The Greatest Showman #1438 - Dimensional Barrier

Damien Chazelle was a storm of emotions.

From excitement to satisfaction, then shifting to apprehension, nervousness, timidity, and even a trace of fear, he was caught off guard. He had never imagined the filming of this scene would spiral into what it had become. Fletcher's brutality and bloodlust were overwhelming, so much so that even the crew couldn't bring themselves to meet his gaze, terrified they might become his next target. The tension in the room spread like wildfire, suffocating everyone in its path.

Watching Andrew's helplessness and embarrassment mix, Damien felt torn. He could sense Andrew's stubborn pride slowly crumbling, his entire soul falling apart before him. It was unbearable.

The chemistry between Fletcher and Andrew was so raw, so intense, it seemed to bleed beyond the confines of the camera, breaking the illusion of fiction. It felt real—too real. It was as though a story had suddenly come to life, not in a joyous way, but in a terrifying one, like "Pinocchio" stepping out of the pages, only to reveal the darker side of reality.

The entire crew felt the weight of it, the cruelty of it all. Was this too much? Were they watching a soul being destroyed?

Damien instinctively clenched his fists, but his palms were slick with sweat. He couldn't even fully close his hands. His anxiety was mounting.

The question weighed heavily on him: Should he worry about becoming Fletcher's next victim, or was Andrew already beyond saving? The scene felt like a ticking time bomb, one wrong move could set off an explosion, wiping them all out. Was this a good thing? Or had they crossed a line?

Damien wasn't sure anymore. He had never experienced such a volatile collision of performances before. But he had seen something like it—a haunting memory of his high school band teacher, a tyrant who ruled with an iron fist. It all came rushing back to him, a nightmare he couldn't shake.

Damien shuddered, feeling the weight of it deep in his bones.

Shaking it off, he took a deep breath, gathering his resolve. "Ka!"

He had hoped that this single command would break the tension, reset the scene, but reality didn't bend so easily. The crew remained frozen, staring blankly, some casting furtive glances at Simmons, as if waiting for a signal, a cue.

It was absurd, even a little comical, but the barrier between reality and fiction had vanished. What had just happened wasn't a movie anymore; it was real life. Andrew Neiman, the once eager and hopeful rookie, had just experienced a soul-crushing reality check. His hopes and dreams—everything he believed in—had shattered in that moment.

And Damien couldn't help but feel the same.

He watched Andrew, whose once bright confidence and vitality were now dimmed, muted in shades of gray. It wasn't gone, not completely, but it was lost, wandering in a limbo between hopelessness and uncertainty. Andrew didn't know what to do anymore. His sense of self was gone, and he was left adrift.

Damien understood then—this wasn't just about a character. It wasn't just acting. It was a personal destruction. Killing a life was one thing. Killing hope, though, was something far worse.

Hope wasn't like life—it couldn't just end. Hope was eternal, always breaking through the darkness like the sun. To destroy hope was to kill what gave life meaning.

And Fletcher had just murdered Andrew's hope.

Some people could pick up the pieces, ignite their inner light again, and build themselves anew. But others… they fell apart. They were lost forever.

Damien was left to wonder: Which one would Andrew be? The one who rose from the ashes or the one who crumbled completely?

It had never been Damien's intention for things to escalate this far. The script didn't call for this level of cruelty. In fact, when he wrote it, he hadn't fully understood the gravity of such destruction. He'd never given up on hope the way Andrew had.

But now, as he watched the performances unfold, it was as if Fletcher and Andrew weren't just playing characters. They had become them, their souls intertwined with their roles. The boundary between fiction and reality had blurred entirely, and Damien couldn't look away.

Shivers ran down his spine.

"Ka!" Damien called out once more, desperately trying to re-establish the line between fiction and reality. He couldn't let this continue. He had to remind everyone—it was just acting.

"Ka! Excellent! Perfect! The performance was flawless! Renly, JK—amazing work! Let's confirm the footage and if everything checks out, we can call this scene done."

Damien's voice rang out, exaggerated and loud, trying to break the tension. He was no actor, and it showed. His forced cheerfulness was awkward, and the crew couldn't help but feel a pang of discomfort. Still, it worked. The atmosphere shifted, and people began to breathe again, exchanging nervous glances, the suffocating weight lifting.

But as they glanced at Renly and Simmons, their expressions slowly shifted.

Two lunatics.

Damien had heard the rumors about Renly. Everyone had. On-screen, Renly's commitment to his craft was legendary. His presence, his intensity, his ability to infuse life into the character with every glance, every motion—it was undeniable. But seeing it firsthand, feeling it in the room, was something else entirely. He wasn't acting; he was living the role, and it was terrifying to witness.

And then there was Simmons, whose bloodthirsty energy had everyone too afraid to even meet his eyes. But they couldn't look away. What had just transpired? How had it come to this?

Simmons, too, seemed to be contemplating the chaos. For him, acting was a puzzle—a process of completely surrendering oneself to the role. When you could truly disappear into the character, you stopped being yourself and became the role. It was something most actors struggled with, but Simmons understood it deeply.

And today? Today, he had fully embraced it.

He raised his eyes, following his instincts, and found Renly sitting quietly in his chair, contemplating the storm he had just stirred.