The Greatest Showman #1439 - Cocoon

Simmons looked down at his hands, gently twisting his fingers. It felt as though he could sense the smooth, sticky blood clinging to his fingertips, the warm, fishy scent lingering beneath his nose. It felt so real, so certain. Killing a life makes you feel the viscosity of blood, but killing a soul leaves no trace. It's as if nothing is there. But he knew that this was an illusion—nothing was present between his fingers and palms. No blood, no soul.

That sensation was incredible.

He felt as though some force was pulling him, guiding his emotions and actions bit by bit. It was as though the hidden demon within him was awakening, the savage brutality slowly surfacing. A new, unfamiliar soul was emerging, one he hadn't realized existed, clawing at the surface, reaching toward its prey.

The most terrifying part? He was enjoying it.

In his mind, he pictured the demon's black wings unfurling, blocking all light. The sharp fangs gleamed, dripping with fresh blood. It was so sweet, so delicious. He couldn't resist; he extended his tongue and licked his lips. And a smile spread across his face.

He knew what he was doing—he was trampling on stubborn dignity, destroying a young dream, and tearing apart a tender soul. It was cruel, cold, and rough. But the enjoyment was undeniable, even pleasurable.

To become a true powerhouse, he thought, one must endure a thousand trials.

He wasn't worried that his actions might ruin a potential "Charlie Parker," because someone like that wouldn't break. "Charlie Parker" would fight back, grow, and transform. He couldn't be destroyed.

But Simmons realized something crucial: This philosophy wasn't his own. It was Fletcher's ideology, and yet, he was enjoying it. The boundaries between himself and Fletcher were fading, and the performance had brought out something dark within him—something that belonged to Fletcher but was now slowly overtaking Simmons.

Drama and reality intertwined in a haze of confusion.

Fear, excitement, worry, and anticipation filled him all at once. Simmons couldn't find the words to describe the sensation. He looked at his fingers again, still feeling the blood on them, as though he had just strangled Andrew with his own hands. That feeling... was indescribable.

Andrew?

Simmons snapped his head up, instinctively seeking Renly, sitting quietly in the chair.

Renly hadn't moved. His head hung low, his hands resting on his knees. He was rubbing his thumb with his index finger, as if trying to soothe some phantom irritation. There was a faint trace of anxiety, a hint of frustration.

That wasn't Renly; that was Andrew.

A wounded, lonely soul, trying to pick itself up after a storm, searching for a way forward but lost and uncertain. His eyes flickered, scanning the room like a fox creeping across ice, barely trusting his surroundings, every little sound or movement making him jump.

Then, the gaze of the band members hit him—amazed, ridiculing, mocking, and confused. It all swept over him, drowning his pride, far surpassing any pain or bitterness. It stabbed at his soul, sharp and cold.

In an instant, he bolted upright, his body jerking with the force of the humiliation. He fled from the drum set, a lost dog running away from the cage, desperate to escape, to hide from the torment. Every second in that room was unbearable, like slow torture. He just needed to leave, to run away, even if it meant feeling like a coward.

Simmons almost spoke to stop him, but the words stuck in his throat. What could he say? "Sorry?" Was an apology enough?

Instead, a deep sadness began to settle in Simmons. But Fletcher's voice, dark and insistent, whispered in his ear: This was the test Andrew had to endure, the only path to success. Either he would persist or he would break. The choice was his alone.

Those whispers were hard to resist, and Simmons... almost felt a sense of approval for them.

What was he supposed to do now?

He turned toward Damien for guidance, but it was useless. Damien was completely unaware of the tension in the room. He was excitedly discussing the next scene with the staff, his face lit up with enthusiasm and joy.

Directors and actors were worlds apart, Simmons thought, feeling a deep sense of loss as he watched the direction Renly had left.

Renly exited the rehearsal room, his head still bowed, unwilling to raise it. He wanted nothing more than to hide in a corner, away from everyone, to lick his wounds and swallow the humiliation. It seemed like if he could escape, everything that just happened would fade away.

But this wasn't entirely a break from the performance.

When Damien called for the interruption, Renly had already snapped back to reality, the line between drama and life clear once more. But Renly didn't shake off his role right away. He remained in the emotional turmoil of his character, dwelling on the distress, keeping himself immersed in it. He did this intentionally.

When he stepped out of the egot mindset, on the surface, he appeared lighthearted and indifferent. Yet beneath it all, pride and complacency began to seep out, uncontrollably. At night, when the world was quiet, Renly would lie in bed, uncertain—what now? What should he do?

His interview with The New York Times had painted a realistic picture of his struggle.

Renly was human, after all. Even standing at the top of the pyramid, amidst fame and accolades, he found himself alone, questioning his path. Success had made him feel invincible at first, but now, standing at the top, he faced the emptiness that came with it. What was next? He didn't know. There was no goal ahead, no one else in sight. He felt lost.

This emptiness was worse than the coldest loneliness.

Renly forced himself to refocus, to devote himself completely to the role of Andrew Neiman in The Bursting Drummer. He knew he needed to reconnect with his passion for acting—not for the awards, not for the accolades, but for himself and his own dreams.

It was about returning to the heart of it.

This role, Andrew's journey, was the perfect way for Renly to rediscover his original purpose. He could escape the shadows of fame and return to the roots of his dream, where passion and truth lived.

In this way, reality and fiction blurred, but Renly made the conscious choice to stay immersed in the world of the character, shedding his past ego and starting anew.

Once, he had doubted his ability to achieve his dream. But through sheer will and perseverance, he'd chosen to chase it—leaving behind doubt and hesitation. Renly, in this moment, chose to run forward, recklessly and courageously.

And now, he had to confront the wall that would change everything—just like Andrew had.