People are famous for being famous and for nothing else. And good

Host: The night wind blew down the alley like a sigh from a city too tired to keep up with its own reflection. Billboards glowed on every wall — faces frozen mid-laugh, products promising permanence, smiles that would fade before the paint did. The neon pulse of fame beat through the streets — fast, restless, temporary.

Jack stood just beyond the back entrance of an awards venue, the kind of place where red carpets and camera flashes were the evening’s religion. His black jacket was unbuttoned, his grey eyes dull beneath the shimmer of the city’s glitter. A half-smoked cigarette hung between his fingers.

Jeeny stood beside him, still in her evening gown, her dark hair pinned loosely, her expression half amused, half exhausted. The laughter and cheers from inside the theater still echoed faintly through the brick walls.

Between them, the silence was almost peaceful — the sound of two people standing just outside the illusion.

Jeeny: quietly, almost like she’s exhaling a thought rather than speaking “Brian Johnson once said, ‘People are famous for being famous and for nothing else. And good luck to them, because it lasts about a year and then they’re nothing again.’”

Jack: chuckles dryly, flicking ash into the dark “That’s generous. I’d say six months these days.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “You sound bitter.”

Jack: shrugs “Not bitter. Just observant. Fame’s like fast food now — consumed, digested, forgotten.”

Jeeny: turns to look at him “And yet, here you are — dressed for the same feast.”

Jack: grins without joy “I came for the free champagne, not the immortality.”

Host: A limousine’s headlights swept through the alley, washing them both in a flash of white. For a brief moment, their shadows stretched across the wall like ghosts of what they used to dream of being.

Inside the building, a new wave of applause erupted — brief, fierce, hollow.

Jeeny: softly “You know, it’s funny. We build whole industries around people whose only talent is visibility. They glow for a moment and call it legacy.”

Jack: nods slowly “Because we mistake recognition for relevance.”

Jeeny: “And relevance for worth.”

Jack: after a pause “You ever notice how fame feeds on fear? The fear of being ordinary. The fear that if the world doesn’t see you, you’ll stop existing.”

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe that’s why people chase it. Visibility feels like proof.”

Jack: looks at her, eyes narrowing thoughtfully “Proof of what?”

Jeeny: softly “That they matter.”

Host: The neon sign above the alley flickered, the light sputtering between pink and red like a heartbeat out of rhythm. The air was cool, but heavy — full of the smell of smoke, perfume, and desperation.

Jack: leans against the wall, taking a drag “You ever think about how fame used to mean something? You had to earn it. Now you just go viral.”

Jeeny: smiles sadly “Maybe that’s what Brian Johnson was warning about — that the spotlight doesn’t discriminate anymore. It shines on whoever steps in front of it first.”

Jack: scoffs “And then burns them alive for sport.”

Jeeny: nods slowly “Exactly. But maybe fame’s not the problem. Maybe it’s how we consume it.”

Jack: raises an eyebrow “You mean how we consume them.”

Jeeny: softly “Yes. We build idols out of strangers, worship their highlights, and then celebrate when they fall. It’s a cycle that keeps us from facing our own emptiness.”

Jack: quietly “Because if we’re busy watching them burn, we don’t have to notice the darkness in ourselves.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the empty bottles near the dumpster. Somewhere nearby, a fan screamed a name — the sound sharp, manic, already fading.

The applause inside died down again. The air felt heavier now.

Jeeny: after a moment “You ever think about why people want to be remembered?”

Jack: smirks faintly “Because being forgotten feels like dying twice.”

Jeeny: nods “Exactly. But maybe that’s the mistake — thinking remembrance equals life. You can live forever in people’s minds and still have never been truly alive.”

Jack: half-smiles, flicking the cigarette away “And most of them aren’t. They’re acting for an audience that never looks up from their phones.”

Jeeny: “It’s all theater now. Every life a performance, every post an audition.”

Jack: grinning darkly “Then maybe obscurity’s the only honest role left.”

Jeeny: smiles softly “Obscurity isn’t failure, Jack. It’s freedom.”

Host: The door to the alley creaked open, spilling a rectangle of bright light and noise onto the wet ground. A publicist poked her head out, scanning the darkness for them.

They stayed still, not answering. The door closed again, sealing the world of glitter and cameras back where it belonged — behind walls.

Jack: quietly “You know, I used to want that life. The lights, the headlines. I thought fame meant meaning.”

Jeeny: gently “And now?”

Jack: after a pause “Now I think meaning’s quieter. Less glamorous. More... earned.”

Jeeny: nods slowly “Maybe fame’s just the echo of something that used to be real. Like a photograph after the person’s gone.”

Jack: smiles faintly “And some people live their whole lives chasing that echo.”

Jeeny: “Until it fades.”

Host: The rain returned, softer now — a quiet curtain closing on the night. The city’s reflection shimmered in the puddles, fractured and glowing, like the memory of a stage light long after the show’s over.

Jeeny: softly, almost to herself “Brian Johnson was right. They’re famous for being famous. But maybe I can’t even blame them. The world gave them a stage and told them applause meant love.”

Jack: quietly “And forgot to teach them silence.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Or how to walk away.”

Jack: “You think that’s possible — to walk away from being seen?”

Jeeny: after a pause “Yes. If you learn how to see yourself first.”

Host: The camera panned outward, capturing the two figures framed in the soft glow of dying neon. Behind them, the city throbbed — restless, addicted to its own reflection.

Inside, another round of applause began, this one louder than the last. But out here, beyond the noise, the truth hummed like an old song barely remembered.

And as they stepped out into the wet street, Brian Johnson’s words echoed through the night — clear, tired, and true:

That fame without foundation
is light without warmth,

and that those who rise on attention alone
burn fast,
fall quietly,
and vanish into the dark that made them.

Because in the end,
the only fame worth having
is the kind that doesn’t need an audience —
the kind that stays alive
long after the lights go out.