The-Greatest-Showman

Ryan Gosling is a paradox—a cold-hearted comedian with a playful, endearing charm. Only those who spend enough time with him truly understand this duality.

Standing between Rooney and Paul, Ryan peeked from side to side, observing their unimpressed expressions. With an exaggerated shrug, he muttered in a mock-disappointed tone, "You guys have no sense of humor."

Even he knew this wasn't the best time for jokes. The atmosphere was tense, and Renly's right hand still dripped with blood, an unsettling sight. Still, Ryan had made an effort to lighten the mood; whether it worked was out of his control.

His gaze flickered between his companions, still met with silence. Undeterred, he performed an impromptu sleight-of-hand trick, producing a handful of colorful candies. With an enthusiastic flourish, he extended his arms between Rooney and Paul, offering the treats. "Candy?" The bright hues gleamed in his palm, evoking a lively summer scene.

Rooney and Paul exchanged glances but didn't budge.

Breaking the stalemate, Renly stepped forward, selecting a candy and deliberately unwrapping it. His trembling fingers betrayed his exhaustion, but he took his time, finally popping the sweet into his mouth. With a faint smile, he encouraged, "Pick one. Otherwise, Ryan will be heartbroken."

Ryan nodded dramatically, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes. His exaggerated gratitude managed to crack Rooney and Paul's stoic expressions, drawing soft chuckles. Rooney even took the time to sort through the candies, pondering aloud, "Is there a mint one? I suddenly really want mint."

Rather than being offended by the pickiness, Ryan brightened. "Of course!" he declared with excitement.

To him, candy was more than just a snack—it was a marker of friendship. If someone refused his offer, they were merely acquaintances. But if they accepted, especially with personal preferences, it meant a deeper bond. He thrived on such small observations.

"Now I want a mint one, too," Ryan added, rummaging through his collection. "God, Renly, do you know how awful this place smells? I need fresh air. Are all your shoots this bloody? I've heard rumors that you sacrifice a crew member every time. Looks like it's true!"

His morbid humor lifted the mood. Unlike Paul and Rooney, Ryan had never worked closely with Renly, his perception shaped by rumors rather than experience. After witnessing today's grueling shoot, his concerns had eased—this was just Renly's process. His EGOT status and industry acclaim spoke for themselves.

"I'm working on it," Renly quipped dryly. "Haven't found my next target yet, but I'll keep trying." Then, turning to Paul, he added, "I need to clean this up. See you tonight at Pioneer Village?"

Paul hesitated. Something felt off.

Despite his usual composure, there was a coldness in Renly's demeanor—an uncharacteristic detachment. In the past, even at his most reserved, he exuded warmth. Now, there was only an icy distance.

"Renly, are you sure you're okay?" Paul asked. "You should rest. We're just here to visit, no pressure."

Rooney and Ryan silently echoed his concern.

Renly's smile remained unchanged. "The next scene is a date. I'll get to relax. We all need a little downtime, right?"

Paul opened his mouth, then closed it, uncertain.

With a reassuring pat on Paul's shoulder and a nod to the others, Renly walked away.

Silence lingered until Ryan exhaled dramatically. "Jesus Christ. Does he do this every time? This is insane."

Away from the group, Renly's faint smile faded. Fatigue hit him like a wave.

He leaned against the wall, catching his breath. The sugar rush from Ryan's candy helped, but exhaustion seeped through his bones. His muscles ached, every fiber protesting.

"Renly, are you alright?" Nathan's voice cut through his thoughts.

Seeing Renly's pale lips and damp forehead, Nathan didn't wait for an answer. "I'm getting the car. Meet me at the side entrance. We're going to the hospital."

The downside of indie productions: no on-set doctors, no medical team. Budgets were tight. Andre Hamilton had once offered to increase funding for logistics, but Renly refused—this wasn't a blockbuster requiring an entire medical unit.

Still, today's accident was unexpected.

Renly had already pressed a handkerchief to his wound. It wasn't deep, no severed veins, no excessive blood loss—just an unfortunate combination of friction and pressure. The hospital trip was mostly for disinfection.

Without a word, he nodded, signaling his agreement. Nathan, flustered, jogged off toward the parking lot, his stocky frame moving as fast as it could.

Renly closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. A fleeting moment of calm. Then, without thinking, his injured hand started tapping out a rhythm against his leg.

He was losing himself in the music again.

Shaking off the trance, he forced his eyes open and pushed himself forward, heading toward the side door.

Juilliard, like most New York universities, blended into the cityscape rather than existing as a secluded campus. The side door was an unofficial exit, a shortcut to the main street.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, he scanned for Nathan's car. No sign of him.

Before he could settle, movement across the street caught his eye—paparazzi. Five, maybe six, weaving through the bustling crowd.

Instinct kicked in. Renly turned, walking briskly in the opposite direction. He wasn't in the mood for media attention. Not today.

But the photographers weren't letting him go that easily. "Renly! Wait!" one shouted, breaking into a sprint.

Renly clenched his jaw, quickening his pace. He didn't even know what they were after—his latest project hadn't sparked any major controversies.

Or had it?