The Glass House was now a fortress, transformed from a social paradise into a locked world governed by a single man's calculated rage. As dawn crept into the London sky, it barely touched the reinforced walls of the mansion. Inside, the air remained tense, thick with the weight of revealed secrets and the impending promise of more.
Raahil sat at the head of the grand dining table, empty now of silverware and laughter. Before him were files, photos, sealed envelopes, each one a chapter of the story he was rewriting with every passing hour. The hostages had been separated into clusters, each watched over by one of Raahil's men—silent, unblinking sentinels.
He stood up, moved toward a small, wall-mounted control panel, and tapped a few keys. The room's central screen lit up again, this time not with surveillance footage or historical horror, but with a symbol: a stylized olive branch wrapped in barbed wire.
A woman's voice broke the silence.
"You really think the world will side with a man holding children of diplomats hostage?"
Raahil turned.
Aisha Naqvi. Journalist. Half-Pakistani, half-British. She had reported from conflict zones, challenged generals on live television. Now she was a prisoner.
Raahil didn't blink. "I don't need the world to take sides. I need it to remember."
"Remember what?" she pressed.
"That both sides have committed crimes and buried them under national pride. I am not their enemy. I'm their consequence."
Aisha studied him. "What if your truth burns down the only bridges left?"
He gave her a look that almost resembled sadness. "Then we rebuild. From ashes, if we must."
—
Twelve years earlier.
A foggy morning in Srinagar. Raahil was sixteen, escorted by an old family friend named Idris—one of the few people who knew the full truth of his lineage. They walked silently through a narrow alley near Dal Lake.
"Why are we here?" Raahil asked.
Idris handed him an envelope.
"Your mother's last message. She wanted you to see where she met your father."
Raahil opened the envelope. Inside was a photo—his parents standing in front of an abandoned temple, disguised as tourists. They looked younger, carefree. But behind their eyes, secrets curled like shadows.
A second paper fell out. A coded message.
Raahil stared at it. Recognized the symbols. His mother had taught him once, in whispers.
He decoded it slowly.
"When truth is denied by both flags, light your own torch."
—
Back in the Glass House, Raahil moved through the hallways, checking his men, ensuring discipline. He paused at the sound of quiet weeping.
He followed it to a secluded corridor, where Suhana Khan sat alone, back against the wall. Tears streaked her face, but she didn't sob. It was the quiet cry of someone holding too much in.
He sat across from her.
"You knew this would happen?" she asked softly.
Raahil hesitated, then shook his head. "Not like this. I planned for resistance. Not this much sorrow."
She looked up at him. "Why show me that video of your mother?"
"Because you've lived your whole life in the camera's glow. You've seen fame. I wanted you to see silence."
Suhana wiped her cheek. "She was beautiful. Like you remember her vividly."
Raahil smiled, barely. "I don't remember her. I only remember her sacrifices."
—
Outside the mansion, chaos brewed. MI6, RAW, ISI—all trying to claim jurisdiction, all pointing fingers.
Inside, Raahil prepared his next move.
He returned to the central chamber. Addressed the group.
"I've decided we'll begin what I call the 'Mirror Trial.' Every day, one of you will come forward and answer for your family's sins—not legally, but truthfully. This is not a court. It's a reckoning."
Whispers filled the room.
He pointed to Haris Qureshi.
"Your father trained operatives who planted bombs in Indian public spaces. I have the evidence. Will you deny it?"
Haris stood, fists tight. "You're judging me for things I didn't do."
Raahil nodded. "That's the point. Now you know what millions of innocent people feel like every day."
He handed Haris a folder.
Inside: transcripts, photographs, phone logs.
"You read this. Then you tell us tomorrow if you still believe your father is a hero."
He moved on.
"Next day, Aryan. Then Abeer. Then Aisha. We all go through the mirror."
—
That night, Raahil entered a private room. Only one man was inside—his most trusted lieutenant, Ziyan. A former Pakistani military tech officer, discharged for whistleblowing.
Ziyan placed a tablet before him.
"We intercepted communications between RAW and ISI. Both are denying your parents' involvement. They've erased them."
Raahil clenched his jaw.
"I expected that."
Ziyan paused. "But there's more. Your father left something behind. A location in the Hindu Kush. GPS coordinates. Buried data."
Raahil stared at the screen.
"Then we have to survive this long enough to retrieve it."
Ziyan looked uncertain. "They'll kill you before that."
Raahil gave a bitter laugh. "They already did. I'm just the echo."
—
That same night, Aryan couldn't sleep. The folder weighed heavier than he imagined.
He opened it again. The evidence wasn't vague. It was names, dates, visuals. Proof of cross-border manipulation. Of propaganda cells. His father's name appeared more than once.
He felt the weight of legacy like a stone in his chest.
Across the room, Suhana watched him.
"Do you think he's right?" she asked.
Aryan shook his head. "I think he's dangerous. But I also think he might be the only honest man in this room."
—
Meanwhile, in a darkened office in Delhi, a man studied Raahil's images. His face was unreadable. He wore no military uniform, but his presence was sharper than any blade.
A call came in.
Voice: "Sir, your son is one of the hostages."
The man didn't flinch.
"I know."
"Shall we proceed with the extraction plan?"
He stared at the photograph again. Raahil. A ghost born from two betrayed shadows.
"Not yet. Let the boy speak."
—
Back in the Glass House, Raahil walked the halls alone.
He stopped before a large glass panel, one of the few windows not sealed. Through it, he watched the sunrise over London.
He remembered a morning like this one—when he was five, his mother holding his hand in a New Delhi park. She pointed to the rising sun and whispered:
"Always walk toward light. Even if the whole world wants you in the dark."
He hadn't understood it then.
He did now.
To be continued...