The moonlight filtered through the bulletproof skylights, casting pale streaks across the corridors of the Glass House. The aftermath of the attempted breach still lingered in the air. Smoke stains marked the eastern wing, and the sharp scent of burnt wiring lingered. But for Raahil, tonight marked a shift in momentum.
In a private chamber near the west wing, a handful of international guests sat on a velvet sofa, separated from the others by design. They were celebrities, journalists, socialites—famous names from London, Dubai, Paris, and Los Angeles. Not Indian. Not Pakistani. And not part of Raahil's primary agenda.
Until now.
Raahil entered the chamber unarmed, without guards. He nodded at each of them, his expression unreadable. "I'm sure you've been wondering why you're here."
An older man stood first. Frederick Bloom, a British political journalist known for his scathing critiques on war profiteering. His beard was trimmed with precision. His accent was sharp, like a blade.
"Yes, actually," Bloom said. "We've all asked that question. You've made your point to the Indians and Pakistanis. But we're not your audience. We have nothing to do with your homeland's buried secrets. Why us?"
Raahil walked slowly to the fireplace. He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he lit the fire.
"Because the truth about India and Pakistan doesn't begin or end at the Radcliffe Line. It's in your banks. Your weapons. Your media."
A young French actress, Camille Duhamel, frowned. "Excuse me?"
Raahil turned. "Do you know how many arms contracts your country has signed with both India and Pakistan in the past twenty years? Hundreds. Your companies profit from every skirmish on our border."
A silence settled.
He pointed at Bloom. "And your paper, The London Spectator, ran over 28 headlines in five years painting Pakistan as a terror haven and India as a rising superpower. Do you know who paid for the ad space during those weeks?"
Bloom's mouth tightened. "That's not within my control."
"But you write the words that shape minds. That is in your control."
A Dubai-based socialite, Amina Farooq, raised her voice. "Still, this isn't our war. We came for an event. We're not involved in espionage or propaganda."
Raahil stared at her. "Then maybe it's time you asked why your name was on the guest list in the first place. All of you—names that circulate power. You're not targets. You're witnesses."
Camille's voice dropped. "So this is a performance?"
Raahil nodded. "Every movement needs an audience. And I chose mine carefully."
He walked toward a side table and pulled out a folder. Inside were images—photos of children injured in cross-border shelling, trade invoices for weapon shipments signed by multinational corporations, diplomatic communiques between Western powers urging 'containment' of Indo-Pak tensions—because conflict meant contracts.
He passed the folder to Bloom.
"Take a good look. You're here because you helped make this mess profitable, even if from the sidelines."
Bloom leafed through the pages. His hands trembled slightly.
"Why not release this to the world?" he asked.
Raahil responded, "Because the world doesn't listen unless it's shocked first. Right now, they're watching. And you're going to help them understand."
Camille shook her head. "You think we'll support you? After this?"
Raahil smiled, but there was no humor in it.
"You already have. You're here. You've seen the fear, the confusion, and the truths we're exposing every day. You'll speak, because you're human. And if you're not—then you'll expose your own apathy."
He turned to leave, then stopped.
"Oh, and before you think of escape—remember this: I didn't build a cage. I built a mirror. You can walk out anytime. But what you see afterward will never look the same."
He left them with that.
—
Elsewhere in the Glass House, Mahira sat in a corner of the lounge, watching Aryan and Suhana scribble notes into a folder Raahil had provided. It contained declassified strategies used to mislead both Indian and Pakistani citizens over the years. From false flag operations to media censorship.
Mahira whispered, "He's building something bigger than protest. He's building reckoning."
Suhana nodded. "And we're all part of it now, whether we like it or not."
—
In the control room, Ziyan approached Raahil with urgency.
"The chip from your father's chess piece? We cracked it."
Raahil leaned forward.
Ziyan inserted the drive into the screen. A voice played. It was soft, familiar. His mother's.
"Raahil, if you're hearing this, we're already dead. But the war isn't over. Look beneath the outpost. Kargil. They kept everything there. Truths. Betrayals. And the names of those who signed the death warrants for peace."
Raahil closed his eyes.
Ziyan whispered, "What now?"
Raahil opened them. "We release the names. Tomorrow. On every screen in this house. And then we let the world judge its saints and sinners."
Ziyan nodded. "And the guests?"
Raahil answered, "Let them carry the burden too."
To be continued...