Scene: A Dimly Lit Room, Somewhere in Southeast China

*The year is 1887. The British empire still has a firm grasp on its colonies, and in the Southeast Asian trade networks, opium flows like gold. Inside a luxurious but worn-out room, adorned with Qing dynasty artifacts and British imperial emblems, a British opium trader, *Charles Harrington*, sits behind a large mahogany desk. He wears a well-tailored waistcoat and cravat, his eyes cold and calculating. Across from him sits *Michael O’Donnell, an American operative, decades out of place, but well aware of his mission. Though the room is set in 19th century China, O’Donnell is a man of the 20th century — a CIA officer from the 1970s, time displaced yet unfazed.

Harrington pulls a cigar from a silver case, lights it, and offers one to O’Donnell. The American declines, leaning forward, his eyes dark and knowing.

Charles Harrington (British Opium Trader):
Takes a deep drag of his cigar.
“You Americans always seem to think the game is something new. But let me tell you, lad, this trade we’ve built here—opium to China, silver back to the Crown—it’s the very lifeblood of empire. And you, with your disbursals and kingmaker strategies, well, you’re but a mirror of us. Different time, same means.”
He exhales a thick plume of smoke.

Michael O’Donnell (American CIA Operative):
Leans back in his chair, unphased.
“I didn’t come here for a history lesson, Harrington. I’m here because you’re playing the game on the same board we are now. The names may have changed, sure—cartels, revolutionaries, intelligence services—but it’s still about control. Control of people, of markets, of nations.”

Harrington:
Laughs heartily, a bit of arrogance in his tone.
“Control, yes. Control indeed. But tell me, Mr. O’Donnell, what exactly does your Agency hope to achieve by making men like the ones I deal with into kings? Do you think your ‘cartels’ will remain loyal to your stars and stripes any more than my merchants do to the Crown?”
He snuffs his cigar in a nearby ashtray.
“You’re playing with fire, lad. The opium’s just one part of a much larger machine.”

O’Donnell:
His tone sharpens.
“It’s not loyalty we’re after. It’s leverage. Same as you. You may be used to dealing with addicts—men so hooked on your product they’d sell their own mothers to get a taste—but we’ve moved on. Now it’s about keeping entire countries hooked on the American dream, on dollars, guns, influence. That’s our opium.”

Harrington:
His eyes narrow slightly, intrigued by the American’s candor.
“So, you’re admitting to it then? All this talk of freedom, democracy—it’s just a mask for your real work. Topple a government here, set up a puppet there. And you think you’re so clever with your little operations. But sooner or later, you’ll learn what I’ve already discovered.”

O’Donnell:
“And what’s that?”

Harrington:
Leans in, his voice lowering.
“No matter how much power you think you wield, the people who truly hold the strings are the ones no one sees. The ones in the shadows. You can install all the puppet kings you like, but they’ll never be yours. Not truly. Just like my opium buyers—they’re loyal only until the next hit. The moment you can’t provide, they’ll find someone else who can.”

O’Donnell:
Smirks.
“Funny, I was about to say the same thing to you. You think your empire’s immortal? That your precious Queen back in London can keep squeezing the world forever? I’ve read the history books, Harrington. Empires fall. All of them. Yours isn’t any different.”

Harrington:
Chuckles darkly.
“Perhaps. But I have a feeling yours will fall harder. You’ve seen what happens when the flow of silver or drugs gets interrupted. The same applies to influence. You’ll overreach, Mr. O’Donnell. You already are.”
Pauses, then continues with a half-smile.
“And when that happens, well, we’ll see who is scrambling for the scraps.”

O’Donnell:
Leaning forward now, his voice intense.
“Let’s not pretend you don’t see the parallels, Harrington. We’re both here because we know the world runs on corruption. The question is, how far are you willing to let it go? I’m not interested in building an empire. I’m here to make sure it doesn’t collapse too soon. But if that means playing kingmaker and breaking a few laws along the way—so be it. Our game is global. Yours was regional. Don’t confuse the two.”

Harrington:
With a sly grin.
“Ah, but regional control can be far more devastating than you think. And at least we weren’t foolish enough to dream of ruling the whole world. Ambition, Mr. O’Donnell, is the very thing that will destroy you and your Agency.”

O’Donnell:
Rising from his seat, his eyes cold.
“Maybe. But not today. And certainly not by the likes of you.”

O’Donnell turns and heads for the door, leaving the heavy air of colonial decadence and imperial machinations behind. As the door creaks open and closes, Harrington takes another slow drag of his cigar, watching the smoke curl lazily toward the ceiling, pondering the inevitability of all things—empires, drugs, and men.

Harrington (murmuring to himself):
“Not today, no… but soon enough.”
He exhales another thick cloud of smoke into the fading light.