There are certain people that are marked for death. I have my

Host: The night was heavy with smoke and the humming of distant neon signs. A faint rain slicked the streets, making the pavement gleam like molten glass beneath the city lights. Somewhere far off, a siren cried — lonely, metallic, indifferent. Inside a dim bar tucked between crumbling brick walls, two figures sat across from each other.

Jack’s grey eyes glimmered in the dimness, their reflection caught in the rim of his untouched glass. Jeeny’s fingers traced slow circles in the condensation of hers, her face calm but her eyes — alive, restless, burning.

Jeeny: “Jennifer Lopez once said, ‘There are certain people that are marked for death. I have my little list of those that treated me unfairly.’”

Jack: “Sounds like honesty to me.”

Jeeny: “Sounds like vengeance.”

Jack: “Same thing sometimes.”

Host: The bar’s clock ticked softly, its hands crawling through the quiet tension. The light from the hanging bulb flickered, casting shadows that danced across their faces — one calm, one sharp, both haunted.

Jeeny: “Do you really believe revenge and honesty are the same?”

Jack: “They share a spine — truth. People lie all the time, Jeeny. But when you finally want someone to pay, that’s when you’re being honest about your pain.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s when pain becomes a cage. You start feeding it, and soon it eats you alive.”

Jack: “Maybe. But some people deserve it. You ever had someone ruin your life and just walk away, smiling?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “And you forgave them?”

Jeeny: “I tried.”

Jack: “That’s weakness.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s survival.”

Host: The rain began to fall harder, hammering against the windows. The neon reflection shimmered across the floor, a blend of red and blue that looked like a bruise come to life.

Jack: “You talk like forgiveness heals. But it doesn’t. It just hides the wound. You carry it quietly, pretend it doesn’t hurt — but it festers.”

Jeeny: “And revenge doesn’t heal either. It just spreads the infection to someone else.”

Jack: “Sometimes infection is justice.”

Jeeny: “Then justice becomes a disease.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his voice low, deliberate. His fingers tapped the table once, twice — as if keeping time with his own heartbeat.

Jack: “Let me ask you this — if someone destroys your reputation, your job, your family, and you do nothing… who are you? A saint? Or a fool?”

Jeeny: “Maybe someone who refuses to become what they hate.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but useless. In the real world, people crush you if you don’t strike back. Look at politics, business, even love. The ones who survive are the ones who remember names.”

Jeeny: “That’s not survival, Jack. That’s corrosion.”

Jack: “You think the world runs on purity? It runs on memory. Everyone has a list, even if they don’t write it down.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand trembled slightly as she lifted her glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. Her voice softened, but it carried something ancient — the sound of exhaustion turned to conviction.

Jeeny: “My father used to say, ‘Every grudge is a chain around your own neck.’ He forgave the man who stole from him. I never understood it as a child. I thought he was weak. But when I saw him smile years later — truly smile — I realized he was free.”

Jack: “Or delusional.”

Jeeny: “Or alive.”

Jack: “You want to believe forgiveness is power because it sounds noble. But the world doesn’t reward noble. It rewards teeth.”

Jeeny: “Then we’re just wolves tearing each other apart in circles.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what we are.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We’re human. And that means we can choose.”

Host: The bartender switched the radio to a late-night jazz station — a low saxophone sighed through the room, smoke and sorrow twining in the air. The clock ticked again, louder this time, each second pressing like a heartbeat.

Jack: “You know what revenge really is? It’s balance. The universe doesn’t give it. You have to take it yourself. People forget that justice was born from vengeance.”

Jeeny: “And vengeance gave birth to tragedy. Every war, every feud, every killing started with a list. A name. A reason.”

Jack: “Maybe tragedy’s the price of fairness.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe fairness doesn’t exist, and vengeance just keeps the wound bleeding.”

Jack: “So what do you do with your anger, Jeeny? Just bury it?”

Jeeny: “No. I plant it.”

Jack: “Plant it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. In compassion. In change. I don’t want to make them hurt — I want to make them see.”

Jack: “And if they don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then I let the universe decide.”

Host: A pause — long, aching, almost holy. The rain softened to a whisper. Outside, a taxi’s lights swept across the window, briefly illuminating their faces — his carved with disbelief, hers serene but fierce.

Jack: “You’re too gentle for this world.”

Jeeny: “And you’ve been hurt too deeply to believe it can still be kind.”

Jack: “Maybe. But I’ll tell you something — I had my list once. People who used me, lied to me, humiliated me. I thought if I made them fall, I’d finally breathe.”

Jeeny: “And did you?”

Jack: “…No. It felt like swallowing glass. I won, but I couldn’t taste it.”

Host: Jack looked down, hands clasped, eyes distant. For the first time that night, his voice cracked like ice splitting under weight.

Jack: “The worst part wasn’t what I did to them. It’s what it did to me. I started dreaming in anger. Seeing their faces even when I closed my eyes. I became the thing I hated.”

Jeeny: “That’s what vengeance always does. It offers fire to warm you — but burns your house down.”

Host: The music slowed. The saxophone sighed one last note, melting into silence.

Jack exhaled, long and quiet.

Jack: “So what do we do with people who wrong us, Jeeny? Just smile and let them walk free?”

Jeeny: “No. We remember. But not to destroy — to learn. The list isn’t for revenge, Jack. It’s for reflection.”

Jack: “Reflection doesn’t stop betrayal.”

Jeeny: “Neither does killing.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes soft yet unflinching. Her words came out slow, deliberate — each one like a match struck in the dark.

Jeeny: “Some people are marked for death, Jack. Not because we wish it — but because they’re already killing themselves with what they’ve done. You don’t need to help them burn.”

Jack: “…Maybe you’re right.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I just want peace more than victory.”

Jack: “You and your peace. I envy it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re closer to it than you think.”

Host: The bar’s door creaked open. A gust of cold air swept through, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and rain-soaked streets. Jack stood, pulled on his coat, and turned toward the door.

He paused — just long enough for his reflection to shimmer faintly in the bar’s mirror.

Jack: “I’ll try to erase the list.”

Jeeny: “Don’t erase it. Just… stop feeding it.”

Host: Jack gave a faint, tired smile, the kind that carried both defeat and rebirth. Then he stepped out into the rain, letting it fall on his face — as though trying to wash away names that had lived too long in his mind.

Jeeny stayed seated, watching through the window as his figure dissolved into the night.

The neon sign outside flickered again — red, then white, then finally dark.

And in that final darkness, only the sound of rain remained — soft, endless, forgiving.