The world now knew.
The story of Raahil Mirza and his parents had spilled into the global consciousness. News anchors tried to dissect the files. Experts debated the ethics of releasing classified information. Governments scrambled for damage control.
But it was too late.
The digital wildfire was uncontainable.
And in the middle of it stood Raahil, still locked inside his cell, but freer than he had ever been.
—
It was early morning when the guards came.
"Transfer," one muttered.
Raahil was cuffed, escorted through underground corridors beneath the Belgian facility, and pushed into a black van with no insignia.
Two men sat across from him. One wore a plain blue jacket with no tags. The other had an American flag stitched subtly on his collar.
Neither spoke for the first ten minutes.
Then the man with the flag leaned forward.
"You're going to Iceland," he said casually.
Raahil looked up. "For detention?"
"No. For exile."
Raahil raised an eyebrow.
"You've made too much noise to just vanish. But not enough to be globally protected. So, our compromise: we send you to a country that won't touch you, won't question you, but also won't allow you to act."
Raahil smirked. "House arrest in paradise."
The man didn't smile. "Try not to think of it as punishment. Think of it as retirement."
Raahil didn't reply. He turned toward the window.
They had underestimated him again.
—
As Raahil was flown to Reykjavik under strict diplomatic cover, Suhana met with a dissident filmmaker in Kerala. He had been secretly collecting footage of families whose loved ones were killed in "encounters" staged by Indian intelligence to cover failed operations.
"This isn't about justice anymore," the filmmaker told her. "It's about memory. If we forget them, they die twice."
Suhana promised him the footage would become part of a documentary already in post-production, titled Our Dead Speak Through Us.
—
In Lahore, Mahira found herself on the run.
Her recent data leaks had painted her as a traitor. Her name was flagged in airports, her accounts frozen, and plainclothes men had begun asking questions about her family.
But she had expected this.
Using old networks her father had once warned her about, she disappeared from sight and slipped into the tribal regions bordering Afghanistan—places where government eyes didn't reach and people remembered stories instead of propaganda.
There, she began recording oral histories from war veterans, families of disappeared journalists, and disillusioned ex-soldiers.
She wasn't hiding.
She was building something.
—
Camille, meanwhile, was already in Greenland, coordinating with Raahil's Icelandic contacts.
"We'll need three months," she said over a secure line. "To set up a broadcast channel, recruit local tech support, and mirror everything across decentralized nodes."
Raahil's voice came through, crisp despite the cold. "We won't get three months. Make it two."
—
Back in Reykjavik, Raahil's new home was a secluded villa surrounded by volcanic hills. He was allowed internet—restricted, monitored—but Camille had ensured a backdoor.
He spent his mornings walking the coastline.
In the afternoons, he wrote.
And at night, he broadcast.
The first video came a week after his arrival.
A simple message. Shot in grainy black and white. His face barely visible, voice disguised through low modulation.
"Truth has never needed permission to exist," he began. "It only needs a witness."
He shared a story each night—of an agent erased by his country, a journalist poisoned in Dubai, a soldier abandoned after speaking out.
He never named governments.
Only consequences.
Viewership grew.
—
Within 30 days, The Broadcast had half a million regular viewers. Then a million. Then five.
Newspapers called it 'The Ghost Newsroom.'
Governments called it cyber terrorism.
The people called it necessary.
—
Episode 32 of The Broadcast opened with Raahil standing atop a hill as the northern lights danced behind him.
"We talk of heroes," he said. "But what of those who are too tired to fight? Who choose silence—not from fear, but fatigue? Are they less righteous?"
He paused.
"No. They are just as true. Because every silence carries a story. Every story, a struggle."
The clip was shared 40 million times in 12 hours.
—
In New York, a senator asked for Raahil's designation as an international threat.
In London, an MP quoted him in a speech about whistleblower protection.
In Delhi and Islamabad, leaders pretended he didn't exist.
Because acknowledging him meant acknowledging their own lies.
—
One night, as Raahil prepared his 33rd broadcast, an encrypted message blinked onto his private terminal.
"They're coming. From both sides. You need to vanish again. Now."
It was unsigned.
Raahil stared at the message. He had always known this moment would come. Truth was only powerful if it stayed moving.
He packed one bag.
Then he recorded one last video.
"I am not a leader," he said. "I am a lens. Through me, you've seen what they've tried to bury. But you don't need me anymore. Because now—you know how to look."
He turned off the camera.
Then he vanished.
—
Three days later, the villa in Reykjavik was found empty.
No fingerprints.
No electronics.
Only a single note pinned to the wall:
"The voices that won't die are the ones that taught others to speak."
The movement didn't die.
It multiplied.
To be continued...