#902 Eight Hundred and Sixty-Five Water Leaks

The street was quiet and spacious, yet crowds of people had gathered, creating a scene of bustle and noise. At least two hundred and fifty people were packed together, shoulder to shoulder, their voices filling the air. The sidewalks on both sides were already overflowing, and the sea of people began spilling into the street, like a hornet's nest that had just fallen to the ground. The heads, densely packed, continued to stretch out, inch by inch.

The low hum of their conversations slowly eroded the stillness of the early morning, disturbing the peace of the community. It was a sight to behold.

Though this was Hollywood, with its many stars, paparazzi, and endless buzz, such large, noisy crowds were usually confined to the upscale neighborhoods of Beverly Hills or the highlands near Burbank. In ordinary residential communities, this kind of spectacle was rare—an event typically reserved for top-tier superstars.

The crowd continued to grow, swelling in size. This was no ordinary gathering; this was the kind of frenzy reserved for the biggest stars.

In the distance, Cornell-McGregor saw the chaos spilling out into the street as his taxi approached. He signaled for the driver to stop at the intersection, opened the door, and quickly prepared his camera and voice recorder. With quick steps, Cornell made his way toward the scene.

As he moved forward, the crowd's attention shifted toward him. In that moment, it felt as though a beam of spotlight had fallen on him, and he became the center of the world. Eyes from all directions focused on him—curiosity, amazement, suspicion, contempt, provocation, envy... all sorts of gazes landed on his skin, each a mix of heat and weight. His heart raced, his blood quickened, and even his footsteps seemed lighter, as though he were walking on air.

Pride, excitement, contentment, and self-assurance surged within him, and for a moment, Cornell felt as though he stood atop the world, gazing down at all the mountains below. The sensation of being the center of attention was intoxicating.

Even fellow reporters were fixated on him. The entertainment industry had become a circus, with everyone clamoring for their moment in the spotlight. The celebrity halo had started to fade, and the media frenzy that followed only intensified, creating a new era of celebrity entertainment.

Cornell clenched his fists in silent celebration, savoring the thrill of success, but outwardly, he remained composed—indifferent, as if all of this was insignificant, merely a byproduct of his unyielding pursuit of "the truth." He nodded politely to the eyes upon him, adopting the demeanor of a president fulfilling his "duties."

It was barely 8:15 in the morning, yet the scene outside Renly's apartment had already reached fever pitch. The crowd had swelled to over 300 people—a number even Los Angeles, during awards season, rarely saw.

In fact, Cornell couldn't help but recall the commotion surrounding Whitney Houston's sudden passing the week before. Even the media frenzy at the Hilton Hotel hadn't been as overwhelming as this.

Almost three-quarters of the media covering the awards season had dispatched reporters to cover this breaking story. But still, Renly had not responded in any way. With no public social media accounts, Renly's only communication channel was through Andy Rogers and Eleven Studio, who had remained silent, only saying, "We're waiting for Renly's response."

And so, the reporters gathered—waiting for Renly to break his silence before he returned to New York, before the news cycle cooled. And then... it would be back to stoking the flames.

Cornell, like a skilled bullfighter, maneuvered through the crowd. His status as a "whistleblower" seemed to grant him unspoken privileges, as fellow reporters made way for him to get to the front. He was moving into position for the prize, and this was exactly what he had been waiting for.

With a smile, he greeted the crowd, waving to his "supporters" before he stepped onto the front lines, as if he were preparing to take the final blow. His confidence was palpable, his energy infectious—this was his moment.

When Gavin Hunter arrived on the scene, he couldn't believe what he was witnessing. Cornell, who had once been a classmate, a friend, a rival, and a partner, was now the very image of everything he despised. Gavin shook his head in disbelief. How could Cornell, of all people, have written that absurd, shallow article for Entertainment Weekly?

It wasn't just the content—it was the sheer sleaziness of it. The Cornell standing before him was no longer someone he recognized.

Gavin wanted to confront him, to demand answers, but something held him back. He turned his focus back to the apartment, waiting for Renly's response, and more importantly, for his comeback.

As an insider in the industry, Gavin knew just how much of the Entertainment Weekly article was fabricated. He also knew how many journalists would turn a blind eye to the truth, choosing to play along for a story.

The door to the apartment creaked open, and suddenly, the crowd erupted.

The reporters surged forward in a tidal wave, pushing against each other, trying to get a glimpse of Renly. The noise, the chaos, the frenzy—it was overwhelming.

"Renly! Renly! Renly!" they shouted, each wave of voices crashing against the others.

But then, amidst the tumult, a voice called out, "It's not Renly! It's not Renly!" The shout was barely audible, but it did little to stop the storm of bodies pushing forward.

It wasn't Renly at all. It was Nathan, casually carrying a bag of trash.

The crowd's frenzy immediately slowed, a ripple of confusion passing through the mass. Nathan, wearing a bemused expression, smiled faintly and pointed behind him, saying, "Renly's just behind me. Hold on."

Nathan's actions seemed almost absurd in this context. Even something as simple as throwing away trash was enough to capture the attention of the reporters. Every little detail, every small move was now fair game for the media.

Gavin couldn't help himself—he burst out laughing. Was this all a setup? Had Renly orchestrated this moment to mock the reporters?

Nathan disappeared into the garage, leaving the reporters to return to their positions in front of the door, their eyes still locked on it.

And then, Renly appeared.

He stepped out with Andy and Roy in tow.

"Is the concert just a publicity stunt?"

"Is there a hidden agenda behind the Grammys?"

"Is the timing of this concert related to the Oscars?"

"Have you been exploiting patients to create buzz?"

"How do you respond to accusations of manufactured image-building?"

The questions came in a flood, faster than anyone could process them. Voices overlapped, and reporters struggled to be heard over the collective roar of questions. It was chaos.

Renly stood silently at the top of the stairs, surveying the scene below him. With the railings and the height providing a natural barrier, he allowed the storm of questions to subside, waiting patiently until the noise eventually dulled.

When it did, he smiled and greeted them with a simple, "Good morning."