The human race will then become one family, and the world will be

Host: The city lay under a storm-gray sky, its towers rising like tired sentinels above a maze of steel and glass. The rain had just begun — not a torrent, but a steady, rhythmic fall that painted the streets in silver. Neon signs blinked through the mist, and from a high window in a half-empty office building, the lights glowed faintly, flickering against the gathering dark.

Inside that room, amid the smell of coffee, paper, and the faint hum of a computer, sat Jack — his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up, his expression cut from stone. His grey eyes were fixed on the screen, scanning lines of data like someone dissecting the soul of the world.

Jeeny entered quietly, her umbrella dripping, her hair damp, her eyes luminous even in the dull light. She set a cup beside him. Steam rose — soft, human, defiant.

Between them, silence.

Then, from the speaker of a radio left running on the desk, came a voice — recorded, solemn:
"The human race will then become one family, and the world will be the dwelling of Rational Men."
— Adam Weishaupt.

Jeeny looked up, smiling faintly. “He said that centuries ago, Jack. Do you think we’ve come any closer?”

Jack gave a low, almost humorless laugh. “Closer? We’re tearing each other apart faster than ever.”

Jeeny: “You sound as though reason is dead.”

Jack: “Reason isn’t dead, Jeeny. It’s just corrupted. The idea of a ‘rational world’ — it’s a fantasy. Weishaupt dreamed of unity, of Enlightenment. But look at us now — divided by beliefs, by screens, by tribes. Rational? We’re emotional machines pretending to think.”

Jeeny: “And yet, we still dream. Isn’t that the proof we’re not lost? Every generation builds its own vision of that one family — the same dream, just with new faces.”

Host: The light flickered, casting a brief shadow across the room. Outside, a thunderclap rolled — long, deep, as though the sky itself agreed with Jack’s cynicism. He rubbed his temples, his voice lower, weary.

Jack: “Dreams are dangerous. They turn to ideologies. Ideologies turn to control. Weishaupt founded the Illuminati on ‘reason’ — and it was crushed for the same reason. Every utopia starts with intellect and ends with domination.”

Jeeny: “That’s because men tried to make reason rule without compassion. Rationality without heart is just ice.”

Host: She moved closer to the window, watching the rain streak the glass, blurring the city into a wash of light and motion. Her reflection merged with his in the glass — two figures side by side, blurred into one.

Jeeny: “I think Weishaupt saw something deeper — not control, but kinship. The idea that once we rise above fear and superstition, we could truly see each other as equals. Like one great household under the same roof.”

Jack: “That’s poetry, Jeeny. Beautiful — but naive. You can’t reason equality into existence. Human nature isn’t rational — it’s emotional, tribal, self-serving. We evolved to survive, not to unite.”

Jeeny: “Then why do we feel pain when others suffer? Why do we cry at loss that isn’t our own? There’s something beyond survival there. Something that connects.”

Jack: “Instinct, empathy — chemical reactions. They don’t make us one family; they just trick us into cooperation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s enough. Maybe the trick is the miracle.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He turned back to the screen, typing something — anything — to distract the storm inside him. His voice was quieter now, almost confessional.

Jack: “You talk about humanity like it’s something noble. But I’ve seen too much of its underside. Wars, propaganda, greed dressed up as logic. The twentieth century was built on ‘rational men’—scientists, bureaucrats, planners. And what did they build? Hiroshima. Auschwitz. The algorithmic prison we live in now.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said softly. “Rationality without morality. Cold reason without warmth. But that doesn’t mean reason is evil—it means it was abandoned by its heart.”

Host: Jeeny turned to face him. Her eyes burned now — not with anger, but conviction.

Jeeny: “Einstein once said, ‘Our technology has surpassed our humanity.’ Maybe Weishaupt’s vision isn’t wrong—it’s just incomplete. The world doesn’t need rational men. It needs rational souls.”

Jack: “Souls,” he repeated, almost scoffing. “There’s a word reason can’t quantify.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it’s the part of us that refuses to be quantified.”

Host: A pause stretched between them. The rain fell harder, and a neon sign outside blinked red across Jack’s face, painting him like a man divided — half light, half shadow.

Jack: “You know, it’s ironic. The more we talk about unity, the more fragmented we become. The internet connects everyone, and yet we’ve never been more isolated.”

Jeeny: “Because connection isn’t communion. Data doesn’t make family.”

Jack: “Exactly. Weishaupt thought if people were rational, they’d find harmony. But logic doesn’t make people kind. It just makes them efficient at justifying what they already want.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe harmony doesn’t come from logic. Maybe it comes from love — and reason just builds the bridge.”

Jack: “And what if love burns the bridge?”

Jeeny: “Then we rebuild it again. That’s what family does.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, as if she could hear the echo of her own words in the hollow of the world. Jack looked up at her — for the first time really looking — and something behind his eyes softened, the edge of an old wound exposed.

Jack: “Do you ever think maybe Weishaupt was wrong — that ‘rational men’ aren’t what the world needs?”

Jeeny: “Not wrong. Just incomplete. Rational men are half the picture. Rational hearts are the other half.”

Jack: “And how do we teach hearts to reason?”

Jeeny: “By listening. By understanding. By seeing others not as rivals, but reflections. That’s how the human race becomes one family — not by erasing difference, but by recognizing ourselves in it.”

Host: The light outside shifted — the storm thinning, the clouds opening just enough for the faintest hint of moonlight to filter in. It touched the window, and through it, their reflections no longer blurred — they stood side by side, clear, distinct, yet joined by the same light.

Jack: “You make it sound possible.”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Every time someone chooses empathy over anger, the family grows. Every time we think before we hate, reason wins a little more ground.”

Jack: “And yet, history keeps repeating.”

Jeeny: “Because we keep forgetting. But forgetting isn’t the same as failing.”

Host: The clock ticked — slow, deliberate. Somewhere in the distance, the rain softened into a gentle whisper. Jack leaned back in his chair, exhaling, his eyes tracing the water droplets that slid down the glass like time itself.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my father used to talk about a world like that. He said one day, people would stop building walls. I laughed at him.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I wish he’d been right.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe he was. Maybe it just takes longer than one lifetime to build a world of rational men.”

Jack: “Or women,” he said with a small, tired smile.

Jeeny: “Or both — together.”

Host: The light in the office flickered once more, then steadied. Outside, the rain slowed to a soft drizzle. The city, blurred and weary, gleamed faintly in reflection — a thousand windows glowing, each one holding a story, a breath, a fragment of the same shared dream.

Jeeny gathered her coat, moving toward the door. Jack watched her, then called out quietly.

Jack: “Jeeny.”

She turned.

Jack: “Maybe… maybe the family isn’t as lost as I thought.”

Jeeny smiled. “No family ever is. It just forgets how to speak.”

Host: As the door closed behind her, Jack turned off the screen. The room dimmed to a soft half-light. Outside, the sky was breaking — a thin line of silver cutting through the clouds, hinting at dawn.

And for the first time in a long while, Jack whispered — not to her, not to anyone, but to himself:
“Maybe Weishaupt wasn’t dreaming. Maybe he was remembering what we could be.”

Host: The rain stopped. A single beam of light crossed the window, falling on the empty chair beside him — a quiet symbol of presence, of possibility, of family unseen but enduring.

And beyond the glass, the world, bruised but luminous, turned slowly toward the sun.