In the military, they give medals for people who are willing to

Host: The sun had long set, leaving the industrial skyline bathed in cold fluorescent light. Through the windows of a high-rise office, the city below pulsed with neon veins — cars crawling like insects through the metal arteries of commerce. The room smelled faintly of coffee, anxiety, and the quiet echo of ambition.

Jack sat at a long conference table, his tie loosened, a half-empty glass of whiskey beside a stack of reports. His eyes were sharp, restless — the kind of eyes that had seen too many negotiations, too many late nights traded for smaller victories.

Across from him, Jeeny stood by the window, her hands resting on the glass as she stared down at the city lights — her reflection a ghost overlaying the world she refused to stop believing in.

Behind them, the glow of the screen saver filled the room with slow-moving color. The silence was that of people who had run out of excuses.

Jeeny: “Simon Sinek once said, ‘In the military, they give medals to people who are willing to sacrifice themselves so that others may survive. In business, we give bonuses to people who sacrifice others.’”

Jack: (a dry laugh escapes him) “Yeah, and in the real world, the ones who refuse to play that game get fired. Welcome to capitalism, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: (turning to face him) “You say that like it’s something to be proud of. Like cruelty’s become an acceptable form of efficiency.”

Jack: “It’s not cruelty. It’s necessity. The market doesn’t run on empathy — it runs on performance. If someone has to be cut so the company survives, that’s not sacrifice. That’s strategy.”

Host: The air conditioner hummed like a distant drone. A single fly buzzed near the light fixture, tracing frantic circles in the sterile glow. The city’s heartbeat outside seemed to sync with their argument — one steady, one broken.

Jeeny: “Strategy? You sound like a general defending friendly fire. People aren’t assets, Jack. They’re the reason the company exists.”

Jack: (coldly) “No, Jeeny. They’re the reason the company struggles. You think compassion keeps the lights on? You think loyalty pays salaries? The world rewards results — not intentions.”

Jeeny: (stepping closer, her tone sharpening) “Tell that to the soldiers who jump on grenades to save their team. Or to the nurses who worked through the pandemic, risking everything for strangers. You think they asked about profit margins first?”

Jack: “You can’t run a business like a battlefield. In war, emotion wins hearts. In business, it kills companies.”

Jeeny: (bitterly) “Then maybe that’s why business feels more like war every day.”

Host: A flicker of light from the street below cut across their faces — his tense, hers glowing with moral fire. The room smelled of exhaustion and paper and the faint burn of something intangible — like trust eroding.

Jack: “You’re comparing fantasy to reality. The military’s built on ideals — honor, duty, sacrifice. Business is built on outcomes. It’s ugly, but it’s honest.”

Jeeny: “Honest? You think greed’s honest? You think the CEO who lays off five hundred people for a bigger bonus is being honest? That’s not strategy, Jack. That’s cowardice wrapped in a suit.”

Jack: (his voice low, controlled) “And what would you have me do? Let the company crash so everyone loses their jobs? Sometimes you have to choose the lesser evil.”

Jeeny: (cutting in) “No. You choose not to make evil the only option.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked — a slow, steady reminder of time’s quiet cruelty. Jack poured another drink, the amber liquid catching the light like molten guilt.

He stared into the glass, as if the truth might dissolve in it.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, when I was a kid, my father worked at a steel plant. Twenty years there. Then one morning, the gates were locked. No severance. No warning. He came home silent. I swore I’d never be that powerless.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And you kept that promise — by becoming the man who locks the gates.”

Host: The words hit like a crack of thunder in the still air. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes flinched, but he didn’t speak. The city hum below filled the silence — an indifferent orchestra.

Jeeny: “You think you’re protecting yourself from what happened to him. But you’ve just changed the uniform. His silence was from loss. Yours is from guilt.”

Jack: (through clenched teeth) “You think guilt feeds anyone?”

Jeeny: “No. But it reminds us who we’re supposed to be feeding.”

Host: The rain began — gentle at first, then steady, streaking the windows with silver lines. Jeeny turned back toward the glass, watching the reflection of the city blur into something human again.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet — not angry anymore, but full of ache.

Jeeny: “There’s a story I read once — about a soldier in Afghanistan who threw himself on a grenade to save three others. He didn’t think. He just did it. His last thought wasn’t about reward or strategy. It was about people. That’s leadership, Jack. That’s what we’ve forgotten.”

Jack: (his tone softening, tired) “You can’t expect everyone to die for someone else.”

Jeeny: “No. But I expect leaders not to build their success on other people’s graves.”

Host: A long silence followed. The rain softened. The screensaver on the monitor faded to black, leaving only the dim hum of electricity — the kind of sound that feels almost like breathing.

Jack finally spoke — his voice stripped of defense, bare as truth.

Jack: “You know… when I approved those layoffs last quarter, I told myself it was for survival. That we’d save the company and rehire later. But when the bonuses came through — when I saw my name on that list — it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like betrayal.”

Jeeny: (gently) “That’s because it was. Not of them — of yourself.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as the building’s night cycle began. Outside, the rain eased into a thin drizzle, the streets below glistening like veins of glass.

Jack sat down heavily, elbows on the table, his face buried in his hands. For a moment, the weight of decades seemed to settle on him — ambition curdled into exhaustion.

Jeeny: (softly) “You can still change it, you know. It doesn’t have to end like this.”

Jack: “And what? Become a martyr? Sell my stocks and give speeches about ethics?”

Jeeny: “No. Just start leading like a soldier, not a survivor.”

Host: The words lingered — fragile, luminous, heavy. Jack raised his head, eyes tired but alive again, like someone waking from a long sleep.

He looked at Jeeny — not as an idealist anymore, but as someone who might be right.

Jack: “You think a company can really run on compassion?”

Jeeny: “Not on compassion alone. But without it, it dies from the inside out. Every empire does.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Maybe… maybe leadership was never about being first. Maybe it’s about being last to eat.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Now you sound like Simon Sinek.”

Host: A faint laugh escaped both of them — the kind that tastes like surrender and renewal at once. The storm outside had passed. The glass walls of the office shimmered with reflected light, and beyond them, the city glowed — imperfect, alive, enduring.

Jack picked up his glass, but instead of drinking, he poured the whiskey down the sink. Jeeny watched in silence, the act itself louder than any apology.

Jack: “Maybe tomorrow, I’ll start giving medals instead of bonuses.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Start by giving trust.”

Host: The camera pulled back — the two figures framed by glass and light, surrounded by the hum of machines and the faint rhythm of rain. Outside, the city breathed again, unaware of its small redemption.

And in that quiet moment — between guilt and grace — Simon Sinek’s words found their truth in motion:
that in the heart of every system built for profit, humanity can still learn to lead for one another — not above.