The-Greatest-Showman

On a quiet afternoon, New York seemed subdued. Dark clouds gathered over Manhattan, muting the sunlight as it struggled to pierce the dense steel jungle. The cityscape, draped in shades of gray, loomed over the bustling streets, where the midsummer heat radiated off the pavement in waves. The air was thick, oppressive, and unrelenting—prompting pedestrians to unbutton their shirts in vain attempts at relief.

On Fifty-seventh Street, however, a semblance of calm lingered. Middle-class patrons sipped afternoon tea beneath café umbrellas, ticket scalpers lurked in the shadows outside Carnegie Hall, and students sketched quietly on street corners. The heat remained, but the usual cacophony was dulled.

Then, without warning, the atmosphere shifted. A ripple of excitement surged through the crowd, like a stone tossed into still water. Heads turned, eyes darted, and a collective murmur rose. Yet, there was no clear cause—no luxury car procession, no street performance, no protest march. Only a handful of figures running in the same direction, converging toward the Juilliard School.

Then, the anomaly expanded.

More figures broke from their positions—a young man folding his newspaper at a café, a businessman loitering near a bookstore, an artist flipping through performance listings at Carnegie Hall. One by one, they sprinted toward the same destination, their movements synchronized in eerie unison.

Confusion gripped the onlookers. What was happening? A live-action spy thriller? A hidden-camera prank? No signs indicated a film shoot, yet the scene mirrored an elaborate sting operation, with agents springing from the woodwork in pursuit of an elusive target.

Then, the name erupted from the crowd: "Renly!"

For a moment, there was doubt. Which Renly? Could it be that Renly? The realization hit like an electric current, igniting excitement in an instant.

What started as a trickle became a flood. Like raindrops forming a torrent, more people emerged—five or six at first, then a dozen, then twenty, then more. They materialized from alleyways, doorways, parked cars—an unstoppable wave converging on one figure.

Renly, clad simply in a white t-shirt and jeans, looked like any other Juilliard student. Yet his presence alone sent the street into chaos.

"Renly! There are rumors you're returning to the 'Degree and Passion' series! Is it true?"

"Reports say your conflict with Vin Diesel is irreconcilable. Care to comment?"

"Did you and Melissa Benoist have an affair that led to her breakup with Blake Jenner?"

"Universal has two projects linked to you—does this mean the feud is over?"

"Paul Walker—what role does he play in your decision?"

"Is it true you're starring in 'Guardians of the Galaxy'? Filming has already started!"

For two days, industry gossip had fixated on Renly. Scandals, career moves, feuds—it was all too tantalizing. Paparazzi had swarmed New York, lying in wait near the 'Boom Drummer' set. Hours of patient lurking had finally paid off.

They pounced.

Renly's first instinct was to turn away. He had no desire to engage in this circus, to be the centerpiece of their spectacle. He understood the game, accepted his role in the media ecosystem—but today was different. Today, he wanted no part of it.

He pivoted, taking one step. Then another. But the shouts came like cracks of thunder, shattering the street's tranquility. His feet faltered.

A moment of hesitation. Two conflicting instincts clashed within him.

One voice whispered: Face them. Get it over with. Avoid the inevitable chase.

The other snarled: Run. They're here to humiliate you. They see the cracks in your performance, the failures, the moments of self-doubt.

His mind throbbed. It was too late.

The paparazzi had formed a perimeter, cutting off every escape route. Like wolves closing in on prey, they left no room for retreat. Renly stood his ground, turning to meet their relentless barrage of questions. Yet the chaos in his mind refused to settle.

Shame. Resignation. Frustration. Determination. The emotions clashed, leaving him unmoored. His senses misfired—faces blurred, voices distorted, distances warped. The air itself seemed to shift between stifling heat and icy cold.

His muscles tensed as though bracing for impact. Each shouted word struck like a blow:

"Renly!"

"Scandal!"

"Paul Walker!"

"Contract!"

"Feud!"

"Official statement!"

The questions crashed over him like waves in a storm, relentless, suffocating. His heartbeat faltered, seized by an unseen force, squeezed tight like a vice.

Breathless. Disoriented. Drowning.

The world around him blurred into a haze of flashing cameras and frenzied voices. Darkness threatened the edges of his vision, pressing in, smothering.

And then—

Silence.

A beat of stillness before the next storm.