Thirty thousand feet above the Hindu Kush mountains, Wei was having a spectacularly boring, highly profitable Tuesday.
While the American delegation was currently trying to hot-wire a hotel outlet, and the Iranian delegation was flying on a plane held together by duct tape and prayers, Wei was lounging in the plush leather seat of a state-of-the-art Gulfstream G650.
He wasn't reading classified military dossiers. He wasn't drafting impassioned speeches about the fate of the free world.
He was deep into a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet.
He clicked a cell labeled Sri Lankan Port 99-Year Lease and filled it with a pleasant pastel yellow. He clicked Zambian Copper Mine Acquisition and made it a calming mint green. He highlighted Total Western Decline and made the font bold.
This was Wei's happy place.
The United States and Iran liked to negotiate with screaming matches, aircraft carriers, and burning flags. China liked to negotiate with compound interest and infrastructure loans. To Wei, the Middle East was basically two angry neighbors screaming at each other over a property line, completely ignoring the fact that Wei was quietly buying up all the grocery stores in town.
Wei took a sip of hot water with lemon, closed his laptop, and walked over to the jet's mahogany-paneled bathroom. He leaned into the mirror to practice his face.
He dropped his shoulders, softened his eyes, and curved his lips into a gentle, entirely non-threatening smile. He called it his "Who, us? We are just a humble developing nation trying to manufacture affordable air fryers" smile.
It worked every single time. It was the exact same smile he had used last month when he bought the electrical grid of a small European country while the American ambassador was busy arguing with a teenager on Twitter.
Wei's mission in Islamabad was incredibly simple: Absolutely nothing could get done.
If Brad and Reza actually signed a peace treaty, it would be a disaster for Beijing. Washington would immediately get bored and "pivot to Asia." They'd start sailing nuclear destroyers through the South China Sea, asking highly annoying questions about Taiwan, and generally ruining Wei's vibe. But as long as America was obsessed with the Persian Gulf, pouring trillions of dollars into the sand and having daily panic attacks about Iran, Wei was free to quietly buy up the rest of the planet at a wholesale discount.
He walked back to his seat and opened a velvet-lined briefcase. Inside were three small, beautifully painted tins.
Da Hong Pao tea.
It was harvested from a single, ancient bush on the side of a cliff in the Wuyi Mountains. A single pot cost roughly the same as a used Honda Civic.
Wei didn't even like it that much; honestly, it tasted a little bit like warm dirt. But he brought it to every negotiation for one specific reason: psychological dominance. He loved pouring a cup for a stressed-out American diplomat, watching the guy gulp it down like it was a Mountain Dew, and then casually mentioning the price tag. The sheer, panicked realization that they had just swallowed four thousand dollars in a single gulp always threw them off their game for at least an hour.
The pilot's voice chimed over the intercom, announcing their smooth descent into Islamabad.
Wei carefully closed the briefcase, smoothed out his immaculate silk tie, and let out a relaxed sigh. He couldn't wait to go down there, act incredibly polite, and ruin everyone's week.