If people think I'm angry, I don't want to burst anybody's

Host: The club was nearly empty, its lights fading into a low amber haze. A lone neon sign flickered above the bar, humming softly like an electric sigh. The sound of a distant saxophone leaked from the speaker, a tune that was half sorrow, half smoke.

Jack sat in the corner booth, a half-empty glass before him, the ice melting slowly into the last drops of whiskey. His jacket hung loose, shirt collar undone, a shadow of fatigue clinging to his face. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her eyes gleaming under the dim light — calm, steady, but carrying a quiet fire.

Outside, the rain whispered against the windows, tracing silver threads down the glass.

Jeeny: “Grace Jones once said, ‘If people think I'm angry, I don't want to burst anybody's bubble. I like sometimes for people to be afraid of me. But it's not really anger; it's discipline.’ What do you think of that, Jack?”

Jack: “I think she’s right. Fear can be a tool. People respect what they fear. Discipline is just fear you learn to aim properly.”

Host: The bartender wiped a glass, pretending not to listen. A ceiling fan rotated lazily above, stirring the smell of tobacco and regret through the room.

Jeeny: “That’s a dangerous way to see it. Fear doesn’t create respect. It creates distance. You can’t lead through intimidation forever.”

Jack: “Maybe not forever. But sometimes it’s the only language people understand. Grace knew that — the world didn’t give her room to be soft. So she made her strength loud enough to be heard.”

Jeeny: “Strength isn’t volume, Jack. It’s presence. You can be calm and still command the room. Discipline doesn’t need to roar.”

Jack: “You ever worked with people who only move when they’re scared? Try leading a team of soldiers, or traders, or even construction men. Fear isn’t cruelty; it’s structure. It’s what holds chaos in place.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, each word like a hammer striking a nail. His eyes gleamed with that cold logic he always wore like armor. Jeeny watched him, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass, her thoughts deep as the night outside.

Jeeny: “Grace Jones wasn’t talking about control, Jack. She was talking about self-control. People thought she was angry because she was powerful — and power in a woman still scares the world. Her discipline wasn’t to frighten others. It was to protect her own fire from being smothered.”

Jack: “Or maybe it was both. Maybe she learned that to protect your fire, you have to make the world afraid to touch it.”

Host: The rain intensified, tapping the windows like impatient fingers. The city lights beyond blurred into streaks of gold and blue, like paint melting off the night.

Jeeny: “You think discipline and anger are the same?”

Jack: “No. But they come from the same place — control. Anger is when you lose it. Discipline is when you hold it so tight it starts to look like rage to everyone else.”

Jeeny: “That’s poetic, but also tragic. Discipline shouldn’t make you frightening. It should make you free.”

Jack: “Freedom’s overrated. You can’t build anything lasting if everyone’s free to feel however they want. Look at armies, look at orchestras — order makes beauty possible.”

Jeeny: “But not fear. Fear kills beauty. You can’t make music if everyone’s terrified of the conductor.”

Host: The lights flickered briefly. A bus roared past outside, shaking the windowpanes. The two sat in its aftermath — silence pressing down between them like a held breath.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? People pretend they want gentle leaders, but they follow the ones who scare them. History proves it — Alexander, Napoleon, Steve Jobs. None of them smiled their way to greatness.”

Jeeny: “And how many of them died alone, Jack? How many were loved for who they were, not feared for what they could do?”

Jack: “You’re confusing leadership with popularity.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m separating fear from respect. The two look similar from a distance, but up close, fear leaves scars.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice rose — not loud, but clear, cutting through the thick air of the room. Her eyes glimmered like molten bronze, her words steady but burning.

Jeeny: “Grace Jones didn’t want to be feared. She wanted to be understood. But since the world didn’t try to understand her, she used their fear to carve space for her truth. That’s discipline — not anger, not control — endurance.”

Jack: “Endurance needs edge. You think she could’ve survived the industry if she walked in with a smile and patience? No chance. She became the storm before the world drowned her in silence.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but the storm doesn’t rage forever. The strongest storms also know when to calm. That’s the difference between anger and mastery.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the leather seat creaking beneath him. His hand brushed over the glass, pushing it aside. A faint smile played on his lips — not of mockery, but of surrender to thought.

Jack: “You always see the softness in the storm, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Because that’s where the truth lives. Grace’s strength came from balance. She wasn’t hiding anger — she was shaping it. Like a sculptor with marble. The world saw fury; she saw focus.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what discipline really is — focused fury. You take the chaos inside you, trim it, mold it, make it useful.”

Jeeny: “That’s closer. But it’s not about making chaos useful. It’s about not letting it use you.”

Host: The bartender switched off the radio, and the sudden silence filled the bar like thick fog. The last of the rain slowed to a drizzle. The two sat in stillness — just breath, memory, and the faint scent of smoke.

Jack: “You know, I used to be that kind of angry. Thought it made me sharp. Thought people worked better when they feared me.”

Jeeny: “And did they?”

Jack: “They worked. But they never stayed.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about fear — it commands obedience, not loyalty.”

Jack: “And discipline?”

Jeeny: “It earns both. Because real discipline isn’t control over others. It’s control over yourself.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, his fingers tapping the table — a rhythm half guilty, half alive. His eyes softened, the steel giving way to a flicker of understanding.

Jack: “You think maybe Grace wasn’t warning us — maybe she was teaching us. That you can be fierce without being cruel. That people can mistake calm strength for anger because they don’t understand what inner order looks like.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. People confuse peace for passivity, and discipline for rage. But they’re just two ends of the same thread — one burns, one builds.”

Host: The lights dimmed completely now. Only the faint glow of the streetlamp outside slipped through the window, painting their faces in soft amber.

Jack: “So maybe it’s not bad to let people think you’re angry — as long as you know what you’re really holding.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the goal isn’t to be liked, it’s to be whole. Grace wasn’t feared because she was angry; she was feared because she was free.”

Host: The saxophone began again — slow, deliberate, haunting — as if the night itself had decided to applaud the conversation. Jack stood, dropped a few bills on the table, and looked toward the door.

Jack: “Freedom disguised as fury. I can live with that.”

Jeeny: “Just don’t mistake your armor for your skin.”

Host: He paused, glanced back, and for a brief moment, his grey eyes softened — a flash of something almost tender. Then he stepped into the rain, the door swinging shut behind him.

Jeeny remained in the booth, watching the raindrops slide down the window, catching the light in small, fleeting bursts.

And as the music faded, the world seemed to whisper its verdict —
True strength is never the absence of fire; it’s knowing when to let it burn, and when to let it light the way.