We are a mission-driven company. In order to do this, we have to

Host: The city skyline shimmered against the night, its glass towers pulsing with neon veins of light — arteries of ambition glowing in shades of blue and silver. Inside one of those towers, on the forty-second floor, the hum of a server room underscored the pulse of the modern world — quiet, relentless, eternal.

Jack stood near the window, his reflection merging with the glittering city beyond. In his hand, a tumbler of whiskey caught the light like captured fire. Jeeny sat across from him at a minimalist steel table, a laptop open, its cold glow brushing across her face.

Jeeny: “Mark Zuckerberg once said, ‘We are a mission-driven company. In order to do this, we have to build a great team. And in order to do that, you need people to know they can make a bunch of money. So we need a business model to make a lot of money.’”

Host: Her voice carried both admiration and unease — the strange mixture that always accompanies power. The office lights hummed faintly, and the city’s glow flickered across the polished floor like a digital tide.

Jack: “At least he’s honest about it. Everyone preaches purpose until they realize passion doesn’t pay salaries. You want loyalty? Show them a bonus.”

Jeeny: “But what happens when the bonus becomes the mission? When the mission itself turns into a slogan on a stock certificate?”

Jack: “Then congratulations — you’ve built capitalism correctly.”

Host: The words hit the air like the click of a lock. Jack turned toward the window again, his grey eyes reflecting the city’s restless energy.

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s victory.”

Jack: “It is. Zuckerberg’s not wrong, Jeeny. A mission without money is a sermon without followers. You can’t change the world on good intentions and coffee.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But when money becomes the proof of meaning, you lose the soul of the mission. You trade purpose for profit — and then pretend they’re the same.”

Host: A faint beep from the laptop punctuated her words. The screen displayed rows of data, graphs rising like mountains of ambition. Jeeny stared at them, her fingers tracing the edges of the glowing chart.

Jack: “Tell that to the people who got rich believing in that mission. Money gives you freedom — and freedom lets you build.”

Jeeny: “No. Freedom built on profit is just another form of captivity — only gilded.”

Jack: “You sound idealistic. Romantic, even. But someone has to pay for ideals. Zuckerberg’s just admitting the equation: mission equals motivation, motivation equals money.”

Jeeny: “But what about morality, Jack? When does the mission stop serving humanity and start consuming it?”

Jack: “When it stops being profitable.”

Host: The silence after his answer was sharp. The city lights below blinked like countless eyes — some awake, some asleep, all complicit.

Jeeny: “So the only true faith left is the bottom line?”

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe that’s what drives evolution now. Not survival of the fittest — survival of the funded.”

Host: Jeeny leaned back, the chair creaking softly. Her expression softened, but her voice deepened — quieter, cutting deeper than accusation.

Jeeny: “You think money gives meaning. I think it only amplifies what’s already there. If your mission’s hollow, no amount of profit fills it.”

Jack: “And if your mission’s pure but broke, no one ever hears it.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather be rich and empty?”

Jack: “I’d rather be effective.”

Host: The rain began outside, streaking the windows with faint trails that glowed under the city lights. Each drop reflected tiny worlds — fragile, fleeting, and transparent.

Jeeny: “Effectiveness without ethics is just refined greed.”

Jack: “Ethics without execution is just wasted poetry.”

Host: The tension hung like the air before thunder. Jack turned from the window, setting his glass down with a soft clink that echoed louder than it should have.

Jack: “You think Zuckerberg’s cynical. I think he’s realistic. Every revolution needs funding. Even saints need sponsors.”

Jeeny: “True. But saints die for their message. Executives just monetize theirs.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the glass — a quiet applause for her words. Jack smiled, not in victory, but in recognition of her aim.

Jack: “You think you can build something pure, don’t you? A world untouched by the ledger.”

Jeeny: “Not untouched. Just not ruled by it. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Then how do you motivate people? What do you offer them if not money?”

Jeeny: “Belonging. Purpose. Pride in something that outlives them.”

Jack: “And when the bills come due?”

Jeeny: “You pay them. But you don’t sell your soul to do it.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not from weakness but conviction — the kind that comes from having already paid too much once. The lightning outside lit the skyline in quick, violent flashes, illuminating her face and his reflection side by side — two worlds separated by glass and ideology.

Jack: “You talk about belonging like it’s currency.”

Jeeny: “It is. The only kind that doesn’t devalue over time.”

Host: The room fell silent except for the low hum of servers — machines endlessly translating human need into numbers.

Jack: “You really believe people will work for love?”

Jeeny: “They already do, Jack. Teachers, nurses, artists — they build worlds without IPOs. The tragedy is that we call them naïve.”

Jack: “And yet, without the Zuckerbergs, their platforms wouldn’t exist.”

Jeeny: “Without their hearts, his company wouldn’t mean anything.”

Host: The thunder rolled, distant but deep, as if the sky itself was debating them. Jack sat down across from her now, the distance between them smaller — not gone, but bridged by something invisible.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we need both — the dreamers and the dealers. The heart and the hand that signs the check.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The danger is when the hand forgets why the heart started beating.”

Host: The rain softened, and for a moment the room seemed to exhale. The city lights outside blurred into streaks of gold and white, reflections trembling like conscience in motion.

Jack: “So… you’d build your company on faith instead of fortune?”

Jeeny: “No. I’d build it on integrity — and let the fortune follow.”

Jack: “You think integrity pays?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But it’s the only thing that can’t be bought.”

Host: Jack’s gaze fell to the glass between them, where the candle’s flame reflected — two lights flickering in tandem. He gave a faint, rueful smile.

Jack: “You know, for someone who hates capitalism, you’d make a great CEO.”

Jeeny: “Only if I could lead people without selling their souls.”

Host: The clock ticked, echoing like a pulse. Outside, the storm was easing — the air heavy but clear, the kind that follows confrontation and carries renewal.

Jack: “So maybe Zuckerberg’s right — we do need money. But maybe you’re right too — it’s what we build with it that decides who we are.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Wealth isn’t the mission. It’s the weight we lift on the way to meaning.”

Host: The lights dimmed, leaving only the shimmer of the skyline and the quiet rhythm of rain against glass.

The camera would pull back — the two of them sitting across from each other in the tower’s glow: two silhouettes framed against the restless city, the heartbeat of capitalism pulsing all around them.

Host: And as the night deepened, one truth crystallized beneath the hum of servers and the whisper of rain —

that money builds empires,
but only mission builds souls.

And when both walk hand in hand,
the world finally begins to mean something worth building.