I have always been an honest trader. I come from a school of

Host: The city was dimming, its streets washed in the golden residue of a departing sun. The sky above the river docks shimmered with smog and orange light, a canvas of industry and melancholy. Inside an old warehouse, the air carried the smell of oil, coffee, and dust. A single bulb swung gently above a wooden table, where two figures sat — Jack and Jeeny — their voices echoing faintly against the metal walls.

Jack leaned back, his hands clasped, grey eyes catching the faint glow. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair cascading over a faded coat, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. Between them, a small recorder blinked red — silent, waiting.

Jeeny: “You know, Alan Sugar once said something that stuck with me: ‘I have always been an honest trader. I come from a school of traders where there was honour in the deal. No contracts, just a handshake and that’s it. That’s the way I prefer to do business, but it’s not always possible these days.’”

Jack: “Honour in the deal.” (He smirks faintly.) “That sounds like a fairy tale now, Jeeny. In this world, a handshake isn’t worth the skin it’s made on. People lie, cheat, and smile while doing it. Contracts are the only honesty left.”

Host: The bulb flickered, casting a wavering shadow over Jack’s jawline. Outside, the river groaned as a ship horned in the distance.

Jeeny: “You really think trust has died, Jack? That we’ve become so cynical, we need paper to make promises real?”

Jack: “Not cynical — just awake. Look around you. We live in a time where even charity has a contract clause. Remember that scandal with the foundation last year? Millions in donations, but buried beneath ten pages of fine print about ‘rights to publicity.’” (He laughs dryly.) “So much for honour.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not everyone. There are still people, still businesses, that trade on faith — on reputation, not signatures. My father used to run his shop that way. No receipts. No lawyers. Just handshakes and trust. And he never once got cheated.”

Jack: “Then your father was lucky. Or living in a smaller world. Maybe people were different then. But scale up that shop to a corporation, and you’ll find out quickly how fast ‘trust’ turns into litigation.”

Host: The wind outside picked up, rattling the metal door. The lamp swayed, scattering light like shattered glass over their faces.

Jeeny: “Maybe the world grew too big for honour. But that doesn’t mean honour stopped mattering.”

Jack: “It means honour stopped working. The world used to run on personal stakes — you looked a man in the eye, and his word meant something because his name did. But now, we deal through screens, emails, and corporations with no faces. You can’t shake hands with an algorithm.”

Jeeny: “But we built those algorithms, Jack. We made this world — and we can make it better. If we stop believing in honesty, how do we ever hope to rebuild it?”

Host: A moment of silence filled the room. The lightbulb buzzed. The city hum seeped in through the cracks, like a heartbeat under concrete.

Jack: “You want to rebuild it with faith? Good luck. Look at history. The 2008 financial crash — all because people trusted the system too much. Banks shook hands behind closed doors, selling lies dressed as gold. Every handshake came with a hidden knife.”

Jeeny: “And yet after it all, some people did stand by their word. Some paid back debts they didn’t legally owe, because it felt right. That’s the part you always miss — not everyone is corrupt.”

Jack: (Leaning forward, his voice low.) “But enough are. Enough to make the rest of us build walls instead of bridges.”

Host: The lamp above them swayed again, throwing a halo over Jeeny’s face. Her eyes were dark, glistening — like a storm waiting.

Jeeny: “You talk about walls as if they protect us, Jack. But walls don’t just keep danger out — they keep trust out too. And without trust, what’s the point of dealing, trading, or even living?”

Jack: “The point is survival. Business isn’t friendship, Jeeny. It’s war with nicer stationery.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s human. That’s what Sugar meant. A deal, at its best, isn’t just about goods — it’s about respect. Two people looking each other in the eye and saying, ‘I see you. I believe you.’ That’s the heartbeat of trade, of society itself.”

Jack: “Respect doesn’t pay the bills when someone walks away with your money.”

Jeeny: “And suspicion doesn’t build a world worth living in.”

Host: Her voice cracked slightly — not from weakness, but from a tiredness that came from hope repeatedly bruised. Jack’s eyes softened, if only for a second.

Jack: “You still think handshakes can fix the world?”

Jeeny: “Not handshakes. Honour. The thing we’ve forgotten how to price.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked loudly. A draft slipped under the door, lifting a few papers from the table — contracts, unsigned, fluttering like white birds in the dim air.

Jack: “Tell me, Jeeny — how would you survive today, running a business with only honour? No lawyers, no papers. Just your word.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I wouldn’t survive. But maybe survival isn’t the only measure. Maybe it’s better to lose clean than win dirty.”

Jack: (With a grim smile.) “That’s poetic. But try telling that to the guy whose life savings are gone because someone he ‘trusted’ shook his hand and disappeared.”

Jeeny: “And try telling that to the man who wins every deal but loses his soul. What’s the worth of success if you can’t look in the mirror?”

Host: The tension thickened — like smoke curling between them. The light blinked, steady then dim. Outside, a car horn wailed, fading into the distance.

Jack: “You know, once, I did it your way. No contracts. Just a handshake. A small partnership deal, years ago. I trusted the guy — he’d been my friend since college. We agreed to split profits fifty-fifty. First year went fine. Then one day, I came to the office — and my name was off the door. My shares gone. He’d filed everything under his own name. Legally clean, morally filth.”

Jeeny: (softly) “I’m sorry.”

Jack: “Don’t be. It taught me what the world is.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it taught you to see only the worst of it.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand reached across the table, hovering near his but not touching. The space between their fingers felt heavy — a fragile bridge of memory and pain.

Jeeny: “Jack, honour doesn’t live in others. It lives in us. You can’t control what they do, but you can choose who you are.”

Jack: “And if that makes you the fool in every deal?”

Jeeny: “Then you’re the fool who can still sleep at night.”

Host: A small laugh escaped him — the kind that sounded more like surrender than humour. The tension melted slightly, replaced by a quiet understanding.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve built too many walls. But tell me honestly — would you still trust a handshake if it could cost you everything?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the cost of not trusting anyone is far greater.”

Host: Outside, the river lights began to shimmer. The city had quieted. The warehouse was now just a shell of light and echoes.

Jack: (after a long silence) “You know, Sugar wasn’t wrong. There was honour once. Maybe not everywhere, but enough to matter. Maybe that’s what I miss.”

Jeeny: “Then bring it back, Jack. In your way. Even if it’s rare — honour only dies when we stop acting like it exists.”

Host: The recorder’s light blinked off. The bulb hummed one last time before going dark, leaving them in the faint silver of the moon filtering through a cracked window.

Jeeny: (whispering) “Maybe that’s the real deal, Jack — not one we sign, but one we live.”

Jack: (nodding, voice softer now) “A handshake with yourself.”

Host: The camera panned back — the two figures silhouetted against the moonlit warehouse, hands finally meeting in the half-dark. No paper, no ink — just a moment of shared truth in a world too accustomed to doubt.

Outside, the wind slowed, and the river reflected the moon like a coin resting in an open palm — silent, timeless, and whole.