At 7:00 a.m., the Glass House buzzed with a tense silence. Overnight, no attempt was made to storm the compound again, but the air felt thicker than ever, as if something vast was on the verge of eruption. The hostages were restless. Whispers curled like smoke in the corridors, some hopeful, others haunted.
In the main lounge, three flat screens mounted on the wall blinked to life. A countdown appeared: 00:59… 00:58…
Ziyan moved through the crowd with calm authority. "All guests—Indian, Pakistani, international—please gather in the main hall. No exceptions. What you'll see today is what the world should have seen years ago."
Mahira walked beside him. "Are we ready?"
Ziyan didn't answer. He just looked toward the ceiling and exhaled.
—
Raahil stood in the control room, his hands clasped behind his back. On the monitors, faces began filling the chairs—Suhana, Aryan, Mahira, Camille, Bloom, Amina, even some of the security detail forced into passivity after days of captivity. They were no longer just hostages. They were witnesses.
Ziyan entered and handed him a sealed envelope.
Raahil opened it. Inside were 23 names—high-ranking military officers, intelligence chiefs, and two journalists—individuals responsible for a series of joint Indo-Pak disinformation campaigns over the past three decades.
His mother's voice echoed in his mind: "They will silence us. Not because we lied. But because we knew too much of the truth."
The clock hit zero.
The screens changed.
A video began playing. The first image was a map—India and Pakistan, with blinking points of collaboration marked in red. Overlaid text read: "The Peace That Was Betrayed."
Raahil's voice filled the room.
"In 1997, an operation codenamed 'Project Vajra' was initiated by Indian and Pakistani intelligence operatives, under the pretense of a peace-building exercise. But it wasn't peace they pursued. It was controlled chaos—war engineered in shadows to justify militarization, secure elections, and keep foreign contracts alive."
Faces turned as images of destroyed villages, blurred corpses, forged intelligence reports, and doctored news clips rolled across the screens. Each visual was timestamped. Each had annotations in his mother's handwriting.
The final segment was audio: a classified recording from 2003.
Two voices—Indian and Pakistani military leaders—discussing how escalating tensions in Kashmir would boost weapon imports and rally nationalist votes.
The audio ended with the words: "Sometimes, peace is the real enemy of power."
A long silence followed.
Raahil walked into the lounge from the side door, slowly. All eyes turned.
Suhana stood. "Is it real?"
Raahil nodded. "You have the evidence. Every word can be verified. But the question is—will you believe it?"
Bloom rubbed his temples. "This will burn governments to the ground."
Raahil looked at him. "Only if you speak. If you write. If you show them."
Camille frowned. "And if they say it's fake?"
Raahil met her gaze. "Then more will come. I have 17 more files. Each deadlier than the last."
Aryan looked pale. "You planned this like a war."
Raahil didn't flinch. "Because that's exactly what this is. A war of truths against lies. And in this war, silence is complicity."
Amina stood, arms crossed. "You want us to become your ambassadors?"
"No," Raahil said. "I want you to become mirrors. Show the world what you saw. What your governments refuse to admit."
A young hostage—an American blogger—finally spoke. "And then what? What happens to us?"
Raahil gave him a hard look. "That depends on the world. If they see you as victims, you'll be rescued. If they see you as collaborators, they'll bury you. If they see the truth—you'll be free."
—
Outside, the media had gone into a frenzy.
The live broadcast from the Glass House had been hacked into major news channels across the globe. On Twitter, #ProjectVajra trended within 15 minutes. The footage was dissected, debated, and condemned.
In Delhi, emergency meetings commenced. In Islamabad, denials were already being drafted. In Washington, analysts scrambled to cross-check Raahil's leaks. And in London, an MI6 memo quietly confirmed: "Most of the data aligns with previous intelligence, though previously classified as unconfirmed."
In the Glass House, the guests weren't the only ones watching.
Lt. Colonel Radhika Mehra viewed the broadcast from a makeshift base outside the property.
"We underestimated him," she whispered.
Her deputy asked, "Do we go in?"
"No," she replied. "Not yet. If we do, we make him a martyr. We let the world chew on this first."
—
Back inside, Mahira approached Raahil.
"You've lit the match. But what if they douse it?"
Raahil glanced at the guests, each deep in thought, disturbed, shaken.
"Then we burn brighter. And if we must—burn with it."
He turned to the crowd. "You were hostages. Now you're something else. And from today onward, the question isn't why you were kept. It's what you'll do with what you now know."
The screens dimmed.
The house fell silent again.
But the war had just gone global.
To be continued...