Diplomacy: the art of restraining power.

Host: The rain fell hard that night, slicking the streets of Washington D.C. with liquid mirrors. The Capitol dome loomed in the distance, shrouded in mist and fluorescent light — an old monument to the enduring theater of power. Inside a quiet hotel bar, the kind frequented by policy analysts, journalists, and the ghosts of old ambitions, two figures sat across from each other in a corner booth.

The clock over the counter ticked past midnight. The bartender had stopped asking if they needed another drink.

Jack sat with his tie loosened, the collar of his shirt slightly wrinkled, his grey eyes sharp but tired — a man who had spent too long in rooms where people smiled while making threats. Across from him, Jeeny, in a black coat still glistening with rain, stirred her drink slowly, her eyes warm, reflective, holding the kind of patience born not from naivety but conviction.

Jack: Quietly, with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Henry Kissinger once said, ‘Diplomacy: the art of restraining power.’” He swirled the amber in his glass. “Funny, coming from a man who never believed in restraint unless it served his own chessboard.”

Jeeny: Softly, but with a glint of challenge. “That’s precisely why it’s true. He understood that power without restraint isn’t power — it’s chaos. Diplomacy isn’t kindness, Jack. It’s discipline.”

Host: The barlight shimmered against the polished bottles behind the counter. A slow jazz track hummed from the speakers, the kind of music that made memory feel heavier than silence.

Jack: “Discipline, huh? That’s a polite word for manipulation. You