Nayib’s livestream ended with practiced precision—smile held for three seconds, casual salute, then reach for the off button. The moment the red light died, his shoulders dropped. He stood alone in his office, surrounded by screens displaying engagement metrics, prison statistics, and cryptocurrency prices, all climbing higher by the second.
His phone buzzed. An aide had sent tomorrow's talking points, but another notification pushed them aside—Marco had finally requested entry to the presidential palace.
Nayib straightened his cap, adjusted his posture. The cameras might be off, but power was always performance.
When Rubio entered, Nayib was lounging behind his desk, ostentatiously scrolling through Twitter with calculated indifference. The Secretary of State's shoes clicked against marble floors that had once echoed with conquistador boots.
"Your incarceration numbers are remarkable," Rubio said, standing before a wall of prison statistics. "Especially the vacancy rates."
"Everything's for sale these days." Nayib’s thumb paused mid-scroll. "Even empty cells."
"The United States is prepared to make an arrangement regarding that capacity." Rubio's diplomat's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Generous terms."
"And if I'm not interested?"
"Then certain arrangements would need reassessment. Trade agreements. Security partnerships." Rubio gestured vaguely. "Paperwork."
A notification pinged—Nayib’s latest tweet had passed a million likes. His fingers moved across the desk's edge, an old nervous habit he thought he'd buried beneath years of carefully constructed confidence.
He pulled out his phone, thumbs dancing across the screen. "Check your feed."
Rubio frowned, reaching for his own device. His eyes widened slightly as he read.
"That's my public address," Nayib said. "Announcing our historic partnership. Already got Elon in the quote-tweets." He leaned forward. "Next time, skip the threats. They're so last administration."
Dawn painted the jungle gold, but the prison complex cut through nature's artwork with sharp angles of concrete and steel. From the observation platform, Nayib could see where ancient Mayan traders had once carved paths through the forest. Now, a military-grade runway sliced across their ghost trails.
His phone felt heavy in his hand. The platform offered the perfect angle for his announcement video, but his thumb hovered over the record button. Below, guards smaller than ants readied for the arrival. Their movements traced patterns old as civilization—the watched and the watchers, the contained and the containers.
Rubio stood beside him, checking his watch with metronomic precision. Each glance at the sky lasted exactly three seconds, like someone had programmed him for maximum telegenic anxiety.
"Your people must be proud," Rubio said, his voice carrying the hollow weight of a hundred similar platitudes spoken at a hundred similar moments. "From chaos to order in just a few years."
Nayib’s free hand gripped the railing. On his phone, his social media team had suggested hashtags: #InnovatingJustice, #NewWorldOrder, #SalvadoranSolution. They'd workshop the final choice after running sentiment analysis.
"My people," he said softly, "trade one kind of order for another. That's all they've ever done." He straightened up, adjusted his cap with the casual precision that had taken months to perfect. "But they'll call it progress because I tell them to. That's what they've always done too."
The first C-130 emerged from the clouds, banking toward the runway. Its shadow raced across the canopy like history repeating itself with better special effects. Nayib raised his phone, framing the shot.
The slight tremor in his hand wouldn't be visible in the final cut.