Business is in itself a power.

Host: The city was soaked in steel and smoke, a skyline of ambition glittering beneath a sullen sky. It was evening, that fragile hour when the day gives up its fight, and light retreats behind towers of glass. Through the wide windows of a downtown office, the streets below looked like veins pulsing with late commuters, each one carrying their own quiet hunger for something — money, meaning, or just survival.

Jack stood by the window, his tie loosened, his hands in his pockets. The faint reflection of his grey eyes stared back at him — sharp, calculating, tired. Behind him, Jeeny sat on the edge of the conference table, her laptop closed, the glow of the city lights painting her face in streaks of gold and shadow.

The office was almost silent, except for the soft buzz of a dying lightbulb and the hum of an air conditioner that had long forgotten why it was still working.

Jeeny: “Do you know what Garet Garrett said once, Jack? ‘Business is in itself a power.’”
Her voice was calm, but there was a trace of wonder in it — like she was holding something sacred, something too often misused.
Jeeny: “He didn’t mean just money or markets. He meant the force that moves the world, that reshapes lives, nations, and dreams.”

Jack: without turning “Yeah. And he was right. Business is power. But power is never innocent.”
He turned, the faintest smirk curling his mouth. “People like to talk about ethics, about responsibility, but when the numbers are on the line, all that melts like ice under fire. You’ve seen it, Jeeny. You’ve worked the same boardrooms I have.”

Host: The neon glow from across the street flickered through the window, painting him in fractured light — half angel, half machine. The city outside was his mirror: restless, unsatisfied, alive with desire and fear.

Jeeny: “You think business is just another name for domination, don’t you? Another way to win while someone else loses.”

Jack: “That’s not what I think. That’s what it is. Business is war — just a cleaner one. The weapons are contracts, the casualties are people who believed in fairness.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like there’s no other way. Like every transaction must have a victim.”

Jack: “Show me one that doesn’t.” He leaned against the glass. “Look at Amazon, for example — efficiency worshiped like a god. It revolutionized the world, yes. But it also crushed small businesses, burned out workers, and turned time into currency. That’s the cost of power. Garrett didn’t romanticize it — he understood it. Business isn’t about doing good. It’s about doing what works.”

Host: A faint rumble of thunder rolled through the distance, its echo trembling against the glass. Jeeny’s eyes darkened; her voice grew soft but firm — like a flame refusing to die in a storm.

Jeeny: “You think power can only be taken. But sometimes, Jack, it can be used. Business doesn’t have to crush. It can build. It can connect people, create jobs, feed families, heal economies. The same power that destroys can also sustain.”

Jack: “You sound like a TED Talk.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s forgotten that behind every number, there’s a name. Behind every profit, there’s a story.”

Host: She rose, stepping closer, the light shifting across her face. Her shadow fell over his reflection, merging briefly — two different truths, fighting for the same space.

Jack: “You’re idealizing it. Business doesn’t care about stories. It runs on incentive, not intent. You think empathy belongs in capitalism? It doesn’t. Look at what happens when companies try — they get eaten alive. Remember Patagonia? Donated its profits to the planet — noble, sure, but that’s a luxury most can’t afford.”

Jeeny: “And yet, they did it. And it worked. That’s the difference between seeing power as corruption and seeing it as creation. The market isn’t just a battlefield — it’s also a mirror. It shows us who we are.”

Jack: “Then it’s showing us we’re greedy, fearful, and hungry for control.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s showing us we could be better — if we stop confusing profit with purpose.”

Host: The rain began to fall, gentle at first, then hard, steady, washing down the glass. The city lights blurred into a thousand tears, streaking like motion itself. Jack turned away from the window, his face reflected in a screen on the table — his own digital ghost, pale and uncertain.

Jack: “Do you know why I admire Garrett?” His voice dropped lower, almost to a murmur. “Because he saw the truth before most people did. He wrote about how business had become the real government — the engine that drives nations. Not politics, not ideals, just commerce. That’s what rules the world now.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why the world feels so cold, Jack.”

Jack: “No — that’s why it functions. People trust their bank apps more than their leaders. They’ll trade votes for convenience, freedom for speed. Business isn’t just power — it is civilization now.”

Host: The lightning flashed, illuminating their faces for a brief second — two figures caught between belief and truth, between what is and what should be.

Jeeny: “You really think it has to be that way?”

Jack: “I think it already is. Look at Musk, Bezos, Zuckerberg — they shape more of the world than presidents do. The stock market trembles when they blink. You think that’s coincidence? That’s power.”

Jeeny: quietly, but firmly “Then maybe power isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s who holds it — and what they hold it for.”

Host: The room went still. Even the rain seemed to listen. The clock on the wall ticked like a slow, measured heartbeat. Jack turned his head slightly, his expression shifting — the edges of cynicism softening into something like thought.

Jack: “You believe people can handle power without corruption?”

Jeeny: “Not all people. But some. Enough to make a difference. Look at Muhammad Yunus, founder of the Grameen Bank — he used microfinance to lift millions out of poverty. Or Ben & Jerry’s, who pay their workers living wages and still stay profitable. Business doesn’t have to devour — it can nourish.”

Jack: half-smiling, voice low “You really do believe in the good fight.”

Jeeny: “Someone has to.”

Host: The storm outside began to ease, the rain softening into a light drizzle. A faint orange glow appeared through the clouds, the last trace of the sunset struggling to survive the night. Jack moved closer to the table, his hands resting on the cool wood, his voice more gentle now.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe business isn’t just a power — maybe it’s a language. The language of human desire. And like any language, it can speak greed or grace, depending on who’s talking.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Exactly. Power isn’t evil. It’s just… potential. What we do with it decides who we are.”

Host: The rain stopped entirely. Outside, the city shimmered — clean, awake, reborn. The lights from passing cars spilled across the wet streets like veins of liquid gold. Inside, the office felt warmer, lighter — as if something invisible had shifted.

Jack looked at Jeeny — the faintest trace of humility in his eyes.

Jack: “Maybe business is in itself a power, but only when it remembers it’s also a responsibility.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what Garrett meant all along. Power isn’t the villain — forgetting its purpose is.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — out through the window, past the reflections of towers, through the dripping sky, into the great, pulsing heart of the city. The faint echo of thunder lingered like an afterthought, as if the heavens themselves had been listening.

And somewhere below, in that restless grid of light and will, the world of business continued — neither good nor evil, just alive, just human, forever deciding what kind of power it wanted to be.