I suppose there's an anger in all of us. Some hidden rage that

Host: The night had fallen hard over the city, the kind of darkness that swallowed sound and left only the faint hum of streetlights trembling in the fog. A bar sat tucked in the corner of an old alley, its flickering neon sign half-dead, half-beating — a heart still refusing to stop. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, music, and the quiet murmur of lonely people drinking to stay awake.

In the farthest booth, under a shadow that the light seemed to avoid, sat Jack, his hands wrapped around a glass of whiskey, his eyes distant — reflecting both the drink and the ghosts. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her cocktail slowly, her finger tracing the condensation down the glass, her gaze sharp and alive.

Between them lay a napkin, scrawled with a single quote, ink bleeding slightly into the paper like a wound still fresh:

“I suppose there's an anger in all of us. Some hidden rage that you keep at bay.” — Dominic Cooper

The words sat there like a confession neither wanted to own.

Jeeny: “He’s right, you know. Everyone’s angry about something. Even the quiet ones. Especially the quiet ones.”

Jack: “Anger’s just energy with nowhere to go. Some people turn it into art. Others turn it into war.”

Jeeny: “And what do you turn it into?”

Jack: “Cynicism.” He smirked faintly, then drank. “It’s safer that way. Easier to keep it intellectual than explosive.”

Jeeny: “That’s not control, Jack. That’s containment. You don’t extinguish fire by trapping it in glass — you just wait for it to suffocate you.”

Host: The bartender turned up the old record player, and the room filled with the low hum of a blues guitar, the sound curling around their silence. Smoke drifted lazily through the air, turning the dim light into something liquid, like old honey.

Jack: “You say that like rage is something noble. Like it deserves to be freed.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it does. Anger’s honest. It’s the part of us that refuses to accept the world’s indifference. Every revolution, every act of change, started as rage.”

Jack: “And every massacre too. Don’t glorify it, Jeeny. Rage doesn’t build — it burns.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the point is to learn how to burn without destroying.”

Jack: “No one’s that precise.”

Jeeny: “But we can try. Anger isn’t the enemy — apathy is. Anger means you still care.”

Host: The light caught her face, turning her eyes into twin embers. Jack looked at her — long, quiet — as though he were studying a flame he’d forgotten how to touch without getting burned.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s never been consumed by it.”

Jeeny: “You talk like someone who has, and didn’t know what to do after.”

Jack: “You think anger can be tamed by philosophy?”

Jeeny: “No. Only by compassion.”

Jack: “That’s naïve.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s necessary. Anger’s just pain wearing armor. If you strip away the armor, what’s left is the wound. And wounds, Jack… wounds only heal when they’re seen.”

Host: The rain began outside, soft at first, then heavier — a percussion against the glass that matched the rhythm of their words. Jack’s jaw tightened; a faint tremor flickered in his hand as he lifted his drink again.

Jack: “You know what scares me most? That the rage isn’t temporary. That it’s part of me — buried under politeness and small talk and routine. A constant hum under the skin. Some people pray, others drink. I work. I talk. I pretend. But it never really goes away.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not supposed to. Maybe anger isn’t a disease — maybe it’s the body’s way of saying something still matters.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a compass.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Pointing toward the thing we’ve buried deepest.”

Host: Thunder cracked distantly. The bar lights flickered. A woman laughed somewhere near the jukebox, the sound both warm and lonely.

Jack: “You think there’s purpose in rage?”

Jeeny: “I think there’s truth in it. Anger shows us where we’ve been silenced. It’s the voice that says, this was wrong. Without it, we’d accept anything.”

Jack: “But living in it corrodes you.”

Jeeny: “Only if you refuse to listen to what it’s trying to tell you.”

Jack: “And what if it’s not saying anything — just screaming?”

Jeeny: “Then you stay until the screaming turns into words.”

Host: The rain hit harder now, steady and relentless. The neon sign outside flickered again — the red glow spilling through the window, painting their faces in blood-colored light. Jeeny’s expression softened, almost sorrowful.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to be angry all the time. At the world, at men, at myself. I thought it made me strong — like the pain was proof of meaning. But then I realized it wasn’t strength; it was armor. And armor doesn’t let love in.”

Jack: “So what did you do?”

Jeeny: “I stopped fighting the anger. I started listening to it. I realized it was just fear — fear of being unseen.”

Jack: “And did it stop?”

Jeeny: “No. But it changed shape. Became something quieter. Something alive.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lingered on her — a long look, unguarded. He seemed to want to say something but couldn’t find the words. His fingers tapped against the table — slow, rhythmic, like counting something he could no longer measure.

Jack: “You’re lucky. Mine doesn’t change shape. It just… sits there. Like a dog chained in the dark, waiting to bite.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not rage you fear. Maybe it’s grief.”

Jack: “What’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Grief cries because it lost something. Rage screams because it still wants it back.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy — not with tension, but recognition. The rain slowed, thinning into mist. The bartender began cleaning glasses, the soft clink of glass on wood marking the slow return of normal time.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to kill your anger, Jack. You just have to forgive it.”

Jack: “Forgive my anger?”

Jeeny: “Yes. It was trying to protect you, in its own broken way.”

Host: He didn’t answer. He just nodded — once, barely — the kind of gesture that meant I hear you, even if I can’t believe it yet.

Outside, the fog lifted slightly, revealing the wet pavement, gleaming under the city’s half-light. Jeeny stood, pulling her coat tight, her eyes still soft with something like empathy, or perhaps exhaustion.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe Dominic Cooper was right — we all carry that hidden rage. The question isn’t how to bury it. It’s how to walk with it without letting it lead.”

Jack: “And how do you do that?”

Jeeny: “By remembering what it was born from — love. Because only love can make us that angry.”

Host: She walked toward the door, her silhouette swallowed by the glow of the streetlight outside. Jack sat alone now, the glass half-empty, the quote still on the napkin before him.

He looked at it one last time — the ink bleeding in the damp air, the words now blurred, alive, human.

He smiled — small, tired, true.

Jack: “Some hidden rage,” he murmured. “Maybe it’s not the rage that needs to be cured — maybe it’s the hiding.”

Host: The rain began again, light as a whisper. The neon light pulsed one final time before fading.

And in that quiet — that sacred, suspended quiet — the truth lingered like smoke in the air:

Every soul carries its fire.
The wise do not extinguish it —
they learn to see by its light.