You're used to seeing values listed on waiting-room walls.

Host: The office was half-lit, the last rays of evening spilling through the glass panels of a downtown co-working space. A storm had just passed; the streets below gleamed with reflections of car headlights, like fragments of a broken mirror. The air smelled faintly of rain and burnt coffee.

Jeeny sat at a long table, her laptop open but untouched, her fingers tracing the rim of a ceramic cup. Jack stood by the window, staring at the skyline, his reflection blending with the faint lights of the city — a man divided between the world outside and the one inside his head.

Host: The silence hung heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioner. Somewhere in the distance, a sirene wailed — faint, persistent, like the sound of conscience in a city that’s forgotten how to listen.

Jeeny: “You know what John Collison said once? ‘You’re used to seeing values listed on waiting-room walls. Communication, integrity, excellence, and respect. Those were actually Enron’s values.’”

Host: Jack’s shoulders stiffened slightly. He turned, a faint smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

Jack: “Yeah, I’ve read that quote. Irony at its finest. Proof that values are just wallpaper for corruption.”

Jeeny: (raising an eyebrow) “Or proof that values alone aren’t enough — they need to be lived, not laminated.”

Host: The light flickered once, briefly dimming. It cast her face in partial shadow, half soft conviction, half defiance.

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. Corporations don’t live by values. They live by profit margins. Enron didn’t collapse because their slogans were wrong — it collapsed because their incentives were right. They built a culture where lying was lucrative. ‘Integrity’ didn’t fit on a balance sheet.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly the point, Jack. They had those words on the wall. They said them every day. People believed them. So how does a system make good people forget what good even means?”

Jack: “It doesn’t make them forget. It teaches them the difference between words and reality. Look, if you reward deceit, you’ll get liars. If you reward numbers, you’ll get accountants who invent them. That’s not moral decay — that’s design.”

Host: His voice was low, measured, but beneath it lay a hint of anger, a trace of bitterness carved from too many years of watching ideals collapse under the weight of quarterly reports.

Jeeny: “So what, then? We should stop pretending values matter? Stop teaching integrity, stop writing them on the walls?”

Jack: (shrugging) “Maybe stop pretending they mean anything unless there’s a cost. Integrity isn’t real until it hurts. Enron didn’t fall because they lied — they fell because they got caught. That’s the difference between morality and marketing.”

Host: The rain began again, softly against the window, as if the sky itself were whispering its disapproval. Jeeny turned her gaze toward him, her eyes dark and searching.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s given up on the idea of goodness. But I don’t think you have. You’re just afraid it’s been bought.”

Jack: (with a short laugh) “Bought? No, Jeeny. It’s been budgeted. There’s a difference. Enron’s executives probably believed every word they said about respect and excellence — while they were rigging the markets. That’s the brilliance of hypocrisy — it feels righteous.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? That’s what makes it tragic, not clever. The moment values become PR, they stop being values. They become performance. And when that happens, the world stops trusting anyone — any company, any person — who dares to speak about morality again.”

Host: The wind picked up, rattling the windows, scattering the papers on the table. Jack reached out, steadied one — a proposal, titled Corporate Ethics Framework. His eyes lingered on it for a moment.

Jack: “You can’t build ethics by committee, Jeeny. Every company I’ve worked for — they all had their ‘values.’ Posters, seminars, policies. And every single time, those same executives found creative ways to make exceptions when the numbers didn’t look good. Integrity is negotiable — until it isn’t.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe that’s because they never understood what integrity really is. It’s not a poster — it’s a person. It’s the voice that says ‘no’ when everyone else nods. Enron didn’t fail because of greed; it failed because no one listened to that voice.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, trembling like the faint ring of a struck bell. Jack turned fully now, leaning against the table, his hands pressed flat against its surface.

Jack: “Idealism doesn’t survive the boardroom, Jeeny. People don’t get promoted for saying ‘no.’ They get remembered for delivering results, no matter how dirty. You think the whistleblowers sleep better at night? Maybe. But they also lose their jobs, their homes, their peace. Integrity’s expensive. Most can’t afford it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the price isn’t the problem — maybe it’s the buyers. Maybe we keep undervaluing the one thing that keeps the system from rotting.”

Host: The storm outside deepened; lightning flashed briefly, illuminating her face, the determination in her eyes sharper than the glow of the screen behind her.

Jeeny: “Look at what happened after Enron. Sarbanes-Oxley, reforms, transparency rules — people tried to fix it. The system can evolve. We don’t have to accept corruption as the price of ambition.”

Jack: “And yet here we are, twenty years later, watching tech giants make the same mistakes in prettier packaging. Values haven’t changed — just the fonts on the walls. You want to believe we can legislate honesty, but greed always finds a loophole.”

Jeeny: “So you think it’s hopeless?”

Jack: “No. I think it’s human.”

Host: The room fell silent again. The faint buzz of city traffic echoed below, like a restless heartbeat.

Jeeny: “Then what do you believe in, Jack? If not values?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Accountability. Not slogans — systems that make lies hurt. When the cost of dishonesty is higher than the reward, then integrity stops being optional.”

Jeeny: “But accountability isn’t born out of fear — it’s born out of belief. You can build laws, but without values, they’re just cages. People follow them only until no one’s watching.”

Host: Jack looked down at his hands, calloused from too many years typing reports, signing deals, drafting promises he knew would be broken.

Jack: “Maybe. But belief without structure is chaos. The world needs rules, not prayers.”

Jeeny: “And rules need meaning. Otherwise they’re just walls waiting to crack. Maybe the truth is — the Enrons of the world will always exist, but so will the people who expose them. That’s what keeps the balance.”

Host: Her voice softened, and for the first time, Jack’s expression shifted — less guarded, more human.

Jack: “You really think there’s balance left?”

Jeeny: “I think there’s choice. And that’s enough. Every person in that building had one moment — one chance to do the right thing. Some didn’t. But some did. And those few… they’re why we still talk about values at all.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, slow and heavy. The storm began to fade, the rain thinning to a soft whisper. Jack crossed his arms, looking out at the wet skyline, his reflection shimmering like a man at the edge of understanding.

Jack: “You know… you might be right. Maybe values aren’t lies — maybe they’re promises. Not all promises are kept, but that doesn’t make them worthless.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Exactly. They remind us what we’re supposed to be, even when we fail to be it.”

Host: The lights dimmed lower now, the city outside breathing a little slower. Jack reached for his coat, slinging it over his shoulder.

Jack: “Communication, integrity, excellence, respect,” he murmured, half to himself. “Funny how words can mean everything and nothing at the same time.”

Jeeny: “Only if we let them.”

Host: He looked at her — truly looked — and for a brief moment, something softened in his eyes.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we’re just Enron, waiting to happen?”

Jeeny: “Only if we stop listening to the voice that asks that question.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped. The streets gleamed under the soft glow of streetlights, every puddle reflecting the restless shimmer of the city — fragile, imperfect, but still alive.

Jack smiled faintly, and together they stepped into the night, their shadows merging in the wet glass of the door behind them.

Host: And there, amid the neon glow and distant thunder, the truth hung quietly — that even in a world built on profit, values are not what we write on walls, but what we choose to stand for when the lights go out.