The fastest way to succeed is to look as if you're playing by

Host: The office was almost empty. Only the soft hum of the AC and the distant clicking of an elevator cut through the stillness. The city outside pulsed with neon — towers gleaming, cars streaming like veins of light. Inside, the glass walls of the conference room reflected two figures — Jack and Jeeny, still there long after everyone else had gone home.

Jack sat back in a black leather chair, his tie loosened, a file of contracts sprawled before him. Jeeny leaned against the table, arms crossed, her expression calm but sharp, like someone who’d already read the ending before the story even began.

Host: The clock ticked quietly on the wall — not a reminder of time passing, but of power waiting.

Jeeny: (softly) “Michael Korda once said, ‘The fastest way to succeed is to look as if you’re playing by somebody else’s rules, while quietly playing by your own.’”

(she glances at him) “You’ve built a whole career on that, haven’t you, Jack?”

Jack: (smirking) “Is there another way to survive here? The ones who follow the rules end up buried under them. The trick isn’t breaking them — it’s making people think you’re not.”

Jeeny: “So you call that success? Pretending?”

Jack: “I call it strategy. This world doesn’t reward honesty; it rewards performance. The ones who smile the best — win the most.”

Host: The lights from the skyscrapers cast moving patterns across the table — like the shifting shadows of invisible chess pieces.

Jeeny: “You sound proud of it.”

Jack: “Pride’s got nothing to do with it. It’s survival. You think these people care about merit? They care about appearances. The faster you learn to fake alignment, the faster you climb.”

Jeeny: “And when you reach the top, what then? Do you keep pretending?”

Jack: “If it keeps the view, yes.”

Host: A silence settled between them, filled only by the buzz of the city. Jeeny’s gaze didn’t waver; it was the kind of stillness that made even a man like Jack feel briefly transparent.

Jeeny: “That’s not survival, Jack. That’s surrender — to a system you claim to outsmart.”

Jack: “No, it’s control. You think you’re pure just because you play by their rules openly? I’ve seen idealists like you — they walk in here with principles and walk out unemployed.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “At least they walk out with themselves.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “And what good is that if no one listens to them? Power listens to success, not sincerity. You have to wear the mask if you ever want the room.”

Host: His voice lowered, rough, certain — the kind of tone that’s been tempered by years of seeing people break under the weight of their own virtue.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But if the mask becomes your face, what are you really winning?”

Jack: “Respect. Security. The right to write your own rules later.”

Jeeny: (half-smiling) “You think you’ll remember what your own rules were by then?”

Host: The lights dimmed automatically, the sensors mistaking stillness for emptiness. The room filled with blue glow from the city, reflections of traffic sliding across their faces like ghosts of motion.

Jack: “You ever wonder why people like Korda said things like that? Because he understood the game. To win it, you have to understand deception — and master it without believing in it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy, Jack. People start pretending for survival and end up forgetting how to live. They wear their disguise so long it becomes armor — and then, prison.”

Jack: “You call it prison; I call it freedom. Playing by my own rules — that’s exactly what he meant. I just learned to hide it better.”

Jeeny: “You hide it so well you almost sound like you believe your own lies.”

Host: The rain began, tapping softly on the windows, turning the city lights into watercolor. Jack looked out, his reflection fragmented, half-real, half-light.

Jack: “You think I like it this way? You think I don’t know what I’ve traded? I stopped asking what’s right years ago — because the right choice never kept the lights on.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time you turn one off — and see if you still recognize the man sitting in the dark.”

Host: He laughed, a short, dry sound — but his eyes didn’t follow.

Jack: “You talk like the system can be reformed. It can’t. The only way to change it is to own it. And to own it, you play the game better than they do. You nod, you smile, you follow the rules — until the rules belong to you.”

Jeeny: “And while you’re climbing, who’s beneath you, holding the ladder?”

Jack: “The ones who didn’t learn fast enough.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe they’re the ones who’ll sleep tonight.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming a steady beat — like truth knocking on glass. Jack looked away, unable to hold her gaze anymore.

Jack: “You sound disappointed in me.”

Jeeny: “I’m not. I’m just sad for you. Because you still think winning is the same as living.”

Jack: (after a pause) “And you still think purity pays the bills.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t. But it buys peace. And when the game ends — when the lights go out and the applause fades — peace is all you’ll wish you had.”

Host: The office lights flicked back on with a low hum, white and sterile, erasing the intimacy of the dark. The illusion of order returned, as if the building itself was reminding them where they stood — inside the heart of the machine.

Jack: (quietly) “You ever wonder if maybe Korda wasn’t giving advice — maybe he was confessing?”

Jeeny: (staring at him) “Then maybe it’s time someone stopped repeating his confession and started writing a new rulebook.”

Host: She picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and paused at the door — her silhouette framed by the city’s glow, her voice steady and clear.

Jeeny: “Play the game if you must, Jack. But don’t forget — every empire built on deceit eventually collapses under the weight of its own cleverness.”

Host: He didn’t answer. She walked out into the hallway, her heels echoing softly, fading into the hum of the building.

Host: Jack remained, staring at the window, at the reflection of a man who’d mastered every rule but couldn’t remember when he stopped believing in fairness.

Host: The camera pans back, showing the city skyline beyond him — sharp, luminous, alive. The lights of ambition shimmered endlessly,
but somewhere between them flickered the faint, unsteady glow of something else — conscience, perhaps,
or the ghost of a man who once wanted to win differently.

Host: And beneath it all, Michael Korda’s words still rang like a warning disguised as wisdom —

Host: That the fastest way to succeed may be to play by others’ rules —
but the slowest way to peace is forgetting which ones were yours.