The-Greatest-Showman

Renly?

"Renly!"

The paparazzi froze, momentarily stunned. A brief silence fell over the scene—a bizarre, surreal pause—but it lasted only for a fleeting second. A panicked voice shattered the stillness like a thunderclap, snapping everyone back to reality. Heads turned in unison.

Nathan appeared first, breathless and frantic, followed closely by Roy Lockley, Paul Walker, Ryan Gosling, Rooney Mara, Damien Chazelle, Melissa Benoist, J.K. Simmons, and a trailing crowd of concerned faces. The group surged forward like a powerful tide, their urgency cutting through the suffocating tension.

Paul and Nathan led the charge, their presence fierce and unrelenting as they collided with the paparazzi.

The scene descended into chaos. The journalists, still reeling from their own adrenaline rush, had yet to fully comprehend the situation. Some instinctively stepped back; others, emboldened, stood their ground, forming a human barricade.

"Are you insane? Get out of the way!" Paul roared, his voice raw with fury. His fists clenched, his entire body coiled like a spring before he lunged forward, bulldozing through the crowd. The sheer force of his momentum sent people scattering.

The rest of Renly's friends followed suit, pushing past the reporters in their desperate attempt to reach him. And there he was—Renly Hall, drenched in sweat, his face pallid and ashen.

"God! Renly! Renly! What's wrong? Jesus Christ, what have you done?! Wake up!"

"Move! He needs air! You vultures, get back!"

"Nathan, call 911! Now!"

"Renly! Can you hear me? Renly!"

Their panic spiraled into a fever pitch.

A hush fell over most of the paparazzi. The gravity of the moment dawned upon them—this wasn't just another scandal, another headline. Their actions had consequences. A few glanced down at their hands, as if expecting to find them stained with blood. The weight of the moment pressed upon them like an anvil.

So, this is what it feels like to push someone too far.

But not all of them hesitated.

For some, this was an opportunity—a rare, golden moment. Whether Renly had collapsed from exhaustion, stress, or something worse, it didn't matter. The spectacle was worth thousands, even millions. Flashes erupted again.

Click.

Click.

Some deliberately aimed their flashes at Paul and Ryan, their pupils burning under the harsh white light. They wanted a reaction. A scuffle. A punch. If Paul lost control—if his fist connected with a reporter's face—then the jackpot would be theirs.

Entertain to death.

This was the essence of modern entertainment. Human life was secondary to the spectacle. The more tragic, the better. And after all, wasn't it just Renly Hall?

"You goddamn vultures!" Paul exploded, his rage tearing through the air. "Do you even have a conscience? He could be dying, and you're still snapping pictures like parasites?!"

His fury was volcanic, untamed. He lunged, but Ryan caught him in time, gripping his arms tightly. "Paul, don't!" Ryan's voice was sharp with urgency. "Renly needs us more!"

"LET ME GO!" Paul thrashed, spit flying from his lips as he screamed. "They're KILLING HIM! THEY'RE EXECUTIONERS!"

Paul had always been a steady presence—a man of humility, warmth, and quiet charm. Never one to chase fame or engage in industry politics. But now, he was unrecognizable, consumed by a righteous fury that threatened to consume him whole.

Ryan's grip tightened. "Paul, look at him! Renly's fading! We need to help him, NOW!"

Ryan's voice cracked, fear lacing his words. His own hands trembled as he turned his gaze back to Renly. A wave of sheer panic washed over him. His breathing hitched. What if—

Paul, jolted by the fear in Ryan's voice, refocused. He stopped struggling, but his voice still cut through the madness: "Get the hell out of here! NOW!"

The cameras continued flashing, capturing Paul's rage, Ryan's desperation, and the suffocating chaos.

How grotesque. How obscene. How ironic.

And still, the photographers refused to stop.

One managed to push past the others, camera lens zooming in on Renly's ghostly face. Their fingers twitched over the shutter button—how had they forgotten to take close-ups before?

More followed. The temptation was irresistible. It was now or never.

Flashes reignited, bathing Renly in a blinding white storm.

Paul clenched his fists, but this time, Ryan acted first.

"GET THE HELL AWAY!"

With no hesitation, Ryan and Paul charged, fists swinging. Their explosive momentum sent the reporters scrambling, scattering like rats caught in a flood. Some tripped over themselves, others barely dodged the blows. But even as they fled, they twisted their cameras toward Paul and Ryan, capturing every movement—crafting their own narrative where they were the victims and the actors were the villains.

The insanity escalated.

Nathan, Simmons, and the others joined the fray, trying to shield Renly from prying eyes. But they were outnumbered. The paparazzi were everywhere, slipping through cracks like cockroaches, their lenses omnipresent.

And then, the bystanders joined in.

From across the street, people pulled out their phones. Some snapped pictures, others recorded videos, their fingers racing to upload onto social media. They tagged, they captioned, they speculated.

No one called the police.

No one intervened.

This was the essence of 21st-century entertainment culture:

Disaster wasn't something to be stopped—it was something to be shared.

Fire, accidents, tragedy—it all had to be documented first, posted second, and maybe, just maybe, addressed third.

Emotion was currency.

Heartbreak, rage, sorrow, hysteria—it was all content.

True entertainment to death.

...

The chaos spiraled beyond control. The crowd thickened, drawn by rumors that spread like wildfire. Some claimed Renly had been attacked. Others said he had lashed out. The story morphed with each passing second.

Manhattan's 57th Street, a sanctuary of art and culture, had transformed into a circus. A place once filled with galleries and theaters was now a battlefield of flashing lights and morbid curiosity.

As the spectacle grew, traffic stalled. Cars honked in frustration. Pedestrians jostled to get a glimpse. And amidst it all, the paparazzi—quietly, stealthily—began retreating. The damage had been done. Their work was complete.

And they would walk away, blameless.