I really believe you can predict when someone has a great

Host: The office floor had emptied long ago, leaving behind only the sound of humming lights and the faint buzz of a city that refused to sleep. Outside, the skyline glowed in distant silver and amber, the pulse of human ambition flickering in glass towers.

Inside, amidst half-drunk cups of coffee and the paper ghosts of unfinished dreams, two figures remained — Jack and Jeeny.

Jack sat at the head of the long conference table, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, the kind of posture that comes not from comfort but from surrender. Jeeny stood by the window, her reflection framed against the dark glass, holding a folder like it contained something fragile and necessary.

The clock on the wall ticked without hurry, unbothered by the lives racing beneath it.

Jeeny: Quietly. “Taylor Hackford once said, ‘I really believe you can predict when someone has a great attitude, a real well of talent.’”

Jack: Without looking up. “Predict, huh? He must’ve never worked in recruitment.”

Jeeny: Smiles faintly. “It’s not about resumes or interviews. It’s about instinct — the kind of energy someone carries before they even prove themselves.”

Jack: “Energy doesn’t deliver results. Skill does.”

Jeeny: “But where do you think skill begins? You can teach technique. You can’t teach hunger.”

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him. His eyes, grey and sharp, caught the faint glow of the city’s reflection. He rubbed his temples as if her words were a headache he didn’t want to admit to.

Jack: “You sound like one of those motivational posters — ‘Attitude is everything!’ You know what attitude gets you in the real world? Burnout.”

Jeeny: Turns from the window, voice calm but sure. “And what does cynicism get you?”

Jack: “A paycheck. A realistic sense of the world. And the comfort of never being disappointed.”

Jeeny: “That’s not comfort, Jack. That’s paralysis.”

Host: The air tightened between them. The overhead lights hummed louder, filling the silence that followed like white noise in a hospital corridor.

Jeeny: “You don’t actually believe talent is something you can measure on paper, do you?”

Jack: “Of course I do. That’s what performance reports are for. That’s what experience is. Metrics, not mysticism.”

Jeeny: “Then explain Mozart.”

Jack: Pauses. “Mozart?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. He didn’t have metrics. He had music. Before anyone taught him structure, he already knew it. He wasn’t predictable — he was inevitable.”

Jack: Smirks. “And for every Mozart, there are a million amateurs who think they’re geniuses because they feel something.”

Jeeny: “And for every cynic who ignores potential, there’s a dream you never see bloom.”

Host: The window light caught the glint of Jeeny’s eyes as she stepped closer. Her voice softened, but each word landed with quiet gravity.

Jeeny: “You can’t predict greatness by looking for perfection. You predict it by recognizing the way someone refuses to quit — even when no one’s watching.”

Jack: Sighs, lighting a cigarette. “You talk like faith’s a business strategy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it should be.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: Nods. “No, but it makes the rent worth paying.”

Host: A long pause. The clock ticked, marking the time like an old judge listening to their debate. Jack exhaled slowly, the smoke curling toward the ceiling, twisting like the shape of something unspoken.

Jack: “You want to know what I’ve learned after fifteen years managing people? Talent’s cheap. It’s everywhere. But the world doesn’t care unless you can prove it.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. The world feels talent before it sees it. That’s what Hackford meant. You can predict greatness when you sense that spark — not in what they’ve done, but in who they are.”

Jack: “And what exactly does that look like, Jeeny? Enlighten me. What does a ‘spark’ look like?”

Jeeny: Leans forward, eyes steady. “It looks like you, Jack — before you stopped believing.”

Host: Her words hit the air like a dropped glass — clean, sharp, irretrievable. Jack froze, the cigarette trembling between his fingers.

Jack: Low voice. “You think I stopped believing?”

Jeeny: “I know you did. You used to be that person — the one with the impossible ideas, the one who’d fight anyone who said ‘that’s not how things work.’ What happened?”

Jack: After a long pause. “Life happened. Deadlines. Politics. The kind of failure that doesn’t teach you — just wears you down.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you stopped seeing what Hackford was talking about. The difference between people who have talent and people who have a well of it — a source that doesn’t dry out, no matter how much the world takes.”

Host: The lights above them flickered once, like a heartbeat returning to rhythm. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, his tone shifting — lower, thoughtful, almost vulnerable.

Jack: “So you’re saying you can predict greatness by faith alone?”

Jeeny: “Not faith. Perception. You can feel it when someone’s alive in what they do. When work isn’t a task, it’s a translation of their soul.”

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe talent is the closest thing we have to proof of something divine — that the universe leaves fingerprints inside certain people.”

Host: Jack went silent. His eyes drifted toward the window again — toward the city pulsing with lights, each window holding another life, another possibility. His reflection stared back at him, ghostly and tired, yet faintly illuminated by something old and familiar.

Jack: Quietly. “You know… there was this intern years ago. Barely twenty. She had no degree, no experience, but she stayed late every night. I thought she was wasting her time — until one day, she brought me a proposal that outperformed the entire department. She didn’t know the rules, so she broke them. That’s how she saw what the rest of us couldn’t.”

Jeeny: Smiles. “And you didn’t predict that?”

Jack: Shakes his head, laughing softly. “Not in the slightest.”

Jeeny: “But she proved Hackford right, didn’t she? That you can feel real talent — not through credentials, but through conviction.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe attitude is the prophecy.”

Host: The city lights shimmered outside — small, constant, pulsing like a symphony of unspoken ambition. Inside, the room had softened. The tension had melted into reflection.

Jeeny walked back to the window, resting her hand lightly against the glass. The city stretched endlessly before her, vast and full of unnamed stories.

Jeeny: “You can’t predict the future, Jack. But you can predict the kind of people who’ll build it. They’re the ones who care enough to try, even when no one’s clapping.”

Jack: Smiling faintly. “And you think I still have that in me?”

Jeeny: “I don’t think. I know.”

Host: The clock ticked one last time, marking the end of something quiet — the end of resignation, perhaps. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, stood, and crossed to the window beside her.

Together, they looked out at the world — a sea of possibility glowing through glass and fog.

Jack: Softly. “Maybe it’s not about predicting greatness. Maybe it’s about remembering what it looks like when it’s in front of you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera pulled back, capturing the two silhouettes framed by light and shadow — the realist and the dreamer, the skeptic and the believer — both staring at the same city with different eyes but the same hope.

Outside, the night deepened, and the lights flickered on across the skyline like a thousand small hearts beating in unison — a quiet proof that somewhere, in someone, greatness was already beginning to glow.