No one escapes the long arm of the law, they are a business, they

Host: The night was wet, the kind of darkness that shines — slick streets, neon signs bleeding through mist, the distant sirens echoing like a tired hymn. Down by the docks, where the city’s pulse slowed and its secrets slept, a dim streetlight flickered above a narrow warehouse alley. The smell of rain and rust hung in the air, thick and metallic.

Jack stood beneath the light, collar turned up, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The smoke rose like confession. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the cold brick wall, her black coat drenched but her eyes unwavering — deep brown, sharp as memory.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The city around them hummed — restless, indifferent, alive.

Finally, Jack broke the silence.

Jack: “You know what Chris Eubank Sr. said once? ‘No one escapes the long arm of the law. They’re a business. They’re very good at what they do, and eventually, they’ll catch up with you.’”

Jeeny: “And you believe him?”

Jack: “I’d be a fool not to.”

Host: The rain tightened, tapping like fingers on tin. Somewhere nearby, a train horn cried — low, mournful, as if the whole world were warning them to run faster.

Jeeny: “You sound afraid.”

Jack: “Not afraid. Just realistic. You spend enough time in this city, you learn the law doesn’t chase justice — it chases debt.”

Jeeny: “Debt?”

Jack: “Yeah. Every man owes something — money, loyalty, silence. The law’s just the accountant making sure the books balance.”

Jeeny: “You think they’re that calculated?”

Jack: “They have to be. Justice isn’t blind — she’s just very good at keeping her eyes on the numbers.”

Host: The light above them buzzed, then steadied, casting half their faces in gold, the other half in shadow. A gust of wind scattered an old newspaper across the puddles — the ink bleeding, the headlines dissolving into nothing.

Jeeny: “You’ve seen too much, Jack. You talk about the law like it’s a machine.”

Jack: “Because it is. The badge, the court, the judge — all cogs. You break one, another spins faster.”

Jeeny: “But machines are built by people. People can choose mercy.”

Jack: “Mercy’s not profitable.”

Host: Her eyes narrowed — not in anger, but in sorrow. The rain slipped down her cheek like a tear that didn’t belong to sadness but to truth.

Jeeny: “You’re talking like someone who’s already given up.”

Jack: “Given up? No. I just stopped pretending the law was ever holy.”

Jeeny: “Then what is it to you?”

Jack: “A business. Like Eubank said — efficient, relentless, and always collecting what’s owed.”

Jeeny: “But there’s still right and wrong.”

Jack: “Sure. But they’re seasonal. Like fashion. They change depending on who’s paying the bills.”

Host: The silence between them deepened, the sound of rain now a steady heartbeat. Somewhere far off, a police siren wailed — brief, sharp, vanishing into distance.

Jeeny took a step closer.

Jeeny: “You can’t outrun guilt forever, Jack.”

Jack: “I’m not running from guilt. I’m running from paperwork.”

Jeeny: “That’s not funny.”

Jack: “I wasn’t joking.”

Host: The faint glow from the streetlight caught the glint of something in his coat — not a gun, not a weapon, but an envelope, thick, creased, important.

Jeeny’s gaze fell on it.

Jeeny: “What’s that?”

Jack: “Insurance.”

Jeeny: “Against what?”

Jack: “Against the long arm catching up too soon.”

Jeeny: “You can’t bribe fate, Jack.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But I can negotiate time.”

Host: He flicked his cigarette into the puddle, where it hissed like a dying secret. The smoke curled up one last time before disappearing.

Jeeny: “You know, you talk like the law’s some monster, but it’s made of the same stuff as us — fear, power, and a little bit of hope.”

Jack: “Hope?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Hope that people can change. Hope that truth can still mean something.”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t pay the rent, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. But lies don’t build homes either.”

Host: The rain eased slightly, replaced by the faint hiss of tires on wet asphalt. A police cruiser passed by at the far end of the alley — its blue lights flickering briefly across their faces. Jack’s expression didn’t change, but his jaw tightened.

Jeeny: “You think they’re looking for you?”

Jack: “They’re always looking for someone. Tonight, it might be me.”

Jeeny: “And if they find you?”

Jack: “Then I’ll tell them the truth.”

Jeeny: “Which truth?”

Jack: “The one they can afford.”

Host: Her eyes searched his — not for lies, but for the man she remembered. The one who once believed in justice, in fairness, in something beyond survival.

Jeeny: “When did you stop believing in the good guys?”

Jack: “When I realized the good guys still file expense reports.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. The law can still be good — it’s just flawed.”

Jack: “Flawed? No. It’s efficient. That’s worse.”

Host: A flash of lightning tore the sky in half. For a moment, the world turned white — and in that light, both of them looked older, smaller, painfully human.

Jeeny: “You think they’ll really catch you?”

Jack: “Eventually. They always do. The law’s like time — slow, patient, but undefeated.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when they do?”

Jack: “Maybe then I’ll finally stop running.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that’s when you’ll start living.”

Host: She reached out, her hand brushing his arm — a gesture small but loaded with the kind of meaning only silence can hold. Jack didn’t pull away.

Jack: “You really think redemption’s still an option?”

Jeeny: “It’s always an option. The law punishes. But redemption — that’s self-inflicted.”

Jack: “And forgiveness?”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t the law’s business. It’s ours.”

Host: The rain began again, softer now, almost merciful. The streetlight above them flickered its final pulse before dying, leaving only the dim glow of the distant city to guide them.

Jack looked at her — tired, haunted, but not without something like hope.

Jack: “Maybe Eubank was right. Maybe no one escapes the law. But maybe that’s not the worst thing.”

Jeeny: “Why not?”

Jack: “Because maybe getting caught is the only way to stop hiding.”

Jeeny: “And start telling the truth?”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe.”

Host: They stood there — two silhouettes in the rain, the hum of the city swallowing their voices. Somewhere behind them, the faint wail of a siren returned, growing louder, closing in.

Jack turned to her one last time.

Jack: “If they ask, tell them I didn’t run.”

Jeeny: “You won’t need me to tell them that.”

Host: The camera panned up slowly, catching the flash of blue lights at the end of the street — reflection shimmering in every puddle, painting the wet concrete in color and consequence.

And in that moment, before the inevitable, the city seemed to hold its breath — suspended between guilt and grace.

Because in the end, Chris Eubank Sr. was right —
no one escapes the long arm of the law.
But sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch yourself first.