The Greatest Showman#1378 - No distractions
In his line of sight, Renly sat alone in the practice room, a dumb drum in front of him, leaning slightly into it. The metronome beside him clicked steadily, and with drumsticks in both hands, he remained entirely focused. He wasn't practicing anything complex, just the most basic sixty beats per minute.
Deliberate. Measured. Unwavering.
Even from a distance, Johansson could see Renly adjusting his drumming strength and movement—fine-tuning his wrist, fingertips, and body posture. Each subtle shift ensured an even, stable output, making every strike fuller and richer.
It was an arduous and monotonous process.
To maintain such concentration, one had to simultaneously track the metronome and their own drumming. Matching rhythm was just the beginning—understanding the nuances of each beat, recognizing even the slightest variation in force, and making precise micro-adjustments required relentless focus. That was why the exercise remained at a slow sixty beats per minute; any faster, and the loss of detail would make refinement impossible. Mastery of the fundamentals came first—only then could one increase speed, moving up to one hundred, then one hundred twenty, and beyond.
Even professional drummers found it difficult to commit to such tedious practice. Johansson, having endured similar training himself, knew the pain all too well—the boredom, the frustration, the creeping sense of stagnation. He had seen many give up, unwilling to endure the slow grind of perfection.
In an age where instant gratification ruled, where patience and diligence were in short supply, such dedication was rare.
But Renly Hall?
Johansson's first instinct was skepticism. Was there a hidden camera filming this? A reality show? A documentary? Was Renly merely constructing an image—another calculated move for publicity and commercial gain?
Johansson's gaze darted around, scanning the room for any signs of a production crew. He found nothing.
"What's with your neck? You look like a lunatic. Or did you start drinking before sundown?"
A teasing voice from the hallway jolted him. Johansson turned, momentarily flustered, before recognizing the newcomer. He exhaled sharply in relief. "Laura, do you know anything about this? Did someone rent this practice room? Or did he just wander in? What the hell is going on?"
His words tumbled out, disjointed and frantic, as he struggled to articulate his thoughts.
Laura Frost, a student at New York University's School of Music and a student union officer, was responsible for scheduling the practice rooms. If anyone knew, it would be her.
"Who?" Laura leaned forward, peeking inside. "Oh, Renly? Don't you know? Isn't he in your class? I assumed this was arranged by your instructor."
She blinked, then clarified, "He books four hours of practice room time every day—two hours in the morning and two more after class."
Johansson froze.
Four hours? Every day?
"Why?" The question escaped him before he could stop it.
Laura chuckled. "I asked him the same thing a couple of days ago. He joked that he was preparing for the Juilliard entrance exam but lacked natural talent, so he had to make up for it with extra practice. He's got a sense of humor, don't you think?"
She then noticed Johansson's stunned expression and tilted her head. "You don't agree? Or do you just not like him? Every time I've spoken to Renly, he's been approachable. We've even had some interesting discussions about stage performance. I only wish we had more time—he's always so focused on practice."
Johansson's mind was in turmoil. There were too many revelations to process, too many contradictions he couldn't reconcile.
"...Four hours a day?" he finally muttered.
Laura nodded. "Four hours."
A wave of humiliation surged through Johansson. He had lectured Renly about the importance of foundational skills. He had assumed Renly's rapid progress was due to sheer talent or luck. But in reality, Renly had been putting in the work—more work than any of them.
Seven days of dumb drum practice. Eight hours a day. For a beginner, this level of commitment was staggering.
"He did it on purpose." The thought shattered through Johansson's mind like a bullet. "He's been practicing in secret, just to show off in class—to humiliate me. He's been playing the long game, waiting for the moment to make me look like a fool."
His words came faster, tumbling over each other. "It's all a performance! There's not a shred of sincerity in him. He thrives on admiration, on proving how superior he is. He wants people to be amazed—wants to put me in my place."
Laura blinked, momentarily caught off guard by Johansson's outburst. She hesitated before responding, carefully choosing her words.
"Johansson... I don't mean to be rude, but the truth is, you and I? We're nothing to him. He has no reason to target you. He doesn't need to. We're not as important as we think we are."
Johansson's eyes widened, his anger flaring.
Laura raised her hands in surrender but remained firm. "More importantly, Renly chose to practice on his own. He wasn't forced into it, and he didn't do it just to prove a point. No one dedicates eight hours a day just to win a petty argument."
She shrugged. "I don't think Renly operates like that. And frankly, if he wanted to put someone in their place, he could do it in far simpler ways."
She didn't say the rest—that Renly didn't need mind games when his skills and achievements alone could silence any critic.
Johansson opened his mouth, but no words came. He felt a storm of emotions—anger, frustration, shame—all tangled together, pressing against his chest. He wanted to lash out, to insist that he was right, but the words died in his throat.
Laura sighed. "Look, I have things to do. Let's talk another time." She turned to leave but paused at the corner of the hallway. "By the way, don't worry about the equipment. Renly always puts everything back before he leaves."
Then she was gone.
Johansson stood frozen, his emotions ricocheting inside him. Slowly, his gaze returned to the practice room.
Renly remained lost in concentration. His focus never wavered, his world reduced to the rhythm of his drumsticks against the pad. In that room, there was no audience, no performance—just a musician refining his craft.
The realization stung.
Johansson had spent so much time scrutinizing Renly, trying to uncover flaws, searching for deception. But in the end, the only one left exposed was himself.
Renly had never needed to prove anything.
Johansson clenched his fists, the urge to strike something burning inside him. He wanted to tear away Renly's mask, to force out some imperfection, to see him falter.
But that was just a fantasy.
With a sharp exhale, Johansson turned and strode away, his own frustrations trailing behind him like a shadow.