I've got a bad attitude.

Host: The gym lights hummed, cold and steady, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The smell of sweat, iron, and adrenaline filled the air. Outside, the city was still half-asleep—the kind of early dawn where the world holds its breath before the day begins.

Jack sat on a bench, his hands wrapped in tape, his knuckles bruised and red. He stared at the floor, chest rising and falling in slow, measured anger. Jeeny leaned against the wall, arms folded, her hair pulled back, her eyes sharp and unafraid.

The sound of a punching bag swinging in the corner punctuated the silence, like a metronome counting down to something inevitable.

Jeeny: “You’ve been here all night again.”

Jack: “Can’t sleep.”

Jeeny: “So you fight the walls instead?”

Jack: “Better than fighting people.”

Host: The light above them flickered. A dull thud echoed as Jack drove another punch into the air, like a man trying to hit the ghost of a memory.

Jeeny: “What are you trying to prove, Jack?”

Jack: “Nothing. I’ve just got a bad attitude.”

Host: The words hung there—half sneer, half confession. His voice was low, heavy with the kind of fatigue that comes from carrying one’s own rage too long.

Jeeny: “Greg Hardy said that once. After he lost another fight. People laughed, called him arrogant. But you sound more tired than proud.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, it’s not arrogance when it’s true. Some people are just wired wrong, Jeeny. You ever feel that? Like you were built with too much heat and not enough grace?”

Jeeny: “I feel it. I just learned to turn the heat into something that doesn’t burn everyone else.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s a choice.”

Host: Jack laughed, short and bitter. The sound echoed against the bare walls, swallowed by the cavernous emptiness of the gym.

Jack: “Choice. You think this is a choice? You think I want to be angry all the damn time?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because somewhere in that anger, you still feel alive. You’d rather burn than fade.”

Jack: “You think this is about fire? It’s about survival. You grow up fighting for everything, and after a while, that’s the only way you know how to live.”

Host: His hands trembled slightly as he sat, elbows on knees. The sunlight began to break through the high windows, tracing gold lines on his shoulders—like light trying to reach a man who refused to look up.

Jeeny: “You survived, Jack. But you never learned how to stop fighting.”

Jack: “That’s because stopping gets you killed.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Stopping lets you heal.”

Jack: “Healing’s for people who believe they deserve it.”

Host: The silence that followed was sharp, heavy enough to cut through the thick air. Jeeny didn’t move. She just watched him—really watched him—the way one studies a wounded animal, afraid to reach, but unable to walk away.

Jeeny: “You know, I’ve met people like you before. In hospitals, in courts, in locker rooms. They all said the same thing—‘I’ve got a bad attitude.’ But what they really meant was, ‘I’m afraid of what I’d be without it.’”

Jack: “Fear’s a good motivator.”

Jeeny: “So is love. So is peace. But you don’t trust those.”

Jack: “They don’t last.”

Jeeny: “Neither does anger.”

Jack: “At least anger doesn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

Host: The gym door creaked as a draft blew in. A torn poster on the wall fluttered—a photo of an old boxing champion, arms raised, face battered but smiling. The man looked victorious not because he won, but because he’d survived the beating.

Jeeny: “You worship the wrong gods, Jack.”

Jack: “No. I worship the only one that never let me down—control.”

Jeeny: “That’s not control. That’s fear dressed in armor.”

Jack: “Then maybe I like the armor.”

Jeeny: “Because it hides the wounds?”

Jack: “Because it makes me look invincible.”

Host: He looked up at her then—his eyes cold steel under the buzzing light. There was something raw in them, like a storm that had forgotten how to end.

Jeeny: “You don’t scare me, you know.”

Jack: “That’s because you don’t know what I’m capable of.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s because I know exactly what you’re capable of—and I know you’re wasting it.”

Jack: “Wasting it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. You keep fighting ghosts, punching at shadows, bleeding for things that don’t hit back. You’ve got the kind of fire that could light the world, Jack—but you keep using it to burn yourself.”

Host: The words hit him harder than any punch. His shoulders slumped, and for a moment, the fighter looked like a man again.

Jack: “You think I can change that?”

Jeeny: “Not think. Know.”

Jack: “And what, just turn soft? Start smiling at strangers? That’s not me.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can aim your fury at something that deserves it. Build with it. Defend with it. That’s what people like you were born for.”

Jack: “You talk like anger’s a tool.”

Jeeny: “It is. It’s only poison when you drink it instead of using it.”

Host: A heavy silence settled. The rain had started outside, faint against the windows, like a slow applause from the night itself.

Jack: “You ever think maybe people like me don’t belong in quiet rooms? Maybe the world needs the ones who never calm down.”

Jeeny: “The world doesn’t need calm, Jack. It needs direction. Even a bad attitude can become purpose if you learn to steer it.”

Jack: “You think I can?”

Jeeny: “I think you already are. You’re just afraid to admit you care about where it leads.”

Host: He stood, rolling his shoulders, testing the soreness in his arms. His face softened—not in defeat, but in recognition.

Jack: “You know... every time I throw a punch, I hear my old coach saying, ‘Control your rage before it controls you.’ I used to laugh at him. Thought control was weakness.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think maybe he meant control is power—the kind that doesn’t destroy what it touches.”

Jeeny: “Then stop hitting the air. Hit the truth.”

Host: Jack looked at the bag, still swaying slightly. He steadied it with his hand. Then, with slow precision, he threw one final punch—not out of fury, but focus. The impact was solid, clean, disciplined.

Jack: “That felt... different.”

Jeeny: “That’s what peace feels like. You just mistook it for boredom.”

Host: The rain outside had turned soft, like whispers against the glass. Jack unwrapped his hands, the tape falling away, revealing old scars—some healed, some still raw.

Jeeny stepped closer, her voice quieter now.

Jeeny: “You don’t have a bad attitude, Jack. You just have a good heart that’s been trained to flinch.”

Jack: “You think so?”

Jeeny: “I know so.”

Host: He nodded slowly, his eyes distant but gentler, like the storm inside him had finally lost some of its thunder.

Jack: “Maybe tomorrow, I’ll try sleeping instead of fighting.”

Jeeny: “Maybe tomorrow, you’ll find something worth fighting for.”

Host: The sun began to rise through the gym’s high windows, golden light spilling across the dusty floor. The punching bag hung still now, quiet and dignified—like a fighter who had finally learned when not to swing.

In the stillness, the world didn’t seem to need a bad attitude anymore. It just needed a man learning, slowly, how to stop apologizing for having a heart that hits hard and heals harder.