The-Greatest-Showman

Renly felt his head was about to explode. Countless sounds buzzed in his ears, compressing his thoughts, squeezing the space in his mind until it felt like the air itself was being drained away. A slow, creeping suffocation took hold, tightening in his chest, his lungs, his very core. Pain—sharp and needling—spread like a tidal wave through his body, setting his nerves on fire.

Calm down.

Calm down.

He forced himself to take a breath, murmuring under his breath:

This isn't the first time, and it won't be the last. This is his life. This is the path he has chosen. No matter how much he despises it at times, he cannot relish the spotlight of his career while rejecting the inevitable darkness that comes with it.

He needed to control himself—contain himself—before dealing with the chaos in front of him.

But it was not easy.

His mind spiraled between two worlds. Andrew's vulnerability, his shame, his anxiety—twisting, growing, overtaking. Those emotions gnawed at the edges of Renly's own sanity, seeping through like ink into water. The wound on his palm pulsed—a breach in his otherwise impenetrable armor, through which all his darkest, ugliest fears poured in.

And then there was the noise. The unrelenting barrage of paparazzi, their voices crashing against him like relentless waves, pummeling him, disorienting him. Every flash of a camera, every shouted question, felt like a strike to the ribs, like blows landing in a ring where he could not fight back. His vision blurred, the world tilting on its axis.

He needed to silence them before he could even begin to think.

But the real battle was within. If he spoke now, if he let his voice shake, he would lose everything.

With no other choice, Renly clenched his fists.

Pain flared instantly. The wound on his palm split open, warm blood oozing between his fingers. It spread up his arm, mingling with the deep ache of his muscles, each throb pulling him closer to the edge of unconsciousness. His breath caught as his body screamed for oxygen.

Torment.

The sensation was unbearable—not just the physical pain, not just the exhaustion, but the loss of control, the warping of reality, the unraveling of everything he had built. The lines blurred between Renly and Andrew, between what was real and what was performance.

"Quiet!" The word tore from his throat, raw, desperate.

But it wasn't enough.

"Quiet! Quiet! Quiet!" The repeated roar was almost unrecognizable, filled with something primal and dangerous. It echoed with the madness of a man teetering on the edge—Andrew, who had been pushed past his breaking point. Andrew, who had stepped into the abyss.

For a brief moment, silence.

But as soon as the echoes faded, shame flooded in.

For Renly, the loss of composure was catastrophic. He had spent years cultivating control, navigating the media with effortless charm. But this outburst? It was a fatal slip. The paparazzi—like vultures scenting a dying animal—would tear him apart.

For Andrew, the story was different. Fletcher's torment had only just begun. The fire in Andrew's chest had ignited, fueling an unyielding drive. But he had not yet descended fully into the darkness. Not yet.

Renly squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself for letting go.

So, what now?

His thoughts remained tangled, his hands unsteady, his control slipping further with each passing second. No matter how hard he fought, panic tightened its grip, spiraling him into an endless loop of anxiety.

And then, suddenly, the air changed.

The paparazzi, once rabid in their pursuit, faltered. More than forty of them surrounded Renly in an impenetrable circle, cameras poised, anticipation thick in the atmosphere.

Nathan arrived just in time to see the scene unfold. Panic jolted through him, sending him charging forward. He didn't care about blocking traffic or where he left the car—he had only one thought: get to Renly. He shoved against the wall of reporters, but the sheer number of them made it impossible. Desperate, he turned and sprinted toward Juilliard. He needed backup. Now.

The reporters barely noticed Nathan's departure. Their focus remained solely on Renly.

But something was off.

Renly should have taken control by now. He should have turned the situation in his favor, steered the narrative like he always did. But he hadn't. Instead, he stood there, silent, his usual self-assured composure nowhere to be found.

One by one, the reporters picked up on the anomaly.

This wasn't Renly.

His skin, usually glowing with effortless confidence, had lost its color. His light brown eyes, typically sharp and knowing, flickered with something foreign—uncertainty, maybe even fear. He looked disoriented, raw, almost fragile. The grace and poise that defined him had crumbled.

If not for his unmistakable features, they might have assumed they were looking at a stranger.

What had happened?

The reporters exchanged glances, whispering amongst themselves.

Renly inhaled sharply, forcing himself to regain control. The disorientation—the fraying of reality—had to stop. He clung to the moment, stabilizing just enough to form words. The pain in his hand flared again, grounding him in its sharp clarity.

Even filming The Cancer-fighting Me had not been this brutal.

"Sorry," he murmured, summoning a small, weary smile. It wasn't his best performance, but it was all he had. He straightened his posture, forcing himself to look composed. "I'm not feeling well today. I can't do an interview right now. But let's set something up—maybe tonight, maybe after I wrap up. Tomorrow morning, if necessary."

He paused, raising an eyebrow. "You've all waited long enough, haven't you? I know I'm not the easiest person to catch. Consider this your lucky day."

A weak attempt at humor. A desperate grasp at control.

But the sand was slipping through his fingers.

The nausea surged again. His vision blurred. His knees buckled, forcing him to take an unsteady step back. He leaned, just slightly, against the nearby wall, his body growing heavier with each second.

The white handkerchief wrapped around his palm had turned red, the wound bleeding freely now. The color spread—slowly, insidiously—like a flower blooming in the snow.

And still, the paparazzi didn't move.

They saw it. The weakness. The vulnerability. The cracks in his armor.

And they weren't about to let this moment slip away.

They had waited years to see Renly Hall exposed.

Now or never.