But especially if you have the wrong people within your circle.

Host: The hotel lobby glowed with artificial warmth, its chandeliers dripping light like honey over marble floors that reflected tired faces. It was well past midnight — that dead hour when the city outside hums like a wounded machine, still grinding even after everyone’s lost the will to keep pace.

Jack sat slouched on a velvet sofa, his jacket tossed carelessly beside him, his tie undone. A half-empty glass of whiskey glinted under the dim light, catching fragments of his reflection — a man who looked like he’d been running from something invisible and relentless.

Jeeny appeared through the revolving door, her heels clicking softly against the floor, her eyes sharper than the night. She carried no umbrella, though her hair was damp, and her expression carried the quiet fury of someone who’d seen too much of the backstage side of life.

She sat beside him without a word.

For a while, they just watched the rain slide down the glass windows, a thousand vertical threads unravelling the world outside.

Then Jeeny spoke.

Jeeny: “Heather Matarazzo once said — ‘But especially if you have the wrong people within your circle. Truthfully, at the end of the day, no one cares about you in this business whether they are your agent or your manager or your publicist.’”

Jack: lets out a low laugh, hollow and humorless “Yeah. Finally, someone said it out loud.”

Host: The ice in his glass shifted, a small, lonely sound. His eyes — steel grey, half-tired, half-dangerous — flickered toward her, and in them was a resignation only those in the trenches of the so-called “industry” could understand.

Jack: “It’s true, you know. They don’t care about you. Not really. They care about your moment. Your metrics. Your sellability. When that fades, so do they.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like you expected something else.”

Jack: “I did. Once. Back when I thought loyalty meant something. Back when I believed talent was enough.”

Jeeny: sighs softly, folding her arms “You’re not alone in that mistake. Everyone starts believing it’s a family — until the money stops coming in.”

Host: The lobby clock ticked softly in the background — a heartbeat for a dying illusion. The air smelled of cologne, spilled champagne, and the faint echo of conversations that had meant nothing.

Jack: “I used to think I had a team. People who believed in me. But the moment the numbers dropped, the calls stopped. Suddenly everyone was too busy ‘restructuring.’”

Jeeny: glances sideways at him “That’s the business, Jack. It feeds on energy — the second yours dips, it finds another spark to burn.”

Jack: dryly “That’s poetic, Jeeny. You should write for their PR teams.”

Jeeny: smirks faintly “I’ve had offers.”

Host: A small silence followed — not cold, but thick with mutual recognition. The kind of silence that only exists between two people who’ve both been used and discarded by the same machine.

Jeeny: “You know what Matarazzo meant, though. It’s not cynicism — it’s clarity. She wasn’t warning about business itself; she was warning about the illusion of belonging inside it.”

Jack: “Belonging,” he scoffs. “That word doesn’t belong here. You can’t belong in a place that’s designed to sell you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why it’s dangerous. The moment you start thinking they care, they own you.”

Host: The rain outside picked up again, hammering softly against the glass, as if the world itself was reminding them that the night didn’t care who was famous, forgotten, or fading.

Jack: “You ever notice how everyone in this business pretends to be a family? ‘We’re a team,’ they say. ‘We’re in this together.’ Until something goes wrong — then suddenly, it’s your fault, your failure, your problem.”

Jeeny: “Because accountability doesn’t sell, Jack. Image does.”

Jack: “So what do we do? Stop trusting altogether?”

Jeeny: “No. We just stop expecting care where there’s only contract.”

Host: Her words cut through the air with calm precision — sharp enough to wound, true enough to heal. Jack turned to her, searching her face, as though he wanted to disagree but found no place to land his anger.

Jack: “That’s a lonely way to live, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “It’s an honest one. Loneliness hurts less than betrayal.”

Jack: leans back, stares at the ceiling “You always sound like you’ve already made peace with this.”

Jeeny: “I haven’t. I just stopped expecting humanity from systems that don’t have souls.”

Host: Her eyes glimmered in the light, not from tears, but from the raw clarity that comes only when disillusionment becomes wisdom. Jack exhaled slowly, a cloud of smoke curling from his lips like something he’d been holding too long.

Jack: “You know, I used to think success meant being seen. Now I think it’s just about not getting swallowed.”

Jeeny: “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said tonight.”

Jack: laughs quietly “You think it’s funny?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s real. There’s power in realizing no one’s coming to save you. That’s when you finally start acting for yourself.”

Host: The rain softened again, its rhythm now a kind of strange comfort. The bar on the far end of the lobby had gone dark. A maid wheeled by a cleaning cart, her steps echoing faintly through the emptiness.

Jack: “It’s crazy, isn’t it? We spend years building networks, chasing connections — only to find out that the only real connection that matters is the one between who you are and what you’re willing to stand for.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Everyone in this business is replaceable — until they’re not. And the only thing that makes you irreplaceable is integrity. But that’s the one thing people sell first.”

Jack: “You didn’t.”

Jeeny: shrugs “I almost did. Once. Then I realized that the moment I compromise what I believe for what they promise — I become them.”

Jack: “And you’re not one of them.”

Jeeny: smiles softly “No. I’d rather starve with truth than feast on lies.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full — of something fragile, human, and quietly defiant. Jack looked down at his glass, then pushed it aside, as if tired of its false comfort.

Jack: “You ever wonder if there’s still room in this business for people like us? People who still believe in art, not algorithm?”

Jeeny: “There’s always room, Jack. It’s just harder to find. The rooms with soul are smaller — but they’re real.”

Jack: “And the others?”

Jeeny: “Noise. Expensive noise.”

Host: The rain had finally stopped. Outside, the streets shimmered with thin films of light, like a painting that hadn’t quite dried. Jack stood, slipping on his coat, his expression softer now — tired, but somehow lighter.

Jeeny rose too, adjusting her scarf, her eyes following him with quiet affection.

Jack: “So that’s the trick, huh? Keep your circle small. Maybe even empty.”

Jeeny: “Not empty. Just honest.”

Jack: nods slowly “And if no one in that circle cares?”

Jeeny: “Then you care enough for yourself — until you meet someone who does.”

Host: The camera would have followed them then — out through the glass doors, into the wet street, where the city blinked like an exhausted giant trying to stay awake. They walked side by side, their shadows stretching long across the pavement.

The night no longer felt cruel — just real. And in that raw, cold reality, there was something almost holy:
the understanding that in a world that profits from pretending to care, true authenticity is the last rebellion left.

Because, as Heather Matarazzo said — at the end of the day, no one cares.

But sometimes, when you stop needing them to — you finally start to.