Whosoever desires constant success must change his conduct with

Host: The evening sky was a slow-burning ember over the city, its light stretching across the glass of skyscrapers like flames trapped in mirrors. The air smelled faintly of rain and iron, the kind that falls after a long day of struggle. Inside a dim café, tucked between a bookstore and a closed tailor’s shop, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other — a half-empty bottle of wine between them, a tired record playing a melancholy jazz tune.

Jack’s grey eyes glimmered like steel beneath stormlight, his fingers drumming on the tabletop. Jeeny’s dark hair fell like velvet shadows around her face, her gaze steady, her posture calm, though her heart carried the weight of an argument waiting to unfold.

Host: The city hum outside was faint, a background chorus of engines, voices, and the distant beat of rain. The clock struck ten. Their conversation, like the weather, was about to change.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… I came across something today. ‘Whosoever desires constant success must change his conduct with the times.’ Machiavelli said that. What do you think?”

Jack: (smirking) “I think he was right. The world doesn’t wait for anyone, Jeeny. You either adapt or you fade. That’s the law of survival — from the savanna to Silicon Valley.”

Jeeny: “Survival? That’s such a narrow word. Is that all success means to you? To just survive?”

Jack: “No, not just survive. To win. To stay relevant, profitable, respected. You think morality built the empires that run this world? It was adaptation, strategy, and timing.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed slightly, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup as though drawing circles around truth. The rain began to fall harder, tapping against the window like an impatient audience.

Jeeny: “You talk as if success is only a matter of tactics and trends. But what about principles, Jack? What happens to the soul of a person who keeps changing just to stay in fashion? Doesn’t that kind of success eat at who you are?”

Jack: “Who you are doesn’t matter if no one remembers you. Look at companies, look at leaders — Kodak refused to adapt when digital came, and it vanished. Meanwhile, Apple reinvented itself a dozen times and became a religion. That’s not betrayal of principle; that’s evolution.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “And what happens when evolution means erasing humanity? When we start treating people as data, feelings as algorithms, and truth as a marketing slogan? Is that your idea of success — to mutate until there’s nothing authentic left?”

Host: The light flickered above them, casting shadows across the table, like two ideologies wrestling in the dim glow. The wind outside howled, rattling the signboard that read “Café Fortuna.”

Jack: “Authenticity is a luxury, Jeeny. It’s a word poets use when they can’t pay rent. The truth is — the ones who change with the times write the future. The ones who cling to the past write diaries.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s lost faith in everything except power.”

Jack: “No, I just stopped lying to myself about how the world works. Machiavelli understood it centuries ago — the lion and the fox. Strength and cunning. You can’t afford to be just one.”

Jeeny: “But he also said a prince should seek to be both feared and loved, if possible. You always forget the loved part.”

Jack: (grinning slightly) “Because if possible is the cruelest phrase in politics — and life. Most of the time, it’s not.”

Host: A long silence settled. The record had reached its end, the needle scratching in a loop like a heartbeat trapped in static. Jeeny reached over, gently lifting it, then set it down again. Her movements were soft, almost ceremonial, as if reminding him that even small gestures carried meaning.

Jeeny: “You know, during the Renaissance, Machiavelli was writing in a world of chaos — wars, betrayals, dynasties crumbling. His advice was for princes, not for the soul of man. We’ve mistaken his strategy for our ethics.”

Jack: “Maybe. But tell me, how different are we from those princes now? Every one of us rules a small kingdom — a career, a brand, a life. The times still change, and if we don’t move, we’re dethroned.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? If we keep bending, we eventually break. You chase the times long enough, and you lose sight of the eternal.”

Jack: “The eternal doesn’t pay the bills, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: (with quiet fury) “Neither does cynicism. The eternal is what keeps you human. It’s what lets you sleep at night, knowing you didn’t sell your soul for convenience.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with the kind of hurt he tried so hard to mask. A faint thunder rolled in the distance, echoing the tension in his chest.

Jack: “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t asked myself if the man I became is still me? Every day I wake up and look in the mirror, wondering if I’ve just become another machine running the system. But you can’t change the tide by standing still.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe not. But you can choose which way you swim.”

Host: The rain eased, turning from downpour to mist. The café light grew warmer, softer, as if the night itself was listening. The tension between them was no longer a fight, but a confession.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that old man who ran the bookstore next door? He refused to sell out when the chain stores opened. Everyone said he’d fail. But he stayed. Now his store’s still there, while those chains are gone.”

Jack: “He was lucky.”

Jeeny: “No, he was faithful. To his principles, to his community, to his own rhythm. He didn’t change with the times; he taught the times to remember.”

Jack: “You make it sound so easy. But what about the millions who do the same and still end up forgotten?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe success isn’t the point. Maybe it’s about continuity — about leaving behind something real, even if no one remembers your name.”

Host: The clock ticked, its sound mingling with the faint breath of steam from their cups. The world outside was wet, reflective, like a mirror of choices.

Jack: “You talk about faith, but what good is faith in a market that rewards change? People worship the new, not the true.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s our duty to remind them. To show that adaptation doesn’t have to mean betrayal. You can change your methods without losing your values. Like a tree that bends in the wind but keeps its roots deep.”

Jack: (quietly) “Roots and wind… That’s the real war, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s the real dance.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes softening, the sharp edges of his words now dulled by reflection. The storm outside had passed, leaving behind a silver glow over the streetlights. Inside, the air felt lighter, as though some truth had finally been spoken aloud.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe change isn’t the enemy — maybe it’s how we do it that decides whether we stay human. The fox and the lion, sure… but maybe we also need a bit of the lamb.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Now you sound like a poet.”

Jack: “Don’t tell anyone. It’d ruin my reputation.”

Host: They both laughed, the sound small but alive, cutting through the stillness of the room like the first sunlight after a storm. Outside, the street shimmered with reflections — lights, rain, and fragments of change.

Jeeny: “So, Machiavelli wasn’t wrong. We must change with the times… but not at the cost of the timeless.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe the trick is to change shape, not soul.”

Host: The camera drifts away, past their table, through the window, into the wet streets where neon light dances on puddles. A man and a woman remain inside — two voices suspended between reason and faith, change and constancy.

The world turns, as it always does. But tonight, for a brief moment, it feels like they’ve learned how to turn with it — without losing themselves.