The Greatest Showman #911 - Bereaved Dog

"So, what's the difference between these print media and supermarket tabloids?"

The question from The New York Times is sharp and pointed, simple yet direct, and it strikes at the soft underbelly of every journalist. Every reporter claims to be different from the paparazzi, even disdaining to stand side-by-side with supermarket tabloids.

But now, Bradley-Adams' questioning feels like a flogging, brutally and deeply probing the state of contemporary news. At the same time, it drags Entertainment Weekly through the mud, alongside World News Weekly, National Enquirer, and others.

This is the real shame.

When the truth was revealed, Entertainment Weekly and Cornell were thrust into the spotlight, becoming the target of concentrated fire. It was the epitome of what it means to be "spoofed and written about." In comparison, the crisis Renly faced just the week before now seemed trivial—this was a storm, not just a drizzle.

Everywhere. Nowhere to run.

Cornell McGregor truly felt the sting of being a "bereaved dog"—the transition from the pinnacle of success to the depths of shame had taken only one night. Panic and anger churned inside him, frustration giving way to helplessness.

He parked his car on the side of the road, staring down at his shirt, now stained with egg yolk and dripping protein liquid.

Earlier, in the supermarket, two young people had recognized him. They shouted "liar!" and pelted him with eggs, forcing him to duck his head and flee. He could feel their scorn and contempt in every glance, in every smirk. As if in a daze, he fled the store, but the assault didn't stop there. They threw more eggs at the car as he sped away.

No one, not even a real criminal, should experience this. Cornell felt like a rat in the street, a disgraced figure. The notoriety of his situation was now undeniable.

His mind boiled with anger as he watched the thick, viscous liquid drip from his shirt. He was furious but helpless. Shaking his head, he opened the car door, ready to return home and change. But as soon as he left the parking lot, he saw a massive crowd gathered outside his apartment—at least two hundred people, a wave of heat rising from the throng.

Cornell stood frozen for a moment, still processing. Then the realization hit him—today, he wasn't a bystander, but the one being hunted. He was the target, the one besieged. The reporters were now waiting to use their pens like daggers, ready to carve him into the next headline.

He caught sight of two reporters in the crowd, their eyes falling on him with curiosity. A chill ran through him, his heart skipped a beat, and panic set in. Instinctively, he turned, rushed to hide behind a wall, his pulse racing and his chest tight. The cold sweat began to bead down his face, his body trembling uncontrollably.

His mind went blank. Survival instinct took over. He dashed back to the parking lot, jumped into his car, locked the door, reclined the seat, and tried to breathe. Desperately, he prayed not to be found.

His breathing was rapid, erratic, as his anger boiled over, muttering curses under his breath. "Damn it. Damn it. Damn it."

It was all Renly's fault.

Renly had set the trap, lured him in with false promises, and once he'd taken the bait, the net had been pulled tight, leaving him with no room to escape. The conspiracy was clear.

Without Renly, how had he ended up in such a disgraceful position?

Gossip and scandal were always a mix of fact and interpretation—nothing new in the entertainment industry. But everyone else could play the game, while he, Cornell, was the one being viciously torn apart. A pariah. A bereaved dog.

It was all because of Renly.

His rage reached a boiling point, and he slammed his fist against the car door. But the moment he did, his eyes caught sight of the crowd rushing toward him, and his fury turned to despair.

"Shit," he cursed under his breath.

His hands shaking, he lay flat on the seat, holding his breath, hoping the crowd wouldn't find him. But it was too late. A reporter was already at his window, eyes wide, peering in, searching for any hint of movement inside.

Cornell knew he'd been spotted.

Without thinking, he started the car and attempted to drive away, but it was no use. The crowd surged forward, flooding the parking lot like an uncontrollable wave, surrounding his car with no way out. Three layers of reporters surrounded the car, and the number only grew, pushing against the vehicle, trapping him inside.

He knew this tactic well—building a human wall around the car, restricting movement until the driver or passengers had no choice but to step out for an interview.

Except now, the roles were reversed. Cornell had always been the one on the outside, but now, he was the one trapped inside, like a turtle in a shell.

The reporters began pounding on the windows with relentless force. The car trembled under the pressure, and Cornell feared it might shatter at any moment. The noise was deafening, the staccato of knocks piercing through his skull, the world closing in on him.

There was no escape.

Despair washed over him. The pain, the humiliation, it all rushed forward, threatening to tear him apart. The reporters shouted their questions—each one more aggressive than the last:

"Cornell, why are you making up the news?"

"Did you know slander is a crime?"

"Have you fabricated other stories?"

"Did you choose to slander Renly because of personal vendettas?"

"What do you have to say for yourself after deceiving the public?"

The barrage of questions was overwhelming. The voices filled his head, roaring louder than the pounding on the car. His mind was clouded, no space to think, no space to breathe.

The pressure mounted. His eyes began to lose focus, his mind splintering under the weight of it all. His soul felt like it was crumbling under the onslaught.

Then, Cornell screamed, "Ah! Ahh!" His reason was slipping, and his scream sounded like that of a madman. He clawed at the air, desperate to resist, desperate for an escape. The tension in his body snapped, and in that moment, warmth spread in his lower body, the liquid pooling at his feet.

But no one noticed. Or if they did, they didn't care. This was entertainment. The more humiliation, the better.

The questions kept coming, unrelenting:

"You're silent because you feel guilty, aren't you?"

"Will Renly sue you in court?"

"Why are you refusing to respond? Is there more to the story?"

The cameras closed in, capturing every second, every detail, recording his downfall. Some reporters even grabbed at his clothes, tearing at the fabric.

All Cornell could do was protect his head, curling up as much as he could. The world had collapsed around him.

What Renly had endured, Cornell was now experiencing, magnified a thousand times. The disaster and suffering were no longer just an abstract idea—they were his reality.