The Greatest Showman - Chapter 1432: Rhythm Imbalance

"Five, six, seven, go!"

But as the first four beats unfolded, Fletcher interrupted once more, halting Andrew's rhythm at the third sixteenth note of the fourth beat. Fletcher shook his head slightly, denying the performance. The rhythm was cleanly severed, and with each interruption, the pressure in the room built like a tightening noose.

Fletcher was already standing directly in front of Andrew. Only a drum set separated them. His movement forward seemed to follow the rhythm of his speech, amplifying the weight of the moment. Finally, he stopped directly in front of Andrew, a one-on-one confrontation. He raised his hands and gently pressed them down as if patiently explaining the situation. "It doesn't fit my rhythm. It's okay, don't worry. Let's try again."

Fletcher started to beat the rhythm, "Five, six, seven, go."

Andrew listened closely to Fletcher's beat, trying to align himself. After just four beats, Fletcher paused again. "You're rushing. Let's go again."

Andrew tensed. "Rushing?" he wondered. Why hadn't he noticed it?

Before Fletcher could signal again, Andrew jumped in too soon, eager to prove himself and take control of the situation. The strike was abrupt, impatient. But he immediately stopped, panic creeping in as he looked to Fletcher for guidance.

Fletcher raised his hands, still calm but insistent. "Not in a hurry. Are you ready?" Andrew nodded, despite the nerves flooding through him.

"Very good, five, six, seven... go!"

Another four beats.

Fletcher shook his head again, "You're dragging. That's it." His eyes silently asked, Do you understand?

Andrew nodded quickly, but as he started again, Fletcher waved his hand to stop him. "Wait for my prompt."

Tension built in Andrew's muscles. He realized he was losing control, but he could not let the panic show. Focus, focus, focus!

"Five, six, seven, go!"

The same first four beats, then the same dreaded seventeenth bar. Fletcher clenched his fists, shaking his head, clearly dissatisfied.

"Come on," he urged, before continuing the beat, "Five, six, seven, go."

Wrong again.

"Delayed. Five, six, seven, go."

The cycle continued, over and over, like a nightmare. Every time Fletcher said "rushing," Andrew tried to slow down, but then when he adjusted, Fletcher accused him of dragging. The back-and-forth seemed endless. The pressure mounted with every mistake, each mistake leading to more anxiety. The more mistakes Andrew made, the more panic he felt, and the more panic, the more mistakes. It was a spiral that seemed to have no end.

Didn't Fletcher say he came here for a reason? Didn't Fletcher say to relax and enjoy the process? Didn't Fletcher say his performance was good? So what was happening now? What went wrong?

Andrew had no answers. His mind was a blur. What was wrong with his performance? Why couldn't he get the rhythm right? What was wrong with the third sixteenth note in the fourth bar? What was the difference between rushing and dragging?

Desperation set in.

His shoulders were completely tense, and he found himself caught in an endless loop, facing the same measure again and again.

The first four beats passed. No sound.

The second four beats passed again. Still no sound.

Andrew glanced nervously at Fletcher, trying to judge if he was doing it right. Was his rhythm finally matching Fletcher's? If so, what was different about the rhythm before? Where did Fletcher's rhythm fit into all this?

Fletcher remained facing away from him, so Andrew could not read his expression. He could only judge from his back, noticing Fletcher nodding along, absorbed in the rhythm.

This gave Andrew a brief surge of energy, and he tried his best to showcase his talent again, hoping to regain Fletcher's favor.

Fletcher was now standing by the door, rhythmically stepping to the beat, clearly at ease. Without warning, he raised a folding chair and threw it, Frisbee-style, in Andrew's direction.

Time seemed to slow as the chair flew through the air. A surge of survival instinct kicked in, and Andrew dropped his drumsticks and ducked, protecting his head with his arms as the chair passed dangerously close, its sharp wind whizzing by.

The chair slammed into the wall with a loud crack, knocking over everything near it. The entire rehearsal room went still, the other musicians disoriented as their instruments went out of tune.

Andrew sat frozen, his heart racing. His life had truly felt at risk for a moment. Trembling, he looked around, swallowing hard to suppress the terror rising in his chest.

What just happened?

Andrew sat up cautiously, still unsure of what had just occurred. Fletcher stood in front of him, staring blankly. Andrew felt a wave of confusion and hurt wash over him, but he dared not break eye contact. Fletcher's gaze was cold, intense — it felt as though he could consume Andrew with a single look.

Andrew swallowed again, struggling to calm his nerves.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

Fletcher's anger was palpable. He had thrown the chair, but it wasn't enough to release the emotion surging within him. He was clearly furious, barely holding himself back.

Fletcher exhaled sharply and raised his chin, "Do you know why I threw the chair at you just now, Neiman?"

Andrew knew the answer deep inside: he was wrong. But he didn't understand where he had gone wrong. His head was spinning, and he could barely form words. "I… I don't know." His voice trembled, betraying his uncertainty.

"You know," Fletcher responded firmly. "Start counting."

"Five, six, seven…" Andrew began, his voice shaky with fear. He had no idea if he was saying it right.

"Count to four, hell!" Fletcher's voice was tight, barely controlled. "Look at me!"

Andrew turned, focusing on Fletcher with all his might, though his gaze felt unfocused and blurry. His brown eyes were wide, like a deer caught in headlights, trying desperately to hold it together.

"One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four."

Fletcher raised his hand, and Andrew flinched, expecting a slap. But instead, Fletcher swerved just before impact, his hand swiping above Andrew's head.

The moment was broken by a shout. "Damien!" a voice called, filled with frustration. "What's going on?!"

Simmons, his anger evaporating, stood stiffly, watching the scene unfold. He couldn't make himself act — he couldn't bring himself to strike. His own emotions were in turmoil, mirroring Andrew's internal battle.

In this moment, it wasn't just Andrew struggling to find the rhythm; everyone was trapped in their own emotional storm.