The Glass House wasn't built for war. Yet, as the days dragged on, its every corridor had become a battlefield—of ideals, truths, and personal reckonings. The security lights cast long shadows across the marble floor as if trying to conceal the weight of the revelations echoing through its halls.
At 3:47 AM, Ziyan entered Raahil's chamber quietly. "He's here," he said.
Raahil rose without a word. He'd been waiting for this moment.
—
In a heavily secured side room, seated with his hands cuffed and a blanket over his shoulders, was an older man with silver hair, his eyes sharp with the clarity of someone who'd seen too much. Colonel Haroon Saeed—retired, missing from public view for the last five years, declared dead by Pakistani military records.
Raahil stood before him.
"You issued the Black Letter," Raahil said.
Haroon looked up, the calm in his voice unsettling. "Your mother had to be silenced. So did your father. You were a child then. You wouldn't have understood."
"I understand now," Raahil replied coldly. "They were silenced because they believed peace was possible."
"No," Haroon said. "They were silenced because they believed truth could win in a world built on lies. That's not courage. That's naivety."
Ziyan watched from the side, tense. Raahil took a slow breath.
"I'm not here for vengeance," Raahil said. "I'm here for confession. You're going to tell the world what you did. Every word. Every order. On camera."
Haroon smiled faintly. "You still believe the world cares."
Raahil stepped closer. "I believe they will—when it's your face they see. The man behind the masks."
Haroon didn't resist as he was led to the camera room. There, under low lighting and live recording, he began to speak. His confession unfolded like a slow-burning fire—names, operations, covert assassinations. Details of Indo-Pak coordination for proxy wars, manufactured terror alerts, planned misinformation campaigns.
And then—
"I met Raahil's mother in Berlin. She was brilliant. Dangerous. She believed a soldier's true duty was to prevent war, not fight it. That made her a threat to both our flags. We used her. Then we betrayed her."
He looked straight into the lens.
"And if I had the chance again, I'd do the same. Because peace never made money."
The recording ended.
Raahil didn't look at him again.
Ziyan whispered, "What now?"
"We send it to every newsroom across three continents. But only after the next move."
—
In the lounge, Suhana sat at a long table, staring at a printed image of her father on a red carpet beside Indian defense officials. Her jaw was clenched.
Mahira approached quietly. "There's something you should see."
She led Suhana and Aryan to the control room where Raahil stood over a set of folders. He handed them each one.
Aryan opened his—images, dates, emails from Indian film board members and intelligence officers.
"This…" he started, "this is proof that scripts were vetted?"
"Yes," Raahil said. "Vetted, altered, sanitized. You were told you were showing the world 'truth.' But really, you were giving them an enemy. Always the same face. Always the same prayer cap."
Suhana said nothing. Her fingers curled tightly around the folder.
Raahil turned to Mahira. "Show them the Pakistani version."
Mahira displayed documents on the screen showing Pakistani ISPR-approved scripts—stories where India was always the aggressor, where heroism meant denying history.
Raahil spoke to all of them.
"You were raised in different countries. But you were given the same lie: that the other side was evil. That to question was betrayal. That to forgive was weakness. Your media taught you this. So did your schools. So did your films. But it wasn't just nationalism—it was conditioning."
Aryan's voice cracked. "Then what do we believe?"
Raahil looked at him. "You believe what you see now. What you feel now. And you start again. Not as children of countries, but as people who refuse to be pawns."
—
Later, Raahil stood alone in the garden at the back of the house. The wind was rising. The trees trembled like they carried secrets.
Suhana walked out, stopping beside him.
"You think this will change anything?" she asked.
Raahil didn't answer right away. Then he said, "I think it already has. You're here. Listening. That's more than most ever did."
"I hated you," she admitted. "When this began. I thought you were a monster."
"And now?"
"I don't know. But I know I hate what made you this way more."
Raahil nodded. "Then we're finally on the same side."
Suhana turned to go but paused. "What about the others? The foreign guests? Why are they still here?"
Raahil looked up at the moon. "Because the truth isn't Indo-Pak alone. They need to understand the cost of silence. Of neutrality. Of only caring when it affects them."
He turned to her. "And when they leave, they won't be just guests. They'll be carriers of what was buried."
—
That night, a secret room beneath the Glass House was unlocked. It had been sealed for years, its contents hidden even from Raahil until recently.
Inside, he found a safe, untouched. He opened it slowly.
Inside were two things: a letter addressed to him, and a worn, old chess piece—the white queen.
He opened the letter.
My son,
If you find this, then you know who we were. And now, you must decide who you'll be. We tried to change things from within. We failed. But maybe you, born of both flags, raised by none—maybe you can do what we could not.
Truth is not a weapon. It's a seed. Plant it well.
Love,
Your mother.
Raahil sat down in the silent room, holding the queen.
A game was ending.
And another was about to begin.
To be continued...