Having bodyguards is just part of being famous, I think.

Host: The nightclub had closed hours ago, but the neon lights still bled through the half-drawn blinds — streaks of purple, red, and electric blue painting the empty room in restless color. The air was thick with the scent of cologne, spilled whiskey, and silence — the kind that lingers after too much noise.

Outside, the city purred — engines, sirens, and the muted pulse of nightlife still awake. Inside, only two figures remained.

Jack sat in a booth near the back, a half-drained glass in front of him, his jacket thrown over the seat like a discarded skin. His eyes, sharp and tired, scanned the room as if the walls might move. A man in black stood near the exit — tall, impassive, built like caution.

Jeeny sat across from Jack, chin resting on her hand, her dark eyes soft with concern. The shadows of the booth wrapped around them, a small world inside a larger one — intimate but guarded.

Host: The clock above the bar ticked toward three a.m., the hour when truth starts sounding like confession.

Jeeny: “Dolph Lundgren once said, ‘Having bodyguards is just part of being famous, I think.’”

Jack: (smirking) “Yeah. Fame — the only prison where you pay for your own guards.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re not guards. Maybe they’re mirrors.”

Jack: “Mirrors?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Every famous person travels with reflections — reminders that danger follows attention.”

Jack: (leans back) “That’s poetic, but let’s call it what it is — paranoia. You can’t enjoy the view when you’re busy watching the shadows.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the shadows are the price of light.”

Host: The bodyguard near the exit shifted slightly, his earpiece glinting. The sound of distant traffic leaked through the door — a soft hum of other people’s lives still in motion.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? People think fame gives you freedom. But all it really gives you is fear — fear of strangers, fear of cameras, fear of losing the version of yourself everyone thinks they own.”

Jeeny: “So you build walls.”

Jack: “And hire men to stand in front of them.”

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that defeat the point of being known? Isn’t fame supposed to connect you to people?”

Jack: (laughs bitterly) “Connect? Fame doesn’t connect. It broadcasts. You become an image — a signal. People see the light, not the man holding it.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still wanted it.”

Jack: “Yeah. Like everyone else. Until I realized the spotlight burns colder than the dark.”

Host: The lights outside flickered, cutting across his face — half shadow, half glow, like a mask he couldn’t take off.

Jeeny: “So you’re saying fame is loneliness disguised as applause?”

Jack: “It’s worse. It’s exposure mistaken for intimacy.”

Jeeny: “You’re not wrong. But you know what’s tragic? You still talk about it like you miss it.”

Jack: “Of course I do. Everyone misses the illusion that they mattered.”

Jeeny: “You don’t need guards for that illusion, Jack. You need silence. You need distance.”

Jack: “And that’s what bodyguards really are — distance you can afford.”

Host: The bodyguard moved again, opening the door to let in a rush of cold air. It smelled of rain and gasoline and life beyond the glass.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wish you could walk down the street again without someone watching you?”

Jack: (quietly) “Every day.”

Jeeny: “Then do it.”

Jack: “It’s not that simple.”

Jeeny: “It is. You just forgot how to trust anonymity.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “Anonymity’s the only luxury fame doesn’t sell back to you.”

Host: A taxi honked outside. The sound seemed distant but sharp, cutting through the tension like a reminder that the world still spun without cameras.

Jeeny: “You know, I think bodyguards protect more than your body. They protect the myth. They keep you untouchable — literally and metaphorically.”

Jack: “You think I’m afraid of people touching me?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you’re afraid they’ll touch the wrong version.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but the truth in it hit like glass breaking quietly. Jack looked away, eyes fixed on the empty dance floor, where the neon lights still flickered across the polished wood.

Jack: “You’re right. The version everyone wants — the confident, charming, unbreakable one — that’s not me. But if I show them who I really am…”

Jeeny: “They stop clapping.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time you stop performing for applause.”

Jack: “Easy for you to say. You’re not living inside a lens.”

Jeeny: “No, but I live near one. And I’ve seen what it does — how it devours authenticity and spits out performance. But here’s the thing: you can’t keep people out without locking yourself in.”

Host: He didn’t respond immediately. The neon light pulsed again — red, then blue, then red. His reflection flickered in the bar mirror like a double exposure: the man and the myth, fighting for dominance.

Jack: “You know what I miss most?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Randomness. The ability to vanish. To just walk into a diner and not feel like a broadcast. Fame is an echo chamber — you only ever hear your own name.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe tonight, we start quiet. Just two people in an empty club. No cameras. No audience.”

Jack: (smiling) “And a bodyguard who’s pretending not to listen.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “Even ghosts need witnesses.”

Host: Their laughter broke the stillness for a moment — soft, human, unguarded. It felt like the first real thing all night.

Jack: “You know, Dolph Lundgren had it right. Bodyguards are part of fame. They’re like costumes — symbols of what you’ve earned and what you’ve lost.”

Jeeny: “Then the trick isn’t losing them. It’s remembering you don’t need them to be safe.”

Jack: “Or to be seen.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera panned slowly out through the fogged window — the city stretching vast and indifferent beneath the glowing signs. Inside, the two figures sat in a pool of neon light — one haunted by fame, the other by truth.

And as the last of the color drained from the scene, Dolph Lundgren’s words lingered like a quiet epitaph to the cost of recognition:

“Having bodyguards is just part of being famous, I think.”

Host: Because fame is not freedom —
it’s a cage with velvet walls,
where every echo of applause hides a heartbeat
longing to be unguarded again.