In the best works of fiction, there's no mustache-twirling

Host: The theater was dark except for one lonely spotlight burning onstage, a single circle of light cutting through dust and memory. The seats — red velvet, faded with time — stretched into the shadows like rows of quiet witnesses. From somewhere beyond the curtain, the faint hum of traffic filtered in, the distant rhythm of a city that had forgotten how to sleep.

Jack sat at the edge of the stage, his hands clasped, his suit jacket thrown over a chair, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his brow. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, holding a crumpled script. The light caught her hair, turning it into threads of bronze.

They had just finished watching the rehearsal of a new play — one that ended, as most truths do, without heroes or villains.

Jeeny: “Lin-Manuel Miranda once said, ‘In the best works of fiction, there’s no mustache-twirling villain. I try to write shows where even the bad guy’s got his reasons.’”
Her voice echoed softly through the empty hall, blending with the hum of the lights above. “I think that’s what makes stories real, don’t you? When no one’s purely evil. When everyone’s just… human.”

Jack: “Human?”
He snorted softly, the sound caught between cynicism and fatigue. “That’s a nice word for complicated cruelty.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s the right one. Because cruelty without reason is fantasy. But pain with purpose — that’s tragedy. Miranda’s right. The best stories live in the gray.”

Host: The light above them flickered, a brief shadow crossing their faces. It was the kind of light that makes everything feel more true.

Jack: “You really believe there’s a reason for every monster?”

Jeeny: “Not a justification. A reason. Even monsters are born from something — neglect, hunger, fear. Every villain starts as someone who wanted to be understood.”

Jack: “Tell that to history.”

Jeeny: “History’s full of people who thought they were heroes, Jack. Maybe that’s the problem — too many people convinced of their own purity.”

Jack: “And too few willing to admit they’re broken.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick with memory. The theater air held a trace of sawdust and smoke, the ghosts of old performances. Somewhere backstage, a light clanged off, and the darkness crept closer.

Jeeny: “Why do you think we crave villains in stories?”

Jack: “Because they make life simpler. You draw the line, point, and say, That one’s wrong. It’s comforting. But the truth? We all cross that line. Every day.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe storytelling isn’t about drawing the line — it’s about erasing it.”

Jack: “Or at least blurring it enough that we have to look twice.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”
Her eyes glimmered, full of firelight and thought. “Miranda’s characters — even the flawed ones — they bleed. They dream. That’s what pulls you in. You don’t hate them. You recognize them.”

Jack: “Recognition doesn’t mean forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the beginning of empathy.”

Host: The spotlight hummed, the faint buzz of electricity filling the quiet. The stage floor gleamed faintly under its glow, catching the scuffs and scars of countless rehearsals. Jack looked down, tracing a line in the dust with his boot.

Jack: “You ever wonder if maybe empathy’s overrated?”

Jeeny: “Never.”

Jack: “It’s dangerous. Empathy makes you hesitate when you should fight. Makes you doubt when you should condemn.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It keeps you from becoming what you’re fighting. Empathy is resistance to simplicity.”

Jack: “Simplicity’s underrated. The world would be quieter if we stopped trying to understand every villain.”

Jeeny: “But quieter isn’t better. Silence has killed more people than hate ever did.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, sharp but sorrowful, like music played in a minor key.

Jack lifted his head, his eyes catching the light for the first time. There was something vulnerable there — the kind of look that comes from carrying too much history in the chest.

Jack: “You think understanding evil redeems it?”

Jeeny: “No. It explains it. And that’s the first step to preventing it. If we don’t understand what creates villains, we just keep making them.”

Jack: “So every crime, every cruelty — just a misunderstanding?”

Jeeny: “No. But understanding where pain begins helps us stop where it ends.”

Host: A draft swept across the stage, stirring the dust into brief, shimmering life under the spotlight. The script in Jeeny’s hands fluttered, like a bird testing its wings.

Jeeny: “The play we just watched — I loved how the antagonist wasn’t evil. He was desperate. He did something terrible, but you saw why. You could almost feel his pulse.”

Jack: “I didn’t like that ending.”

Jeeny: “Because he didn’t die?”

Jack: “Because he didn’t repent.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he didn’t know how. Maybe that’s more honest.”

Jack: “You want honesty in art, Jeeny, but the audience wants justice. They don’t want to walk out wondering if they’re the villain too.”

Jeeny: “But they should.”
Her voice rose, just slightly — not in anger, but conviction. “The best art holds up a mirror, not a weapon. It doesn’t punish — it reflects.”

Jack: “Mirrors lie.”

Jeeny: “Only if you refuse to look.”

Host: The light dimmed, then returned brighter — as if awakening to the gravity of their words. The sound of rain could be heard again, soft against the roof, steady as thought.

Jack: “You really think every bad guy’s got a reason?”

Jeeny: “I think every bad guy was once a good person who didn’t get rescued in time.”

Jack: “And every good person?”

Jeeny: “One wrong decision away.”

Jack: “That’s bleak.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s mercy.”

Host: The record player clicked, and a soft jazz melody began to hum — fragile, imperfect, human. Jack leaned back, the weight in his shoulders easing as he watched the spotlight shift across the stage.

Jack: “So stories aren’t about good versus evil.”

Jeeny: “No. They’re about understanding how thin the line really is.”

Jack: “And maybe crossing it — just far enough to see the other side.”

Jeeny: “That’s where truth lives, Jack. In the middle.”

Host: The theater fell silent, the light fading to a pale glow. The stage now looked like an empty confession booth — haunted, honest, still.

Jack turned to Jeeny, his voice low, thoughtful. “Maybe that’s why fiction matters more than reality. It reminds us that no one’s born a villain — they’re written that way.”

Jeeny: “And maybe it reminds us we can rewrite them — and ourselves.”

Host: The light above flickered one last time before going out, plunging the stage into darkness. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but silence — deep, breathing, infinite.

Then, softly, the rain returned — steady, rhythmic, like the applause of the unseen.

And somewhere in that darkness, Jack and Jeeny sat — not heroes, not villains, just two souls wrestling with the truth that art had whispered since time began:

that the line between good and evil is not drawn in blood — but in understanding,
and the greatest stories are the ones brave enough to let both sides speak.