It was impossible to operate in the aluminium business without

Host: The night pressed heavy over the industrial outskirts of the city. The factory lights burned with a pale orange haze, casting long shadows across piles of scrap metal and oil drums. The air smelled of grease, rain, and faint smoke — the scent of survival. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, the sound sharp as broken glass.

Inside a warehouse, a single lamp hung low, swinging slightly in the draft. The light cut through the darkness, falling on a battered wooden table where Jack sat — his coat damp, his grey eyes cold and calculating. Jeeny stood across from him, her arms folded, her hair wet from the rain, the reflection of the city’s broken skyline glimmering in her eyes.

Between them, written on a torn piece of newspaper, were the words:
“It was impossible to operate in the aluminium business without krysha — very real physical protection.”
— Roman Abramovich.

Host: The quote hung between them like a loaded gun — not philosophical this time, but visceral, grounded in reality. The kind of truth born in steel, fear, and necessity.

Jeeny: “So this is what it takes, huh? To survive in that kind of world — to build an empire out of metal and money and threats.”

Jack: (lighting a cigarette) “Survive? No, Jeeny. To win. There’s a difference. You don’t rise in the aluminium business — or any business — without a krysha. Not then. Not now. Call it protection, insurance, or partnership. It’s the price of power.”

Jeeny: “The price of fear, you mean. You make it sound noble, Jack, but it’s extortion, violence, and silence pretending to be strategy.”

Jack: “It’s reality. When a system’s rotten, the only law left is force. You don’t pay a krysha, you invite chaos. One wrong move, and your factory burns, your workers disappear, your family mourns. That’s not immorality — that’s survival economics.”

Host: The lamp flickered. Dust swirled in the air like drifting ash. Jack leaned back, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that curled upward, blurring the edges of his face. Jeeny’s jaw tightened.

Jeeny: “But where does it end, Jack? How far can you go justifying corruption as necessity? People said the same thing about the mafia, the cartels, the warlords. That they were just ‘filling a void.’ But every time, it’s the innocent who pay.”

Jack: “And every time someone tries to be pure in a dirty system, they end up dead. Idealism is a luxury built on someone else’s muscle.”

Jeeny: “That’s your excuse — that strength is the only truth?”

Jack: “Not the only truth. Just the only one that doesn’t get shot.”

Host: The wind whistled through a cracked windowpane. Somewhere, a piece of metal clanged to the ground — sharp, echoing, like punctuation. Jeeny stepped closer, her eyes blazing, her voice trembling with both anger and pity.

Jeeny: “You think fear builds anything real? You think empires made of guns and contracts last? Look at the Soviet oligarchs — they built kingdoms out of steel and oil, but every one of them ended up with a knife at his throat. You call that survival?”

Jack: “It’s not about forever. It’s about the next move. About keeping the flame alive long enough to make the next deal. You think Abramovich or any of them wanted the world that way? They just played the board they were given. Without krysha, there’s no business — just prey.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the board needs to burn.”

Jack: “And who lights the match? You?”

Host: The room seemed to tighten, the lamp swinging slightly as if caught in their tension. Jeeny’s breathing quickened, her fingers curling against her palms.

Jeeny: “Someone has to. You can’t keep telling yourself the game is inevitable. The moment you stop believing in change, you’ve already surrendered to the rot.”

Jack: “And the moment you believe the world will change just because you wish it — you become its victim.”

Jeeny: “Not if you fight differently.”

Jack: (snorts) “Differently? Without money, without muscle, without fear? The only people who fight that way are the ones buried without a name.”

Host: A long pause stretched — thick, heavy. The rain slowed. The factory hum softened into the distance. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, his eyes glinting like cold steel under the light.

Jeeny: “You think I don’t understand the world you describe? I grew up in it, Jack. I saw my father lose his job because he refused to pay for ‘protection.’ I saw men come to our house at midnight, breaking things — breaking him. But he still said, ‘I won’t be part of that.’ And I believed him. Because someone has to.”

Jack: “And what did it get him?”

Jeeny: “Dignity.”

Jack: “Dignity doesn’t feed you. Doesn’t keep the fire burning.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it keeps the soul alive.”

Host: The air between them crackled like an old wire, humming with conflicting truths. Jack’s face softened, a hint of exhaustion bleeding through his hardened logic.

Jack: “You always talk about souls, Jeeny. But souls don’t build factories. Souls don’t pay workers. Souls don’t keep criminals off your back.”

Jeeny: “No. But they remind you why you build at all.”

Jack: (quietly) “To survive.”

Jeeny: “To live.”

Host: The lamp swayed harder now, its light slicing through the shadows in rhythmic motion — like a heartbeat, uncertain but alive. The smoke had thinned, leaving the air raw and clear. Jack stood, pacing slowly, his boots echoing on the concrete floor.

Jack: “You talk like there’s a third option — a clean way to play in a dirty world.”

Jeeny: “There is. It’s called refusing to play their way. History proves it. Every time power tries to make fear the foundation of order, someone rises who says no. And that’s when things begin to change.”

Jack: “Name one that lasted.”

Jeeny: “Mandela. Gandhi. Navalny. People who faced systems that made yours look like a schoolyard fight. And they fought with conviction, not contracts.”

Jack: “And half of them ended up imprisoned or dead.”

Jeeny: “And still undefeated.”

Host: Jack stopped walking. His silhouette froze in the edge of the light, caught between shadow and gold. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then — slowly — his shoulders dropped.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what I never understood. You fight for purity, not for victory.”

Jeeny: “They’re not opposites, Jack. Sometimes purity is the victory.”

Host: The rain finally stopped. Outside, the faint glow of the dawn began to break through the smog, streaking the skyline with pale silver. The warehouse felt less like a bunker now — more like a confession.

Jack: “So what happens when the world’s full of men like me?”

Jeeny: “Then it takes one more person like me to remind them there’s another way.”

Host: The light touched her face, catching the faint shimmer of tears in her eyes — not of weakness, but of conviction. Jack looked at her — the rain-soaked hair, the trembling hands, the unbroken spirit — and for the first time, he didn’t argue. He simply nodded, the smallest gesture of surrender.

Host: The lamp flickered one last time, then went out. The morning light spilled through the cracks in the walls, cold but real, cutting through the darkness that had held them.

In the stillness, the words on the newspaper remained — harsh, unapologetic, true.

“It was impossible to operate in the aluminium business without krysha — very real physical protection.”

Host: But now, beside that truth, another hung in the air — silent, invisible, but just as real:
Even in a world built on fear, there are still those who refuse to make it their foundation.

And that refusal — quiet, stubborn, human — is its own kind of krysha.