In a forgotten district of Vienna, beneath the preserved beauty of baroque buildings and modern facades, lay a chamber untouched by time. It wasn't on any map. Its entrance was sealed behind a derelict bookstore that only opened at midnight to those who knew the right phrase.
Raahil arrived alone.
Dressed in a thick coat, face clean-shaven again, he slipped through the dark alley as light snow dusted his shoulders. The night was eerily quiet. A familiar kind of quiet—like the silence before a truth unveiled.
He stepped inside the bookstore. A single lamp flickered over the counter where a woman sat smoking a clove cigarette, her eyes half-lidded behind thick glasses.
He whispered the words: "Memory is the last resistance."
She nodded once, then pressed a small switch beneath the desk. The bookshelf behind her shuddered and slowly slid open.
Raahil walked down the stone steps.
—
The Archive was built by post-WWII dissidents—collectors of forgotten truths, war logs, declassified letters. But over the decades, it had grown into something more—a sanctuary for the stories governments erased.
Camille was already there.
She stood near a vault of old hard drives, speaking with an archivist in French. When she saw Raahil, she smiled with the weight of exhaustion.
"You made it."
"I always do," he replied.
She handed him a USB drive. "This contains raw testimonies from five intelligence defectors in the past month. But more than that—one of them claims to have footage of your mother. In Srinagar. Just days before her death."
Raahil's breath caught.
He took the drive. "Where did you find this?"
"A retired satellite analyst in Geneva. He went dark two days ago. We don't know if he's alive."
Raahil didn't speak. He plugged the USB into the archive terminal and began scanning the files.
—
A grainy black-and-white video played.
A woman—his mother—stood near a small school in Srinagar. She wasn't in uniform. She wore a civilian shawl, face partially veiled. She was speaking to a man whose face was blurred.
"I've given you everything," she said softly. "But if they find this footage, both our lives mean nothing."
The man nodded. "Do you still believe in your mission?"
She looked up. Her eyes clear. "I believe that peace won't come from victory—but from understanding."
The video ended.
Raahil stared at the frozen screen.
Camille stood beside him. "She wasn't just an agent."
"She was the bridge," he whispered. "They burned it before it could be crossed."
—
Later, in the corner of the archive, Raahil sat with a Syrian historian named Fadil. The older man showed him a collection of documents: joint intelligence projects between Israel, India, and several Gulf states to stage false-flag cyberattacks, all pinned on independent activists.
"The world believes in terror because it's convenient," Fadil said. "No one wants to believe the real evil is tidy, well-funded, and dressed in government suits."
Raahil examined the documents. "Can I take these?"
Fadil laughed. "No. But you can memorize them."
—
The next morning, Raahil and Camille walked along the Danube, their breath fogging in the cold.
"Are you afraid?" she asked.
He nodded. "Every day."
"Good. That means you're still human."
They stopped at a tram station, watching crowds pass by.
"Where to next?" she asked.
"Brussels," Raahil said. "There's a symposium on global counterterrorism. I'm going to crash it."
Camille smiled. "Subtle."
Raahil shrugged. "I'll be wearing a tie."
—
Three days later, Raahil entered the Intercontinental Peace and Security Summit under a false identity—Ali Feroz, listed as a cultural analyst from Oman. The room was filled with ministers, diplomats, NGO heads.
And cameras.
He took his seat and waited until the Q&A portion of the keynote.
The speaker, a former CIA director, was discussing the 'rise of decentralized terror cells' in a 'post-truth era'.
Raahil stood.
"I have a question," he said calmly. "If terror is so decentralized, then why do we keep finding the same architects behind every intelligence disaster? The same funding trails? The same manipulated media coverage?"
The room quieted.
The moderator blinked. "Your name, sir?"
"Raahil Mirza."
Gasps.
Camera shutters clicked.
Security began moving, but Raahil raised his hands.
"I'm not armed. But I am dangerous—because I remember."
He turned to the audience.
"You call this peace? It's performance. And your war on terror? A mirror to keep you from seeing the real threat: yourselves."
Two guards reached him. He didn't resist.
As they escorted him out, reporters swarmed, cameras recording every word.
He looked at one lens directly.
"My parents were spies. Killed not by their enemies—but by their own flags. You want peace? Start with that truth."
—
Hours later, videos of his speech exploded online. Hashtags trended. News anchors debated his sanity, authenticity, affiliations.
But his face was now public.
His truth—undeniable.
—
In an underground cell, Raahil sat quietly. Across from him, a Belgian intelligence officer flipped through a file.
"You've stirred quite the storm."
Raahil smiled faintly. "Storms reveal roots."
"What do you want?"
"Amnesty for the others. Not me. The others."
The officer leaned back. "Why not you?"
"Because I'm not finished."
To be continued...