The mansion's underground chamber had once been a wine cellar, but tonight it served another purpose: control. The hostages sat on cushions, backs straight, under the cold illumination of halogen strips, each light humming like a whispered threat. Raahil stood before them with a silent command in his posture. His grey eyes scanned the faces—some defiant, some breaking.
One of the hostages, Abeer Malik, trembled but kept her chin high. She recognized Raahil. Not from the media. Not from political circles. From a photograph her mother once burned in a fireplace.
"Why are you doing this?" she finally asked, her voice low but firm.
Raahil's stare didn't waver. "You're Abeer Malik. Daughter of Samina Malik, who gave a performance at the UN gala three years ago. Do you know who was standing behind her in the photograph snapped at that gala?"
Abeer frowned. "Some diplomat?"
"No," he said coldly. "My mother. And no one noticed. Not your press, not your intelligence. Just a woman smiling in the background. She was on her final assignment. The mission that got her killed."
Gasps traveled the room.
Raahil turned toward the large screen behind him. With a motion, a grainy video began to play.
It showed a dark interrogation room. A woman—beautiful, weathered by war—sat cuffed to a metal chair. Her face was swollen, but her posture proud. An Indian military officer walked in.
"Why did you cross into PoK, Agent Saira?"
She didn't answer.
"Tell us, or your family dies."
Raahil paused the video. "That officer was later promoted. You might know his son. He's in this room."
Gasps again. All eyes darted around.
A boy in the corner—silent, sweating—began to sob.
Raahil knelt beside him. "Your father signed her death. You inherited his silence."
He stood. "Your silence ends now."
—
Ten years ago.
A Swiss boarding school.
Raahil sat alone in the library, reading Urdu poetry. Faiz. Habib Jalib. He was isolated, the brown boy with a British passport and no past. The teachers avoided him, calling him gifted but emotionally distant.
One day, a visitor came.
Colonel Naveed.
Pakistani intelligence.
"You don't know it yet," the man said, "but you're going to change the story of two nations."
Raahil blinked.
"Why me?"
"Because your parents paid the cost. Now it's time for return on investment."
He handed Raahil a book. Inside: names, dates, betrayals.
"Study it. Then we talk."
—
Back in the Glass House.
One of the hostages tried to bolt.
Raahil didn't stop him.
The man ran—past the guards, through a hallway. He reached the main exit—only to find it locked tight. Steel reinforcements. Gas released from the ceiling.
Sleep gas.
The man collapsed.
Raahil turned to the group. "I do not kill. Not unless forced. But don't test the system."
He pointed to Aryan again. "Tell me what you saw in that Kashmir video."
Aryan stood silent.
Raahil stepped closer. "Say it."
Aryan finally murmured, "I saw... Indian soldiers executing unarmed villagers."
Raahil nodded. "And the Pakistani response?"
Another tablet played footage.
Pakistani operatives torturing a captured Kashmiri boy.
Everyone looked away.
Raahil's voice boomed. "This is what both nations do. You cheer for your flags. You bury your guilt."
He walked toward the camera.
"To those watching: This is not about Indo-Pak hatred. This is about truth. And my truth? My mother died in India. My father died in Pakistan. And both governments made sure their deaths never made the news."
His hand trembled. He composed himself.
"To those in RAW and ISI who recognize my face—you should. I'm your unfinished mission."
He cut the feed.
Silence.
—
Elsewhere, intelligence agencies scrambled. Signals traced. Facial recognition failed—his digital footprint had been erased.
Indian NSA chief: "Find out who this boy is."
Pakistani Interior Minister: "He's not ours. He's yours."
In truth, he was both. And neither.
—
Raahil sat alone now, in a smaller room. He opened a diary. Handwritten notes in three languages. Maps, names, passwords. A whisper of his parents lived in every line.
He read one passage again:
"They will erase us. But if our son ever learns the truth, he will build his own weapon. His mind."
Raahil smiled faintly.
Then turned to the door.
It was time for Phase Two.
To be continued...