Episode 8: Lines That Divide

The sun over the Glass House was shrouded behind a pale, uncertain sky. Clouds hovered, hesitant, mirroring the mood within. The world outside burned in reaction. Across television studios, social media feeds, and military command centers, Raahil's broadcast continued to ripple.

Inside, the fallout was more personal.

Aryan Khan sat against the far wall of the lounge, flipping through the files Raahil had released. His hands trembled, and not from fear—something deeper. His phone buzzed again and again, though there was no signal. It was muscle memory—checking, hoping. Across from him, Suhana was locked in a heated conversation with Mahira.

"You can't expect us to simply trust all this," Suhana argued. "These documents, these videos—what if it's just manipulation?"

Mahira remained calm. "Then why are they consistent with what your father refused to speak of for years?"

Suhana looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

Mahira hesitated, then leaned closer.

"Your father met Raahil's mother once. In London. Not for a shoot. For a quiet conversation. There are photos. And whispers in RAW files. He knew she wasn't just a dancer. He knew she was an agent."

Aryan stood. "You're saying our father was involved?"

"No," Mahira said. "I'm saying he knew. And he chose silence."

Raahil entered at that moment, the conversation halting at his presence.

"Talking about me?" he said lightly, though his eyes were serious.

Suhana faced him. "We saw the broadcast. But I still don't understand why we're here. Why not just send the files to every media house in the world?"

Raahil stepped forward. "Because evidence without context is dismissed. Truth without a human face is ignored. You, your presence here—makes it undeniable. The world will believe you because they want to believe you. You're symbols of glamour, not rebellion. That's what makes your voices dangerous."

Aryan scoffed. "So we're tools."

Raahil looked at him. "You were. Now you have a choice."

He turned to leave but paused. "There's someone you need to speak to."

—

He led them to a room on the second floor. Inside, a large screen blinked to life, revealing a live feed. An older man in a prison cell stared into the camera. His face was weathered, but his eyes were alert. Suhana gasped. Aryan went pale.

"Uncle Parvez," Aryan whispered.

Parvez Khan. Their father's cousin. Officially disowned after he was imprisoned in Pakistan for 'espionage.' Rumored to have defected. Forgotten by most.

Parvez leaned forward. "You finally see it now, don't you? The lines. The lies. The betrayal. Our families were torn apart because they tried to stop a war neither side wanted to end."

Suhana's voice broke. "Why didn't anyone tell us?"

"Because silence is the first rule of survival. Your father chose to survive. So did your mother. But now—it's your turn to choose what you'll be."

Aryan sat down, stunned.

Parvez continued. "Raahil's mother was a patriot. So was his father. But patriotism became a crime when it threatened control. They were betrayed. Just like I was. Just like thousands are. Every year."

The screen went dark.

Raahil turned to them. "Now you understand. This isn't just about India or Pakistan. It's about the idea of truth being dangerous to those who profit from fear."

—

Later that night, in the control room, Ziyan showed Raahil new intel.

"The Americans are denying involvement. But MI6... they've opened a backchannel. They want to talk."

Raahil nodded. "Good. Let them come."

Ziyan hesitated. "Raahil... what happens after this? When the hostages are released? When the media moves on?"

Raahil's expression turned cold. "Then we dig deeper. Into the corporations. Into the international players. Into every hand that fed this cycle. We expose them all."

He turned to the screen, displaying a grid of names. Some were familiar. Others were ghosts from old files, now resurrected.

"Starting with the man who signed my mother's death order."

—

Meanwhile, downstairs, Camille sat with Frederick Bloom. She looked shaken.

"You were right," she whispered. "About everything."

Bloom lit a cigarette, eyes dark. "I wasn't right. I was complicit. We all were. We wrote the headlines they paid for. We sold outrage to boost views. We never asked who benefited."

He looked toward the screen.

"But now we know. And now, we write different headlines."

—

Outside the Glass House, drones circled at high altitude. Cameras rolled. The world watched, suspended between disbelief and dawning realization.

Inside, Raahil sat alone for a moment, looking at an old photo. His parents—smiling, younger, untouched by war. A chess board sat between them.

He whispered, "Your move."

To be continued...