I was writing a scene where a guy was choking another guy to

Host: The night was cold and silent, broken only by the faint hum of a computer screen. A dim lamp flickered in the corner of the room, casting shadows that moved like ghosts across the walls. The rain outside drummed softly against the window, each drop a tiny heartbeat of time.
Jack sat at his desk, leaning forward, his hands hovering over the keyboard, his grey eyes lit by the pale glow of the monitor. Jeeny stood behind him, her arms crossed, her dark hair falling over her face, her eyes sharp and troubled.

Host: The air between them was dense, as if filled with the electricity of an unspoken argument. On the screen, a video played—two fighters, one choking the other, their bodies tense, their faces straining, the moment between life and unconsciousness captured in pixels and sound.

Jeeny: “You’re really watching this for your script?”

Jack: “For accuracy, yes. I’m writing a scene where one man chokes another to death. I want it to feel real. You can go online and see everything now—every movement, every sound. YouTube’s a library of the human condition.”

Jeeny: “A library or a graveyard, Jack? You’re studying the act of killing like it’s a dance move.”

Jack: “It is a kind of choreography, Jeeny. Violence, fear, death—they have their own rhythm. Writers used to imagine it. Now we can observe it. Isn’t that better?”

Host: Jeeny walked to the window, her reflection blending with the rain. She pressed her fingers against the glass, as though trying to feel the world outside through its cold surface.

Jeeny: “You’re not observing, Jack. You’re consuming. There’s a difference. When you watch a man collapse, when you hear the noise of someone losing breath, you’re not just collecting data—you’re participating in his pain. Don’t you see that?”

Jack: “No, I’m studying it. That’s what writers do. Doctors study disease, historians study wars, artists study death. It’s not immoral, it’s necessary.”

Jeeny: “But where’s the line, Jack? Between understanding and voyeurism? Between empathy and exploitation?”

Jack: “There is no line anymore. The internet erased it. Every atrocity is documented, every scream archived, every moment of suffering turned into content. I didn’t make the world this way—I’m just using it to tell the truth.”

Host: The lamp flickered, as though reacting to his words. The sound of the rain grew louder, thickening the silence that followed. Jack’s jaw was tight, his eyes cold, but somewhere beneath that steel, there was weariness—a shadow of something broken.

Jeeny: “And what truth is that? That humanity is a species of spectators? That we can only feel something when we watch someone else suffer?”

Jack: “That we’re curious, Jeeny. That’s our curse and our gift. You think the people who filmed the Holocaust were monsters? No—they were historians of horror, making sure it was seen. Without those images, half the world would still deny it ever happened.”

Jeeny: “But they weren’t uploading it for clicks. They were bearing witness, not selling it.”

Jack: “And maybe the difference is only intent, not effect. The camera doesn’t know morality. It just records.”

Host: The room was now only half lit, the screen’s glow the single source of light. It illuminated their faces in contrasting hues—Jack’s in cold blue, Jeeny’s in soft amber, like two different species arguing under the same moon.

Jeeny: “But you’re writing about death, Jack. Not a sunset, not a city, but a man losing his life. Doesn’t that require more than accuracy? Doesn’t it require a soul?”

Jack: “A soul doesn’t make a story real—detail does. If I want the reader to feel the panic of being choked, I have to know what that panic sounds like, looks like, feels like. Otherwise, it’s fake. And fake art is worse than cruel art.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing realism with truth, Jack. Just because something is accurate doesn’t mean it’s honest.”

Jack: “And just because something is moral doesn’t mean it’s true.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked—a small, steady metronome to their discord. The rain had turned to drizzle, and the city lights outside were blurry, as though the world itself had smudged.

Jeeny: “When I was a child, I saw a documentary about war. There was a scene—a boy, maybe eight, holding his brother’s body in his arms. I couldn’t sleep for days. That image still haunts me. It didn’t teach me about war, Jack—it scarred me.”

Jack: “And yet, you remember it. It shaped you. That’s the power of truth. It hurts, but it stays. If that scene didn’t exist, you’d never have felt the horror. Sometimes trauma is the price of understanding.”

Jeeny: “But at what cost? You’re turning real suffering into material. A death becomes a lesson, a scream becomes a sound effect. That’s not understanding—that’s appropriation.”

Jack: “Maybe. But if pain isn’t shared, it’s wasted. Every artist who’s ever written about tragedy has borrowed someone’s pain. Shakespeare did it. Tolstoy did it. I’m just doing it with better reference footage.”

Host: Jeeny turned, her eyes wet, her voice breaking with quiet rage. The lamp light flickered across her face, revealing both anger and grief.

Jeeny: “Do you even hear yourself? You’re talking like empathy is a tool, not a gift. Like suffering is something to be used, not something to be felt.”

Jack: “It is something to be used, Jeeny. If you don’t use it, it just destroys you.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s supposed to hurt. Maybe that’s what keeps us human.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what keeps us weak.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the ghost of every unspoken truth. Jack’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, then fell away. The video still played—a man collapsing, his body twitching, then stillness. The sound was muted, but the motion was enough.

Jeeny stepped forward, clicked the screen off, and the room was swallowed in darkness—only the rain outside remained.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? I think we’ve become archivists of suffering. We record, we store, we study—but we no longer feel. YouTube, TikTok, films—they’ve made us all observers. No one bleeds anymore; they just upload.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s how we cope. Maybe this is evolution—to watch instead of die.”

Jeeny: “That’s not evolution. That’s escape.”

Jack: “And maybe escape is the only freedom we have left.”

Host: A long pause. The sound of the rain softened, fading into a whisper. Jack’s face was tired, his shoulders slumped. Jeeny’s expression had lost its anger, replaced by a deep, tender sadness.

Jeeny: “I don’t hate what you’re doing, Jack. I just wish you’d remember that behind every detail you research, there’s a heartbeat that once stopped. Every tutorial, every clip, every noise—it’s not just data, it’s a human story.”

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve been writing about death so long, I forgot about the life around it.”

Jeeny: “Then write that. Write the breath before the choke, the silence after. That’s where the truth is.”

Host: The lamp glowed once more, softer this time, as though it had forgiven them. The screen stayed dark, but in its reflection, both their faces were visible—two silhouettes bound by the same light, the same search for meaning.

Host: Outside, the rain finally stopped. A single drop slid down the window, leaving a trail like a tear. Jack looked at Jeeny, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jack: “Maybe truth and empathy are just two ways of looking at the same pain.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s learn to see it together.”

Host: And with that, the room fell quiet, the storm over, the night holding its breath—as if the world itself had paused between observation and feeling, between violence and understanding.