Keep cool; anger is not an argument.

Host: The office was a storm of silence after the meeting — the kind that follows words that hit too hard, too fast. Rain streaked the glass walls, its slow descent matching the rhythm of breathing that had just begun to steady again. The city lights outside blurred into trembling lines, like the world itself was exhaling.

The clock ticked, a dry, indifferent sound. Papers were scattered across the table — some crumpled, some still wet from spilled coffee.

Jack stood near the window, his jaw clenched, his hands still trembling slightly from an argument that had burned too bright. Jeeny sat on the edge of the conference table, arms crossed, eyes soft, watching him like a storm-watcher studying the last wave before calm.

Jeeny: “Daniel Webster once said, ‘Keep cool; anger is not an argument.’”

Jack: “You quoting philosophers now? Don’t tell me you think he actually believed that.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, still vibrating with the aftershock of emotion — that peculiar tone where logic tries to regain control over rage.

Jeeny: “He didn’t just believe it. He practiced it. He argued in front of Congress for decades — and he knew that fury might make a man sound strong, but it never made him right.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, maybe Webster never worked in an office where incompetence is an art form.”

Jeeny: “Oh, stop. You’re not angry because of them, Jack. You’re angry because you care too much and it didn’t go your way.”

Host: The rain tightened its rhythm, harder now, almost drumming — as if echoing his pulse. Jack turned, his eyes sharp, the grey in them flickering between defiance and shame.

Jack: “You think caring is the problem? I’m angry because I’m right. And watching people ruin good work with politics isn’t passion — it’s self-defense.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s fire without aim. You keep burning, but you don’t see what you’re burning down.”

Jack: “Oh, that’s poetic. So now you’re my conscience?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m your witness.”

Host: Her voice came out calm — too calm — like the moment when the storm realizes it’s already spent itself. Jack froze, fists unclenching, the air around him suddenly fragile.

Jeeny: “You think anger’s an argument, but it’s just noise. You throw it at the world hoping it’ll listen. But the world only listens when you whisper.”

Jack: “Whispering doesn’t move things, Jeeny. Anger does. You think civil rights were won through polite discussion? Gandhi, King — they all burned inside. You call it noise, I call it fuel.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But they turned that fuel into focus. Their anger served something greater. Yours is still looking for a master.”

Host: The lightning outside flashed, bright against the glass, painting their faces in white for a heartbeat. The office, once clinical, now felt like a stage of ghosts and truth.

Jack: “So I’m just supposed to stay calm while people walk over me?”

Jeeny: “No. You’re supposed to choose when to speak and how. Anger is fire — it cooks food or burns houses. That’s the choice.”

Jack: “And if they keep pushing?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep your cool. Because the minute they make you lose it, they win the debate. You know that, Jack. You’ve seen it.”

Host: Jack’s breathing slowed. He leaned against the window, forehead against the cool glass, watching the blurred headlights crawl through the night below. He looked like a man halfway between surrender and understanding.

Jack: “I used to think anger made me alive. At least it made me feel something. Silence feels too much like losing.”

Jeeny: “Silence isn’t losing. It’s power without waste. You just haven’t learned how to hold it yet.”

Host: The rain softened, the rhythm easing, turning into a whisper. The city lights re-emerged, clearer now, cleaner.

Jack: “You ever been so angry you can’t even speak?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And those were the moments I learned who I was.”

Jack: “And who was that?”

Jeeny: “Someone who realized that the world doesn’t bend to shouting. It bends to steadiness. To the one who can wait out the storm while everyone else drowns in it.”

Host: Jack turned slowly, meeting her eyes. There was no fight left, only tired clarity.

Jack: “You think I scared them today?”

Jeeny: “You didn’t scare them. You scared yourself. You saw how easily you can lose control — and that’s what really shook you.”

Jack: “Maybe you’re right.”

Jeeny: “I usually am.”

Host: A faint smile cracked the tension — small, unintentional, like sunlight sneaking through clouds that didn’t realize they’d parted.

Jeeny stood, walked to the window, and placed her hand on the glass beside his. The rain had thinned now to faint streaks, tracing paths that caught the city’s glow like silver threads.

Jeeny: “You know, Webster wasn’t trying to kill anger. He was trying to master it. There’s a difference. He knew emotion was power, but only if you can steer it.”

Jack: “So keep cool — but not cold.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Ice on the outside, fire inside. That’s the balance.”

Host: The office lights dimmed automatically, leaving only the city’s pulse to paint their faces. Jack exhaled, a long, quiet breath that sounded like surrender and relief in the same note.

Jack: “You ever think maybe anger is just grief with a mask?”

Jeeny: “It always is. And like grief, you can’t fight it — you have to understand it.”

Host: The clock ticked again, its sound softer now, no longer sharp but rhythmic — steady as heartbeat.

Jeeny picked up a paper from the table, smoothed it, and placed it neatly at the center — a silent symbol of order returning.

Jack: “You really think calm wins?”

Jeeny: “Not every battle. But every war.”

Host: The rain stopped, the window fogged with the faint warmth of their breath. The reflection of their faces looked almost the same now — the skeptic and the believer, both changed by the storm they’d survived.

The camera would have pulled back then, rising over the empty office — the two of them small but unbroken, framed by the city’s night.

Outside, a neon sign flickered, red and steady, like a pulse returning to rhythm.

Host: And in that fragile stillness, anger lost its argument — not through silence, but through understanding. The world, for once, was quiet enough to listen.