The-Greatest-Showman

Renly managed a smile, but it was the last bit of strength he could muster. He turned, attempting to walk away with his usual grace, maintaining an air of composure. As expected, the reporters instinctively parted to create a passage for him to leave. But this time, he had overestimated his endurance.

His back was drenched in sweat. A wave of nausea surged through him, each pulse intensifying as if he were drowning, flailing against an unrelenting tide. The ocean showed no mercy, swallowing every ounce of strength he had left. When the will to survive finally flickered, a crushing despair settled over him—a quiet acceptance of defeat.

Even if Renly wanted to leave, he couldn't.

His knees wobbled, barely holding him upright. This wasn't from a physical injury, but from something deeper—Andrew's self-doubt and cowardice creeping into his psyche, draining his resolve.

Desperately, he shifted his stance, leaning slightly against the wall for support. He refused to collapse completely, but the solid presence behind him provided the faintest relief, a momentary reprieve. Yet his body still trembled, the vertigo threatening to pull him under.

Renly had never felt this weak before.

A wry smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Was this his own doing?

But nature never showed kindness. Even to the most fragile life, the ocean did not hesitate—it simply consumed.

The paparazzi seized the opportunity. Instead of dispersing, they pressed in, their encirclement tightening. The air grew thick, suffocating, as if even oxygen had no room to exist. The weight of their presence was crushing.

"Renly, can you address the latest rumors?"

"Are the reports about you and Diesel true?"

"Is it confirmed that you're working with Marvel Studios?"

"What about the scandal?"

"Are you pushing Diesel out?"

"Does this mean you're consolidating power?"

"What about the publicity stunt?"

The questions came like a storm—rapid, unrelenting, and devoid of meaning. They weren't seeking answers anymore. It was an assault, a relentless bombardment. The voices grew hostile, twisted by resentment, their eyes burning with a hunger that blurred the line between professional inquiry and personal vendetta.

The bitterness had festered too long. Now, it demanded release.

Renly deserved this, didn't he?

He had always held himself above them, hadn't he? Always untouchable, always winning. He had reached EGOT status without a single real failure. He had treated the media with cool detachment, his professionalism masking an unspoken arrogance. He had exposed their weaknesses while remaining invulnerable himself. And now, he had stumbled—he had shown a crack in the armor.

It was only fair that they seized the moment.

This was balance.

This was justice.

This was nature's way.

The faces around him twisted with cruelty, their expressions grotesque under the flashing lights. The questions morphed into accusations, then into outright attacks. They no longer needed logic—only the thrill of tearing him down.

"Does your family's nobility influence Hollywood?"

"Were the awards you won rigged?"

"Are the European film festivals biased in favor of aristocrats?"

"Do you really deserve the EGOT?"

"Do you consider yourself a good actor?"

"Did you orchestrate the scandal for publicity?"

"Are you using Diesel to make headlines?"

"Have you encountered Hollywood's unspoken rules?"

"Is it true you rejected Harvey Weinstein's advances and that's why you had a falling out?"

"Rumor has it you made a move on Jennifer Lawrence and were rejected. Did that make you bitter?"

The absurdity reached new heights. Baseless accusations, wild speculations, outright fabrications—they poured over him like toxic sludge, drowning him. The interview had become an inquisition, the questioning a purge. What had started as an opportunity had devolved into vengeance.

Renly was trapped, nowhere to run.

His back pressed against the cold wall. He had no strength left to dodge, no will left to fight. The hurricane of voices raged around him, deafening. Even his thoughts were overtaken by the relentless pounding—

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The relentless drumming of his own heartbeat. The pulsing, the pounding, the suffocating rhythm echoing through his skull.

He had done this to himself, hadn't he?

A hollow chuckle escaped him, barely a breath. Edith was right—he was a fool. His stubbornness, his pride, his ego... they would be his undoing. And yet, did he regret it?

No. Not for a second.

He was an absolute fool.

His body gave way.

Slowly, he sank to the ground, clutching his head as if to block out the pain. But there was no escape. The agony wasn't physical—it was rooted deep within him, impossible to silence. A silent scream built inside him, clawing for release.

And then, amidst the chaos, a flicker of white light.

A single, errant vision—

Disjointed, blurred, just out of reach. He reached for it, desperate to grasp something real, something solid, but before his fingers could close around it, the light vanished.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

—

The paparazzi's voices continued, but the fervor began to wane. The thrill of the hunt had faded. What once felt exhilarating had become... empty.

Attacking a defenseless man—where was the satisfaction in that?

The excitement had burned out as quickly as it had ignited. The reality of what they had done settled in, chilling them more than they cared to admit. Their bloodlust dulled, reason returning like a slow tide.

Then, a voice broke through the uneasy silence.

"Renly?"

"Renly!"

Panic surged.

The man before them had gone utterly still. No movement. No resistance. Just an eerie stillness.

Something was wrong.

Their gazes met, uncertainty flickering in their eyes. Someone muttered a curse. Someone else shifted uneasily. The adrenaline drained away, leaving behind nothing but the weight of their actions.

What had they done?