The mansion was quieter than usual, as if the building itself had absorbed the weight of its occupants' tension. Outside, the world held its breath. Journalists speculated. Agencies scrambled. Families begged for answers. But inside, time ticked to Raahil's rhythm.
The morning meeting began as scheduled. Hostages sat in controlled silence as Raahil entered the grand hall. Today, he carried no files, no folders. Just presence. His eyes scanned the room and settled on Suhana Khan.
"You. Come with me," he said.
Whispers erupted among the others as Suhana stood, hesitant. Her poise was intact, but her hands gave her away—trembling slightly.
Raahil led her to a smaller room—what used to be a study, its walls now covered in maps, clippings, and coded strings. A quiet fireplace flickered. No guards followed. It was just the two of them.
She sat across from him.
He looked directly at her.
"Did you ever ask your father," he began slowly, "why Bollywood films are used to manipulate truth?"
She blinked, confused.
He continued. "Why almost every villain with a beard, every terrorist, every rapist… is portrayed as Muslim? Why 95% of Indian cinema's antagonists are designed to look like someone from my street?"
She opened her mouth, but Raahil raised a hand.
"I'm not blaming you. I'm asking if you ever noticed. Or asked."
Suhana's voice was calm, but laced with unease. "It's just fiction. Stories that sell."
He leaned forward. "No. It's programming. And your father—your beloved, global icon—has been in dozens of these films. Ever wonder why those scripts are never challenged? Why Muslim characters rarely have arcs, families, humanity?"
She looked away. "He never meant harm."
Raahil's voice lowered. "He didn't have to mean it. The system meant it for him. Do you know how many boys I've met in refugee camps who thought they were born villains because of the movies you grew up loving?"
She was silent.
"Your cinema feeds fear. And that fear feeds votes. BJP rides it like a chariot. Every time a Muslim is shown as a threat, a few million people nod and vote. Not for security—but for superiority."
She looked back at him. "What do you want from me?"
"I want you to remember this conversation when you see your father again. Ask him if he regrets not breaking the mold when he had the power to."
She didn't reply.
Raahil stood, then paused.
"I don't hate you, Suhana. I hate the silence."
He walked to the door and called over his shoulder, "Send in Mahira."
—
Mahira Tariq entered moments later. Daughter of Pakistan's most beloved television icon. Known for her activism in animal rights, but never politics. Today, she faced a different spotlight.
Raahil didn't sit this time. He stood by a large corkboard filled with red-string maps, connecting events from Balakot to Karachi to London.
He turned toward her. "Tell me. What do you know about Lt. General Haroon Iqbal?"
Mahira stiffened. "He was a decorated officer. Then he disappeared."
Raahil raised an eyebrow. "Disappeared. Or was disappeared?"
She frowned. "There were rumors. But my father said not everything in the media is reliable."
Raahil walked closer. "Your father knows exactly what happened. Haroon leaked evidence of military interference in elections. He planned to go public. And then he vanished."
Mahira shifted uncomfortably. "You think my father was involved?"
"I think your father was forced to act blind. Like every other media figure with a platform. I'm not blaming him. I'm asking you—when will someone like you stop pretending they don't see what's rotting your house from the inside?"
Mahira's expression cracked for a moment. "It's not that easy. We can't speak out and live."
Raahil nodded. "Exactly. And that's the system I'm fighting. In India, they use fiction to create fear. In Pakistan, they use fear to keep the truth fiction."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Mahira said, "What if you're wrong? What if all this just leads to more blood?"
Raahil looked weary. "Then let the blood be honest. Let it bleed in the name of truth. Not propaganda."
—
Outside the study, Aryan Khan stood by the window, listening to muffled pieces of both conversations. His knuckles whitened.
Suhana joined him, eyes still wet from her earlier interrogation.
"He's not just angry," she whispered. "He's haunted."
Aryan nodded. "He's turning all of us into mirrors."
—
In the main hall, Ziyan addressed the hostages.
"You've all been told half-truths. Here's another. Two years ago, an Indian pilot defected with documents proving Indo-Pak peace talks were sabotaged deliberately. Both sides buried him in a joint covert op. Guess who signed off on it?"
He projected the image of a politician on screen.
"Minister Kabir Dalmia. Now running for PM."
Gasps rippled through the room.
"And the man who handed the file to RAW?"
A photo of Mahira's father appeared.
Raahil returned just then. "These are not accusations. They're wounds. And we're finally letting them bleed."
He stared around.
"Tomorrow, another reckoning. Tonight, reflect."
He exited.
—
Later, in his private room, Raahil looked over a chessboard. It was his father's—one of the few things left behind. The king piece was missing.
Ziyan entered. "Still nothing on the Hindu Kush data drop. But we're close."
Raahil whispered, "They killed my parents to protect the narrative. We're going to kill the narrative to protect the truth."
Ziyan nodded. "And if they come tonight?"
Raahil looked at the missing king.
"Then we let the pawns bite back."
To be continued...