If you create something, you don't want someone else to go and

Host: The office was almost silent — the kind of quiet that only exists after midnight, when the city outside hums faintly like a sleeping beast. A fluorescent lamp flickered above, casting a pale light over stacks of papers, screens, and half-empty coffee cups. The rain hit the windows in rhythmic waves, blurring the skyline into abstract shapes.

Jack sat behind his laptop, his grey eyes lit by the glow of the screen. The lines of code reflected in his pupils, like a map of some secret war. Jeeny stood near the window, looking out, her reflection ghostly against the glass. Her arms were crossed, but her eyes — deep, brown, alive — were full of that fire that comes only when the heart meets injustice.

Jeeny: “You ever read what Kim Dotcom said about copyright? He said, ‘If you create something, you don’t want someone else to profit from it. You have your right to make a living and everything. So I respect copyright. What I don’t respect is copyright extremism. And what I don’t respect is a business model that encourages piracy.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Yeah. I read that. Makes sense — if you ignore the fact that Kim Dotcom built an empire on piracy.”

Host: His voice was low, the tone of a man who’s seen too much of the gray area between law and survival. The keyboard clicked like raindrops, precise and merciless. Jeeny turned, her shadow long across the floor, eyes narrowed not in anger, but in understanding.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it interesting. He’s not defending piracy. He’s condemning the system that creates it.”

Jack: “Oh, come on. That’s like a thief blaming the design of the window. People pirate because they want things for free.”

Jeeny: “Or because they’re locked out of access. Because the system makes art a luxury. You know how much it costs to stream music legally in some countries? More than some people make in a week.”

Host: The rain intensified, rattling the glass, as if echoing the tension in her voice. Jack finally looked up — his face sharp, eyes calculating, but with that glint of reluctant respect he always gave Jeeny when she made him think.

Jack: “So you’re saying stealing is justified if you can’t afford it?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying desperation has logic. The system turns art into a gated community, then acts surprised when people climb the fence.”

Jack: (leaning back, arms crossed) “That’s a nice metaphor. But someone still built that fence. Someone spent years making what’s inside it.”

Jeeny: “And they deserve to be paid. Absolutely. But not at the cost of creativity itself. right should protect artists, not corporations who hoard rights like dragons guarding gold they didn’t mine.”

Host: The lamp buzzed, its light flickering in rhythm with their words — two philosophies colliding in soft violence. Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers drumming against the table. Jeeny walked closer, her shadow merging with his.

Jack: “You think it’s all corporate greed. But what about the indie developer? The small musician? The writer who gets pennies for every sale because their work ends up on a torrent site the day it’s released? You call that justice?”

Jeeny: “Of course not. But copyright extremism — the kind he’s talking about — doesn’t protect them either. It punishes everyone. It’s like building a wall so high to keep out thieves that even the creators can’t see their own art anymore.”

Host: The air between them vibrated with conviction, the city lights pulsing faintly through the rain-streaked window. Jack stood, pacing slowly, his silhouette cutting through the pale light.

Jack: “Jeeny, you’re missing the point. Without rules, art dies. right isn’t the enemy — it’s the skeleton that keeps creativity standing.”

Jeeny: “And if the skeleton starts choking the body? What then?”

Host: The question hung, suspended, like smoke. Jack stopped pacing. His shoulders tensed, then dropped. He looked at her — really looked at her.

Jack: “Then maybe the system needs surgery. But not arson.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And maybe sometimes the fire is the only thing that gets people to rebuild.”

Host: The clock ticked, marking the slow passage of time. Outside, the city hummed, indifferent and eternal. Inside, the conversation deepened — the kind that leaves no one the same when it’s over.

Jack: “You know what the real problem is? Everyone talks about ownership, but no one talks about responsibility. You create something — fine. You own it. But what you create affects the world. It shapes thought, behavior, even belief. Ownership without responsibility is just vanity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And responsibility should go both ways. The corporations who own the distribution networks — they control culture now. They decide what gets heard, what gets seen. That’s not protection. That’s dictatorship through licensing.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a mist against the glass, like the city had grown tired of arguing. Jack walked toward the window, standing beside her. Their reflections stared back — two silhouettes in opposite philosophies, united by fatigue and truth.

Jack: “You think art should be free?”

Jeeny: “I think expression should be free. But artists should still eat. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Then what’s the solution?”

Jeeny: “Fair systems. Direct ones. Artists getting paid by the people who love their work, not by middlemen who’ve never created anything but contracts.”

Host: Jack gave a short, thoughtful laugh — the kind that meant he wasn’t conceding, but he was beginning to understand. The light reflected in his eyes again, this time softer.

Jack: “So you want a revolution.”

Jeeny: (grins) “I want balance.”

Host: The room was quiet again. Only the sound of the city — distant engines, the soft hum of neon, the whisper of tires through water. The tension had melted, leaving behind something quieter, almost hopeful.

Jack: “You know… maybe Kim was right. There’s a line between protecting what you’ve built and protecting your greed. The first is justice. The second is control.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And every time the second wins, we lose a little more of what makes art worth protecting.”

Host: Jack closed his laptop, the glow fading from his face. The office fell into a dim, intimate darkness. Jeeny stepped away from the window, her reflection dissolving into the night beyond.

Jack: “So — creators should have rights, but not walls. And the world should learn to pay for what it values.”

Jeeny: “And maybe learn to value what it doesn’t pay for.”

Host: The lamp flickered one last time, then went out completely. Only the streetlight outside remained, cutting a thin silver line across the floor, where Jack and Jeeny stood — two figures bound by light and shadow, reason and belief.

The rain stopped. The city sighed.

And in that fragile silence, their shared truth lingered — that creation is not about ownership or theft, but about the responsibility of making something that lives beyond you… without losing the right to live yourself.