The Greatest Showman #1435 - Devil Dance

"Are you rushing or procrastinating?"

"...I... I don't know."

Andrew's confusion stoked Fletcher's fury. His anger surged to a boiling point, and with one powerful stride, he moved past the set of drums, positioning himself next to Andrew, radiating the dominance of a tiger descending from a mountain. His presence was like a looming storm, and his intense gaze threatened to devour Andrew whole.

"Start counting."

Fletcher's voice, icy and sharp, cut through the tension. There was something beneath the calmness—an undercurrent of emotion that made Andrew's heart race. As the words escaped his lips, Andrew's anxiety deepened, and he instinctively licked his lips. Swallowing nervously, he began to count, his voice betraying his unease.

"Five, six, seven..."

"Count to four hells!" Fletcher barked, the roar of his voice magnifying the fear already trembling in Andrew's chest. The sound left Andrew rattled, his head reeling. As his breath hitched, Fletcher's rage only climbed higher.

"Look at me!"

Frightened and mechanical, Andrew turned his head, locking eyes with Fletcher. The movement, stiff and clumsy, was awkwardly comical, but in the charged atmosphere, it only deepened the sense of impending doom. The deeper Andrew looked into Fletcher's eyes, the more his muscles froze, trapped in the invisible grip of Fletcher's power.

"One, two, three, four."

Andrew's voice was barely audible, trembling like a leaf caught in a gust of wind, its fragility palpable. He could feel his panic wrapping around him, but he had no choice but to continue. His words cracked, barely holding together, as he pushed himself to keep going.

"One, two, three, four."

Suddenly, a sharp sound split the air—slap!

Fletcher's hand struck Andrew's face with force, the sting of the blow resonating throughout the room. The slap left its mark—a clear five-finger imprint on Andrew's cheek, his face turning a deep shade of red.

Caught off guard, Andrew staggered, unable to react in time. His head jerked back, his body frozen in place. His eyes, wide and blank, stared ahead, and for a moment, the world around him seemed to slow.

Still reeling, Andrew's instincts kicked in. Whether by reflex or sheer willpower, he faced Fletcher again, his eyes locking onto the man who towered over him. The count continued, unfaltering.

"One, two, three, four."

Slap!

Another brutal strike. The force of it was even greater than the first, pushing Andrew's head back further, pain searing through his cheek. The stinging sensation spread, mixing with the numbness, a sensation akin to fire and ice at once. Despite the pain, he stayed rooted, unwilling to give in. But his mind was beginning to falter, his will slowly crumbling.

His breath was shallow now, each inhale a struggle, and as his eyes met Fletcher's once more, the terror within them deepened. The tears he had been holding back threatened to spill, but he bit down, forcing himself to endure the humiliation.

"One, two, three, four."

Slap!

The third hit was another savage blow. Fletcher's hand moved with precision, his face a mask of unrelenting fury. The sound of flesh meeting skin echoed in the room, amplifying the cruel rhythm of their twisted dance.

Each slap aligned with the pulse of the rhythm, each beat marking a growing tension in Andrew's chest. It was as if his face was the drumhead, Fletcher's palm the drumstick, and the count the relentless beat that held them both in its grip.

"One, two, three, four."

Andrew's voice faltered even more, now barely a whisper. His chin lowered as his body sank under the weight of his fear. But even as his posture betrayed his vulnerability, his eyes never wavered from Fletcher's, glaring up at him from below, though it was clear that the last of his resolve was slipping.

Fletcher's eyes gleamed, narrowing as he raised his hand once again. Andrew braced himself, instinctively tensing, as the air between them grew thick with anticipation.

"Did you rush or delay?" Fletcher demanded, his voice colder than ever.

Andrew, struggling to maintain his composure, could only gasp for breath, his mind racing. "I… I don't know," he stammered, his voice barely audible but brimming with a deeper fear that churned in his chest.

Fletcher's gaze hardened, his anger only sharpening. He shook his head in disbelief before a cold, malevolent smile spread across his face—sharp as a blade.

"Then come again." The smile twisted, reminding Andrew of a predator savoring its hunt.

Shame and humiliation washed over Andrew, but something deep within him ignited. A flicker of defiance rose, and with a reckless surge, he squared up to Fletcher, his gaze locking on his tormentor's. It was a desperate move, fueled by pure will. He was ready to face Fletcher head-on, willing to fight for his dignity.

His muscles tightened, and with a grunt, he stared Fletcher down, defiance flickering in his eyes as he counted aloud.

"One, two, three, four."

Slap!

The force of the blow sent Andrew reeling again, but this time, something was different. A surge of energy, bitter and defiant, flared up in Andrew's eyes. He met Fletcher's gaze once more, a fire burning in the depths of his pupils. The slap did not break him—not completely.

"One, two, three, four."

Slap!

Another blow. But this time, Andrew held his ground. His eyes remained fixed on Fletcher, and though the pain burned through him, he refused to look away. There was something unspoken in that glance—a moment of raw, untamed courage that had begun to rise from within him.

Fletcher's eyes widened. He'd expected to break Andrew. But the sight before him told a different story. The storm of Andrew's defiance was just beginning to build.