Rain tapped against the dome of the Glass House like a whisper from the past—soft, persistent, and unrelenting. Inside, a quiet had settled, as if the confessions and messages from the night before had drained the building of its defiance. But Raahil knew better. Silence wasn't surrender. It was the moment before the world held its breath.
Mahira stepped into the room, soaked from her walk to the perimeter. "We intercepted something," she said, handing him a comm device. "Encrypted message. British Intelligence. They're mobilizing."
Raahil scrolled through the transcript. Short, coded, but clear.
"Extraction protocol: 48 hours. Non-lethal. Public image priority. Media-friendly resolution."
"They want to end it clean," Ziyan said from behind. "No blood. Just you vanishing. And everyone else reappearing like nothing happened."
Raahil nodded. "We release the second wave before they arrive."
—
Meanwhile, in the main lounge, Aryan was sitting across from Camille, their earlier tension softened. They were comparing timelines, recalling shared contacts, mapping the network of influence that linked politicians, celebrities, and media firms across borders.
"Look at this," Camille said, sliding a tablet to him. "This NGO—supposedly promoting Indo-Pak peace—was funded by both RAW and ISI. Simultaneously."
Aryan laughed bitterly. "So we were all just part of their theater."
"They call it 'soft diplomacy,'" Camille said. "I call it the manipulation of hope."
Suhana entered with Solomon, holding a printed set of documents.
"This is going to hit hard," she said. "Education curriculum drafts. Both Indian and Pakistani, over the last 25 years. Selective history. Altered wars. Heroes created from hollow victories."
Solomon nodded solemnly. "And that's how you divide generations—by rewriting the battles their ancestors never won."
They gathered in the media room. With Raahil's approval, they began assembling the second release—a compilation of decades of state-sponsored rewriting of truth.
—
As they worked, Mahira pulled Raahil aside.
"There's a woman asking for you. Not from the inside. She sent a signal from the forest—same encrypted line your mother once used."
Raahil's pulse spiked. He left immediately with two guards, taking a back route toward the dense woods.
Under a gray canopy, he found her.
She wore a worn black coat, her hair tucked under a shawl. Her voice was clear, practiced, British.
"Raahil Khan?"
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I used to be what your mother was. British intelligence. Embedded in India, later in Pakistan. I defected ten years ago. My name's Elara."
"What do you want?"
"To warn you. They're not coming for you in 48 hours. They're already here. Inside."
Raahil's jaw clenched. "How many?"
"Four. Possibly five. One among your hostages. Possibly more. They plan to flip the narrative. Make you the villain globally. Make the hostages the heroes."
Raahil exhaled slowly. "Why help me?"
"Because I saw what they did to your parents. And because peace matters more than loyalty to ghosts."
—
Back inside the Glass House, Raahil called an emergency lockdown. No one entered. No one left. And then he addressed the hostages.
"Someone here," he said slowly, "is not who they seem."
The room froze.
A ripple of unease passed through the group.
Suhana frowned. "What are you saying?"
"One of you," Raahil said, "works for the very agencies we've exposed."
He looked at each face. Calm. Calculated. Watching for tremors.
"We'll begin individual interviews. Privacy, full scans, behavior tracking. You know the truth now. This is about protecting it."
Ziyan and Mahira prepared the first room.
One by one, the guests were brought in. Some were confused, some angry. But none broke.
Until they reached the last interview: a quiet, middle-aged cultural historian from Italy named Marco Ferelli.
He had kept mostly to himself—always taking notes, rarely speaking.
As Mahira activated the scan, something pinged. An internal signal.
An embedded chip.
Raahil's eyes narrowed. "Who sent you?"
Marco's composure remained. "I'm a teacher."
"No, you're not. That chip is military grade."
Marco's voice dropped. "Your story is too dangerous. Too emotional. Too unpredictable. Sooner or later, someone had to contain it."
"Who's your handler?"
Marco didn't answer.
Raahil leaned forward. "You don't understand what we're doing here, do you? This isn't blackmail. It's rebirth. And you're not here to stop me. You're here to witness what can't be undone."
He signaled to Mahira. "Detain him. Softly. Publicly. Let the others see we're not hiding."
—
That evening, as the sun faded behind the hills, the second video went live.
Suhana's voice led it. Then Aryan. Then Camille. Then Solomon.
The footage was brutal and direct. Altered textbooks. Movie scenes paralleled with real political agendas. Archived intelligence memos.
It ended with Raahil:
"We are the children of edited truths. But we choose to be the parents of new ones. We are not traitors. We are storytellers reclaiming the script."
—
Within hours, the Glass House was surrounded.
International forces had arrived—not with tanks, but with cameras, diplomats, and agents in suits. They weren't here to rescue. They were here to reshape.
A voice rang out from a loudspeaker outside:
"This is Commander Rachel Whitmore of the International Crisis Mediation Authority. We request peaceful dialogue. We want this resolved without force. Step forward, Raahil Khan."
Raahil stood at the edge of the balcony.
"I'm here. And I will speak. But only if your cameras roll. The world deserves to see the end of the story they were never told."
Whitmore hesitated. Then gave a signal.
Cameras powered on.
Raahil leaned into the mic.
"This isn't a hostage crisis. This is a truth crisis. And for the first time in our history, the truth has a home."
Below, the cameras zoomed in.
Above, drones hovered.
Inside, the world waited.
To be continued...