He who angers you conquers you.

Host: The train station was nearly empty, except for the echo of rolling wheels, the distant clang of metal, and the slow drip of water from a leaking roof. The clock above the platform blinked 11:58 p.m., its red digits glowing like the last embers of a dying fire.

Jack sat alone on a bench, his coat pulled tight, a faint steam rising from his coffee cup. He looked like a man who had fought something unseen and lost — not in the body, but in the spirit. Jeeny stood a few paces away, her hands in her pockets, her breath visible in the cold air, watching him with quiet concern.

The lights flickered overhead, painting the floor with shifting pools of gold and shadow.

Jeeny: “You know what Elizabeth Kenny said once? ‘He who angers you conquers you.’”

Jack: He let out a dry laugh. “Sounds like something fortune cookies should start printing.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a fortune, Jack. It’s a warning.”

Host: The train rumbled faintly in the distance — not yet visible, but close enough to make the floor tremble. Jack tilted his head, his jaw tightening, his eyes fixed on the dark tunnel ahead.

Jack: “So if I get angry, I lose? That’s the rule?”

Jeeny: “Not lose. You surrender. The moment someone makes you angry, they’re inside your head — steering you.”

Jack: His voice was low, deliberate. “You think anger is surrender? No, Jeeny. It’s control. It’s power. It’s the one thing that keeps you from getting crushed.”

Jeeny: “That’s what every tyrant tells himself.”

Host: Her words landed sharp — like the echo of a distant bell. Jack turned toward her, eyes narrowing, as if her calmness itself offended him.

Jack: “You think it’s easy to stay calm when people lie to your face? When they cheat you, insult you, humiliate you? What are you supposed to do — smile?”

Jeeny: “No. You’re supposed to know who you are so deeply that their ugliness doesn’t pull you down to their level.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But naïve. The world doesn’t reward calm; it exploits it. You stay still long enough, someone will take everything from you — your job, your pride, your place. Anger’s the only way to show them you’re not made of air.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Anger shows them exactly how to control you.”

Host: The sound of the arriving train grew louder, echoing through the tunnel like a beast waking. Its lights flickered against the damp walls, illuminating the worn faces of two people trapped between instinct and wisdom.

Jeeny stepped closer, her eyes steady but kind.

Jeeny: “You remember the story of Nelson Mandela, don’t you? Twenty-seven years in prison. He said the hardest part wasn’t the bars — it was learning not to let hatred eat him alive. He said, ‘If I didn’t leave my bitterness behind, I’d still be in prison.’ That’s what Kenny meant — if they can make you hate, you’re already theirs.”

Jack: “Mandela was a saint. The rest of us aren’t built that way.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t a saint. He was human. That’s what made it extraordinary. Anger’s a leash, Jack — and the tighter you pull, the shorter it gets.”

Host: The train screeched to a halt. A gust of air swept through, carrying the scent of oil, iron, and something bittersweet — nostalgia, maybe. The doors opened with a hiss, but neither of them moved.

Jack: “You really think peace is power?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it’s harder. It takes strength to not react.”

Jack: “You call that strength? I call it paralysis.”

Jeeny: “No. Paralysis is when anger freezes your reason. When you forget what you’re fighting for because you’re too busy fighting someone.”

Host: The speaker crackled overhead — a voice announcing the last departure. The station seemed to hum with expectation, as though waiting for one of them to move first.

Jack: “So you’d just let people walk over you, huh? Never fight back?”

Jeeny: “Oh, I fight. But I choose the battlefield. And anger — that’s their terrain, not mine.”

Jack: His voice softened, but his eyes still burned. “You talk like you’ve never been provoked.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I have. I’ve been lied to, betrayed, humiliated. But the moment I reacted, I realized I was no longer me — I was what they wanted me to be. That’s how they win, Jack. Not by hurting you — but by turning you into them.”

Host: The train doors began to close. The wind picked up again, lifting strands of Jeeny’s hair, carrying her words like fragments of truth through the dim station. Jack reached out instinctively, stopping the door with his hand — but not to leave.

He turned back to her, voice trembling with something raw.

Jack: “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t wake up every day hating how easy it is for people to get under my skin?”

Jeeny: Quietly. “Then stop giving them the key.”

Host: A silence fell, deeper than before. The train pulled away without them, leaving the two in the echo of its departure — two souls suspended in the hollow heartbeat of the empty station.

Jeeny sat down beside him, her hands folded.

Jeeny: “You remember that protest last year? The one where people stormed the square? Do you remember the man who started the riot — the one who threw the first bottle?”

Jack: Nods slowly. “Yeah. They said he was provoked.”

Jeeny: “No. He was conquered. One word, one shove — and the whole movement lost its meaning. That’s how thin the line is between resistance and ruin.”

Jack: “So what, Jeeny? We’re supposed to feel nothing? Just swallow it all?”

Jeeny: “No. Feel everything. But don’t let the feeling choose your direction. Anger’s a flare — it shows you there’s injustice. But if you chase it, it burns you blind.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor tiles, where a small puddle reflected the flickering light above them.

Jack: “It’s strange, you know. Every time I lose my temper, I think I’m winning something — respect, dominance, control. But afterward…”

Jeeny: “Afterward, you feel smaller.”

Jack: Whispering. “Yeah.”

Host: Jeeny reached over, gently placing her hand on his. The gesture was simple, but it carried the weight of understanding that words could never hold.

Jeeny: “That’s what Kenny saw, Jack. That anger doesn’t just make you fight someone — it makes you fight yourself. And that’s a war you never win.”

Host: The clock ticked to midnight. Outside, the last train horn echoed through the tunnels, fading into the distance. The station lights dimmed slightly, as if exhaling.

Jack looked at Jeeny, his eyes softer now, less storm and more dawn.

Jack: “You think peace means letting go of pride?”

Jeeny: “No. It means protecting it. Real pride doesn’t need to shout.”

Host: He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that hides both sorrow and release.

Jack: “So if they can’t anger me…”

Jeeny: “…then they can’t control you.”

Host: The camera would rise slowly now, revealing the two figures sitting side by side in the half-lit station — the world quiet, the anger gone, only the hum of the rails beneath them.

Outside, a light drizzle began to fall, dotting the empty tracks with tiny ripples of reflection.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — the real conquest isn’t over others. It’s over yourself.”

Host: He looked at her for a long moment, and for once, said nothing. The silence between them wasn’t defeat — it was peace.

As the rain continued to fall, the station clock clicked forward, marking the quiet victory of one who had finally learned that the most dangerous conqueror is not the one who attacks —
but the one who knows how to provoke.

And the greatest defense, as Elizabeth Kenny whispered through time,
is simply not to hand them your soul when they demand your anger.