden compartment inside his father's old tactical trunk. It wasn't just a game piece. The base carried a microchip.
Ziyan sat across from him.
"I decrypted the first layer," Ziyan said. "It's a chain of geo-tags leading to an outpost in Kargil. The kind only joint ops would know."
Raahil nodded, rubbing the edges of the piece. "My father left his grave map inside a symbol of strategy. Poetic."
Ziyan hesitated. "There's something else. A coded voice message embedded within the chip. We need another 24 hours."
Raahil stood and walked to the balcony. The fog beyond the trees shimmered with the threat of snipers, helicopters, and betrayal.
"It's not time yet," he murmured.
—
Inside the Glass House, Suhana paced in one of the guest lounges. Aryan leaned against a bookshelf, arms crossed. Mahira sat by the fireplace, flipping through the photo files left by Raahil in the common room. Images of bombed markets, refugee camps, shattered mosques. Each photo had handwritten notes in the margins—names, dates, coordinates.
"He doesn't sleep," Mahira said quietly.
"People like him don't have the privilege," Aryan muttered.
Suhana paused, her voice more reflective than defensive. "He's changing the way I look at everything. But that doesn't make him right."
Aryan looked at her. "You still believe in the system?"
She replied, "I don't know what I believe anymore. But hostage-taking can't be the answer."
Mahira closed the folder. "Maybe it's not the answer. But maybe it's the only way to force the question."
—
Raahil re-entered the common hall an hour later, his tone formal.
"Today, we hold our third mirror. Aryan Kapoor, you're up."
Aryan stood, visibly tense.
Raahil handed him a folder. Inside were images of Indian undercover operations in Balochistan, timestamped intelligence leaks, documents exposing covert funding to destabilize regions through proxy groups.
Aryan opened the folder. His lips pressed into a hard line.
Raahil circled him slowly. "You know what these are?"
"I've seen reports like this during my film research," Aryan said flatly. "They were always dismissed as propaganda."
"Because truth becomes propaganda when it doesn't fit your nationalism."
Aryan looked up. "And what do you call what Pakistan does in Kashmir?"
Raahil nodded, almost respectfully. "I call it identical evil. That's the point. You all think your pain is exclusive."
Aryan hesitated. "Why me?"
Raahil placed a satellite image on the projector—an Indian army unit in Afghanistan, disguised as aid workers.
"Because your father directed films inspired by this mission. He won awards. But the actual mission resulted in 62 civilian deaths, including Afghan children. No press. No justice. Just a story sanitized by Bollywood."
Suhana's breath caught.
Aryan stared at the image. "I didn't know."
Raahil said, "Now you do. So, what will you do with it?"
Silence.
—
Outside, in a mobile command van parked two miles from the mansion, elite officers monitored every signal. Lt. Colonel Radhika Mehra, ex-RAW, now special operations chief, adjusted her headset.
"He's feeding them intelligence," she said. "This isn't about ransom. He's indoctrinating them with data."
A junior analyst spoke up. "If even 10% of what he's saying is true, we'll have a diplomatic firestorm."
Radhika's eyes narrowed. "Then we bury the fire with smoke."
—
That night, the Glass House power flickered. For a brief moment, the generators paused.
Then—
BOOM.
A low, concussive thud rocked the east wing. Screams echoed. Smoke flooded the corridors.
Raahil shouted orders. "Ziyan! Check the south gate. Noor! Secure the hostages."
Gunfire cracked once—then stopped.
Ziyan returned, breathless. "They tried to breach. We blocked them. One casualty on their side. No entry."
Raahil's fists clenched. "They're testing our shield."
He stormed into the hostage wing. Everyone was coughing, shaken.
"Everyone stay down! This house is protected. But now you know—your governments would rather silence me than hear me."
Aryan stared at him. "They're going to keep trying."
Raahil pointed at the ceiling. "Let them. Every attack proves my point."
—
Later, in the control room, Raahil and Ziyan reviewed the footage.
"Wasn't just smoke," Ziyan said. "They used neuro-gas in the vents. Mild dose. Testing thresholds."
Raahil exhaled. "Next time, it won't be mild."
He stared at the camera feed of Suhana, Mahira, and Aryan sitting close, shaken, but not broken.
"Then we accelerate the truth."
He tapped into the control system and began uploading the first of many files—classified military interactions between Indian and Pakistani intelligence, secretly working together to maintain the illusion of war. It was one of his parents' final investigations.
A video played on the common room screen.
Raahil's voiceover:
"You were told India and Pakistan hate each other. But what if your armies shake hands behind your back? What if conflict is just a game to keep you distracted while they sell your future for profit?"
The hostages watched in stunned silence as emails, transcripts, and hidden footage spilled across the screen.
Raahil walked in.
"My parents died trying to reveal this. Killed by their own governments. Branded as traitors by the flags they served."
He looked around the room.
"Tonight, I don't ask you to believe me. I ask you to question who you've believed your whole life."
The screen flickered once more—then faded to black.
To be continued...