Episode 10: When Truth Wears No Flag

Dawn broke slowly over the Glass House, painting long gold streaks across the fractured windows. A cold silence had settled in after the long night—after the confessions, the confrontations, the slow bleeding of secrets into the daylight. Raahil stood before the window, watching the light stretch across the hills.

Ziyan entered quietly, a tablet in his hand. "It's started."

On the screen, headlines blinked in real time.

'High-Profile Hostages Held in England: Shocking Confession of Ex-Pak Army Colonel Surfaces Online.'

'Former RAW Agent Named in Leaked Operation Files—Bollywood Connections Drawn.'

'Who is Raahil Khan? Hero, Terrorist or Truth-Teller?'

News outlets across Asia, Europe, and the Middle East were buzzing. A select group of global journalists had received access to the first batch of files. Reactions varied from disbelief to outrage.

Raahil handed the tablet back. "That's just the first layer."

—

In the atrium, tension simmered. Foreign guests murmured in clumps, whispering theories. The Indian and Pakistani celebrities sat apart now, their former glamour dulled under the weight of their revelations. Aryan paced. Suhana scribbled in a notebook. Mahira kept to herself, watching everyone.

But it was the African tech mogul, Solomon Ndlovu, who finally broke the silence.

"I want answers," he said, rising. "Why am I still here? I am not Indian. I am not Pakistani. My country has nothing to do with your wars. And yet here I sit, imprisoned."

All eyes turned as Raahil entered.

"You're here," Raahil said, "because neutrality is a myth. Your governments buy weapons from both ours. They fund silence in the UN. They sell technologies that fuel surveillance and oppression. You call it business. We call it betrayal."

Camille—the French model-activist—stood next. "So you want us to what? Apologize for every deal our governments ever made?"

Raahil's eyes narrowed. "No. I want you to see the system you've upheld. Then choose whether you'll still stand by it."

An old Japanese diplomat spoke softly. "Young man, systems like these... they don't change by pointing fingers. They crumble from within, slowly, painfully."

Raahil nodded. "That's why you're here. You've lived the privilege of silence. Now you'll carry the burden of truth."

He motioned toward the large screen. A reel began to play: footage of secret military summits, arms deals negotiated behind climate conferences, photos of known diplomats attending unofficial talks between Indian and Pakistani lobbies.

Then Raahil added, "You weren't selected at random. Each of you represents a domino. You fall, others follow."

—

Back in the surveillance room, Mahira approached Raahil privately.

"They're starting to break," she said.

"They have to," Raahil answered. "They've spent their lives building castles over graves. It's time they feel the tremor."

"Something else," Mahira added. "A message came through encrypted channels. From inside the Indian intelligence network. Someone wants to talk. Quietly."

Raahil took the tablet and scanned the message. Just coordinates and a name: Kiran Arora.

His hand froze. Kiran had been his mother's handler. He remembered her vaguely—sharp eyes, always in the shadows.

"She was one of the few who didn't want her dead," Raahil murmured.

"You'll speak to her?"

"Yes. Alone."

—

Raahil left in a black SUV at dusk, traveling to the nearby woods where a single house stood surrounded by fog. Inside, Kiran waited—older now, her hair gray, but her gaze no less sharp.

"I expected you sooner," she said.

"I never expected you alive," Raahil replied.

They sat across a candle-lit table. No recording. No guards.

"You've made quite the storm," she said. "Your parents would've hated your methods."

"They died believing there was a clean way. I'm proving them wrong."

Kiran sipped her tea. "So what now? You want a list of everyone who signed their death warrant?"

"No. I already have it. I want something else."

She leaned back. "What?"

"The final message my mother recorded. I know it exists. She gave it to you the night before she died."

Kiran hesitated. Then rose, walked to a hidden drawer, and pulled out a flash drive.

"She said you'd come for it someday. She also said if you use it for revenge, you become what they feared."

Raahil took it and left without another word.

—

Back at the Glass House, Suhana was sitting beside Aryan, both staring at the growing social media coverage. Memes, debates, death threats, political cartoons—all swirling into a storm.

Aryan finally said, "We'll never be able to go back, will we?"

"No," Suhana replied. "And maybe that's a good thing."

Mahira joined them. "People are asking to speak to us directly. They want our side. Our truth. Not filtered through news channels."

Suhana looked at Raahil across the room. "Then let's speak."

They walked to the central camera, switched it on, and began to record.

Suhana: "I was born into a lie. I thought fame meant power. Now I see it meant obedience."

Aryan: "Our families let stories replace history. We're done pretending."

One by one, other hostages joined. The Japanese diplomat. Solomon. Camille.

Each gave their testimony.

It was no longer just Raahil's story.

It was becoming a movement.

—

That night, alone in his quarters, Raahil watched his mother's final message.

She appeared on screen, sitting in a small garden, the hum of crickets in the background.

"My son," she began. "If this reaches you, I am already gone. But know this: you were not born of enemies. You were born of rebels. And your blood is not a curse. It's a map. Find your way. But don't let hate light your path. Because hate burns all maps in the end."

She smiled.

"Make the world choose love. Or at least make them ashamed of choosing anything else."

Raahil wept.

For the first time in years.

To be continued...