War never takes a wicked man by chance, the good man always.

Host: The morning was pale, the kind of light that feels hesitant — like it doesn’t want to reveal too much. Smoke curled from distant chimneys, twisting into the gray sky that hung low over the ruins of a once-bustling town. The air smelled faintly of iron, dust, and regret.

Two figures sat on the cracked steps of an old train station — Jack, his uniform jacket unbuttoned and stained, and Jeeny, wrapped in a tattered wool coat, her hair clinging to her face with the dampness of the morning fog.

The war had ended three months ago. But the silence it left behind was louder than any artillery.

Host: A gust of wind carried a single page from a burnt newspaper, tumbling past them. On it, a line of ink still legible: “War never takes a wicked man by chance, the good man always.” — Sophocles.

Jeeny stared at it, her eyes tracing the sentence as though the paper itself carried a ghost.

Jeeny: (softly) “Do you believe that, Jack? That war spares the wicked and takes the good?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “I believe war takes whoever’s standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sophocles was a poet, not a soldier. The gods he spoke of don’t exist anymore — only bullets do.”

Host: His voice was gravel, worn by too many nights without sleep. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his flask, but he didn’t drink. He just held it — as if holding on to something heavier than thirst.

Jeeny: “You always sound like you stopped believing the moment the first bomb fell.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s because belief is the first casualty. Before men die, their illusions do.”

Host: The wind grew colder, brushing through the broken windows of the station, whispering through the hollow beams like the ghosts of conversations never finished.

Jeeny: “And yet… you still saved people. Even when you didn’t believe.”

Jack: (turning to her sharply) “Saved? I tried. But for every person I pulled out, three others didn’t make it. You think that’s salvation? That’s arithmetic.”

Host: His eyes flickered, gray and distant, like a sea in stormlight.

Jeeny: “Arithmetic doesn’t weep at night, Jack.”

Jack: (snorts) “No. But arithmetic doesn’t lie either. War doesn’t take ‘good men’ — it takes whoever stands still too long. It doesn’t care if you pray or steal, if you write poetry or kill for pay. It just happens. It’s not morality — it’s momentum.”

Host: Jeeny turned her head, watching a group of children scavenging through rubble down the street. One of them laughed — a strange, sharp sound, like a bird singing in a graveyard.

Jeeny: “And yet, somehow, it’s always the good ones who don’t come back. The ones who believed there was still something worth protecting. My brother thought that way. He died holding a red cross flag.”

Jack: (quietly) “And the men who shot him went home, had dinner, kissed their wives. I know.”

Host: The silence between them deepened — a silence not of peace, but of exhaustion. The kind that only comes when two truths are colliding quietly inside the same heart.

Jeeny: “Then maybe Sophocles wasn’t talking about fairness, but fate. Maybe war doesn’t choose the good — maybe the good walk toward it. Because they can’t help it.”

Jack: “You think dying is noble?”

Jeeny: “I think trying is.”

Host: The sun broke through briefly — a weak, uncertain light touching the iron of Jack’s buttons and the ash in Jeeny’s hair.

Jack: “You sound like every speech before a massacre. Noble ideals make easy corpses.”

Jeeny: “And cynicism makes living cowards.”

Host: The words hit hard, the air thickening between them. Jack’s jaw tightened, his breath steady but heavy.

Jack: “You think I’m a coward because I didn’t die out there?”

Jeeny: “I think you’re punishing yourself because you didn’t.”

Host: He said nothing. The wind rattled a broken sign, its rusted chain scraping the metal post in slow, haunting rhythm.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Sophocles meant?” she continued, her voice trembling but firm. “He meant that good people walk into the fire because they can’t bear to see others burn. Wicked men step back. They survive because they love their skin more than their soul.”

Jack: (bitterly) “And what good did it do your brother? What good did it do any of them?”

Jeeny: “It reminded the rest of us what humanity looks like. Even if only for a moment.”

Host: Her eyes glistened, reflecting both pain and defiance. Jack looked at her — not as an opponent, but as someone holding a candle in a storm he had long stopped believing could end.

Jack: “You talk like goodness is armor. It’s not. It’s a target.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least it’s something worth aiming for.”

Host: The train tracks stretched behind them — twisted, rusted lines vanishing into mist. Jack followed them with his gaze, as if trying to see where all the lost ones went.

Jack: “You know, when I saw men die, it wasn’t the brave speeches I remembered. It was the small things. The medic who gave up his ration for someone else. The boy who wrote letters for the ones who couldn’t. Maybe you’re right. Maybe the good do walk toward the fire.”

Jeeny: “Because someone has to.”

Host: The wind softened. A shaft of sunlight fell through the broken roof, catching the drifting dust in midair, turning it to gold for a fleeting second.

Jack: “Then what’s left for the rest of us, Jeeny? The ones who came back?”

Jeeny: (whispering) “To remember them. To live in a way that justifies the price they paid.”

Host: Jack closed his eyes, inhaled the cold air, then exhaled slowly — as if releasing something long held and poisonous.

Jack: “Funny thing. The good die in war. The wicked survive it. And the survivors… they carry both inside them.”

Jeeny: “That’s the curse — and the redemption.”

Host: A church bell rang in the distance — cracked, uneven, but still alive. It sounded like forgiveness trying to reach through the smoke.

Jeeny reached out, resting her hand on Jack’s arm. He didn’t flinch this time.

Jeeny: “You’re still good, Jack. Not because you survived. Because you still feel.”

Host: His eyes met hers — tired, haunted, but softening. For the first time in months, the hardness cracked.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Sophocles meant after all. War takes the good — not because they die, but because it tears them out of themselves.”

Jeeny: “Then take yourself back.”

Host: The fog began to lift, revealing the distant hills, scarred but alive. The sunlight stretched further, touching the edges of their world — the broken train station, the shattered town, the two figures sitting amid the ruins, talking not as soldiers or mourners, but as human beings.

And for that brief, fragile moment, the world seemed to breathe again.

Host: Because in every war — of nations or of hearts — the wicked may survive, but it’s the good who endure. And endurance, in the end, is its own kind of victory.

The wind stilled. The light stayed. And the echo of Sophocles’ truth lingered in the morning air — soft, somber, and undeniably human.