The video had detonated across the subcontinent like a bomb without fire.
Within hours of Raahil's broadcast, hashtags surged, dissent soared, and the governments of India and Pakistan found themselves locked in a feverish scramble—not to contain the truth, but to explain it.
Every official denial only added gasoline to the blaze.
And somewhere beneath all of it, something shifted.
A tension long held in muscle and memory started to crack.
Not among the rulers.
But among the ruled.
—
In Istanbul, Raahil had taken refuge in a bookstore run by a former intelligence agent from Serbia.
It was the kind of place where nothing was alphabetized, and every spine had a secret.
Raahil stood behind the poetry shelf, sipping bitter Turkish coffee, while Camille patched into their darknet network.
"They've shut down our .onion node in Karachi," she said.
"Expected," he replied. "They'll target Lisbon next. Prepare a mirror on Icelandic servers."
Mahira nodded. "And Athens?"
Raahil handed her a passport. "You're going ahead. Suhana will meet you there."
She hesitated. "And you?"
"I have one last meeting in Istanbul."
She read his expression.
"You're meeting him, aren't you?"
He didn't answer.
—
That night, in a suite overlooking the Bosphorus, Raahil came face to face with someone he'd once believed to be myth:
General Tahir Nasrullah.
Ex-chief of ISI's psychological operations division. Now a ghost in plain sight.
Tahir poured two glasses of 25-year-old whiskey and sat down like a man hosting a dinner party, not a duel.
"You've caused quite a spectacle, Raahil. Even the Saudis are nervous."
"I didn't come for flattery," Raahil said.
"No," the general nodded. "You came to ask why your father was really killed."
Raahil's fists tightened.
"I already know. They silenced him before he could expose the double play."
Tahir smiled without humor.
"You know the official lie. Let me give you the unofficial truth."
He sipped. "Your father and mother didn't just fall in love. They orchestrated a joint Indo-Pak operation that went rogue. Operation Mehfil."
Raahil's breath hitched.
"They planted false intel on both sides, forcing joint briefings. It worked—for a year. Then Delhi changed its mind. Islamabad followed. And so, they became inconvenient truths."
Raahil's jaw clenched. "And you?"
"I signed their death warrant," Tahir said, unapologetically. "Because idealism gets people killed. And empires prefer martyrs over messengers."
Raahil stood.
"I should kill you."
Tahir chuckled. "You won't. Because you're smarter than revenge."
He handed Raahil a drive.
"Take this. It's the original Mehfil files. All of it. Use it, if you must. But remember: truth has casualties, too."
Raahil pocketed it and walked out into the night.
—
In Athens, Suhana and Mahira waited by the ruins of the Temple of Hephaestus.
It was nearly dawn.
The city felt like a ghost pretending to be alive.
Suhana had just finished writing her speech for the UN General Assembly—the one Camille had secured through a chain of diplomatic favors and discreet blackmail.
Mahira passed her a cigarette.
"Are you ready for the world to hate you?"
Suhana took a drag. "It already does. I'm just giving it a reason."
Mahira laughed.
"You think Raahil will make it?" she asked.
Suhana nodded. "He always does."
—
By the time Raahil arrived, Athens was already awake.
Not with traffic.
With whispers.
His face had been spotted. His presence known. But no one turned him in.
Not the cab driver.
Not the hotel concierge.
Not the refugee boy who helped carry his bag.
He entered the apartment where Camille had set up the next node.
Inside, a massive screen flickered to life, running live feeds from Delhi, Lahore, New York, and Geneva.
"The Council meets in 12 hours," Camille said. "Are you ready to go public again?"
Raahil nodded.
Camille turned to Mahira and Suhana.
"And both of you?"
They nodded.
Camille smiled. "Then we begin."
—
The speech went live.
But not through the UN.
Through every hacked screen in South Asia.
Televisions. ATMs. Billboards. Stadium screens.
Raahil stood at a simple podium, flanked by Mahira and Suhana.
Behind them: the logos of both intelligence agencies—RAW and ISI—split down the middle.
He began:
"Today, we make visible what was always true: You have been lied to, again and again, in the name of flags and fear."
He outlined the history of Operation Mehfil.
He named the generals and ministers.
He showed documents signed in blood and buried in silence.
Mahira read testimonies from whistleblowers—soldiers forced to carry out staged terror attacks, officers imprisoned for speaking truth.
Suhana detailed Bollywood's role in spreading propaganda, linking it to direct election influence.
They did not beg.
They did not apologize.
They revealed.
And then they signed the Silence Agreement—a manifesto of transparency, accountability, and reconciliation, drafted by victims from both nations.
It offered nothing but one promise:
No more secrets.
—
The backlash was immediate.
Interpol issued notices.
News anchors raged.
Ministers threatened.
But millions had already downloaded the files.
The truth was viral.
And Raahil?
He walked out of the building and disappeared into the crowd.
Unarmed.
Unafraid.
Unapologetic.
To be continued...