In the vaulted silence of a Geneva conference hall, an unpublicized meeting was about to begin.
There were no flags on the table. No cameras. No podiums.
Just 11 people. Four from India, four from Pakistan, three from Western intelligence agencies—those who had stayed silent while the fire grew.
None of them expected Raahil Mirza to walk in.
But he did.
—
He wore no mask this time.
His beard was fuller, his eyes more exhausted, but unmistakably him.
A woman from RAW stood immediately, as if expecting to detain him.
He raised a hand.
"Sit down," said the American. "This is not an arrest. This is an audit."
The word hung like smoke.
Raahil sat, slowly.
The table stared.
He opened a folder. Inside: satellite photos, encrypted chat logs, and a file marked "OP GHOSTGATE."
The Pakistani delegate paled.
"You've come to expose us again?" he hissed.
Raahil looked at him flatly. "I came to offer a deal."
There was a silence more dangerous than shouting.
Raahil continued.
"You all know I'm not here to beg for clemency. Or fame. I'm here to make this war end without more blood."
The Indian rep scoffed. "Which war?"
"All of them," Raahil replied. "The war for narrative. For loyalty. For silence. For survival."
He laid down the second file. This one labeled "SAFEPASS."
Inside: names of journalists, activists, and whistleblowers who had helped expose both nations' secrets.
"What is this?" the MI6 delegate asked.
"A final insurance. If I'm killed—or anyone on this list is harmed—this file goes public. Every name, every document, every voice. Unfiltered."
He leaned forward.
"But if you agree to three conditions—I bury it."
The Indian rep crossed his arms. "And what are these magical terms?"
Raahil's voice didn't waver.
"One: Amnesty for everyone who assisted me—Suhana, Mahira, Camille, and others. Official. Global. Now."
"Two: Declassification of all operations leading to false encounters or extrajudicial killings in the past two decades. A full public archive. No redactions."
"Three: A joint Indo-Pak Truth Commission, chaired by neutral internationals, empowered to investigate both governments. Public hearings. Binding recommendations."
They laughed.
All of them.
Even the American.
"You think either of these governments will agree to that?"
Raahil didn't laugh.
"No," he said. "That's why I'm not asking the governments."
He pulled out one more document. A signed agreement from 87 human rights NGOs, 19 international press agencies, and 300 cultural figures—including Indian and Pakistani celebrities—supporting the creation of the commission.
And a letter from the UN Human Rights Council offering conditional endorsement.
"This doesn't need your approval. Just your cooperation."
—
The table went still.
Not because they were convinced.
But because they realized they weren't in control anymore.
—
In the following days, the story leaked.
First, an anonymous blog post with photos from the Geneva meeting.
Then, a clip of Raahil's voice outlining the proposal.
Then, confirmation from an Icelandic human rights lawyer who had witnessed it firsthand.
Protests erupted across Delhi, Islamabad, Karachi, Lahore, Srinagar, Mumbai.
Not against Raahil.
Against the silence.
—
Suhana released a public letter:
"They will tell you Raahil is a traitor. That I was brainwashed. But ask yourself—what kind of patriotism requires lies to survive?"
Mahira published a video:
"The youth of Pakistan are not your cannon fodder. We are your conscience. And we will not shut up."
Camille went further—launching the Truth Commission website before any official recognition.
Within 48 hours, over 10 million signatures from around the world demanded the governments comply.
But Raahil had vanished again.
—
This time, to the Balkans.
He traveled with forged documents under a Spanish alias, moving between border towns and old resistance routes.
He met with ex-agents who had survived war crimes tribunals, and learned how fragile peace could be when built on amnesia.
"They will never forgive you," one of them said.
"I'm not here for forgiveness," Raahil replied. "Just clarity."
—
Then came the backlash.
The Pakistani media ran op-eds accusing Raahil of foreign manipulation.
Indian channels claimed the Truth Commission was a "psy-ops campaign" funded by hostile actors.
And both governments declared the signatories of the petition were "misguided youth influenced by cyber propaganda."
It was textbook.
But outdated.
Because people had changed.
—
In a town in Rajasthan, farmers projected Raahil's videos onto the side of a mosque.
In Balochistan, children recited his quotes in school plays.
In Lahore, a mural of him appeared overnight—painted over by authorities by noon, but restored again by evening.
He wasn't just a man now.
He was a loop.
Every time they erased him, someone else rewrote him.
—
In Episode 52 of The Broadcast, Raahil spoke from what looked like an abandoned church:
"This isn't about Indo-Pak anymore. It's about every place where borders were drawn in blood, then worshipped like gods."
He showed documents proving arms deals made between supposed 'enemies,' while soldiers died in manufactured skirmishes.
He read excerpts from letters written by mothers in Kashmir, Punjab, Gilgit, Assam.
Each story echoed one theme:
"Don't fight for us. Fight for the truth of what happened to us."
—
Finally, after weeks of silence, the first government cracked.
Not India.
Not Pakistan.
But Bangladesh.
The Prime Minister issued a statement supporting the idea of a regional Truth Commission.
Sri Lanka followed.
Then Nepal.
Then Maldives.
And under pressure, the Indian Supreme Court agreed to review a petition filed by retired military personnel supporting Raahil's initiative.
Their statement shocked the nation:
"We served our country. But we do not serve lies."
The tide had turned.
—
In his last known video, Raahil appeared older.
His hair grayer. A bandage on his left hand.
He stood in front of a shattered wall with faded graffiti behind him:
Truth hurts. But lies kill.
"I may not live to see it," he said. "But one day, the war between India and Pakistan won't be over territory. It'll be over memory."
He stepped closer.
"And when that happens, promise me something: Don't fight to forget. Fight to remember."
The screen cut to black.
Then faded in one line:
To be continued...