The Greatest Showman #1446 - Tie Hands and Feet

Andrew couldn't stop, as though possessed. The devil's dance steps spiraled out of control, wild and erratic.

He felt imprisoned within his own body, trapped in the image of the young man lying on a hospital bed—white ward, white sheets, white gown, with faceless figures moving like shadows, walking aimlessly like ghosts.

He tried to struggle, to escape, to resist—but it was all in vain. He was utterly trapped. His strength failed him; even his voice had no power. His soul screamed in agony, but his throat refused to allow a sound.

And so, he fought harder.

"Bang, bang, bang. Bang, bang, bang."

The rhythm of the drum, unstructured, echoed like a battle with the devil itself.

The more he struggled, the more confused he became. The more he fought, the tighter the ropes of confinement pulled.

The suffocating feeling was slowly swallowing his mind and emotions, creating a maddening cycle, one he couldn't escape—a reincarnation of his own madness.

Then, the pain burst forth without warning, like flames that engulfed his body, devouring it piece by piece. But the source remained elusive. As he grasped the feeling, his hands and feet had vanished, as if consumed by an invisible fire, cremated after death.

He was still alive, still fighting. He refused to die. His dreams weren't finished. He hadn't surrendered yet. He wouldn't admit defeat. He wouldn't give in.

He roared, but no sound escaped. He could only struggle, fighting the invisible ropes that bound him. The pain grew, yet his will only grew stronger. He gritted his teeth, summoning every last ounce of energy to resist.

The more force he exerted, the stronger the backlash. The pain rose like a tidal wave, slamming him with brutal force, leaving no room for retaliation. Then, the flames devoured him entirely, leaving only a faint glimmer of consciousness in their wake.

"Ah!"

Finally, a cry escaped him, a painful shout. His hands loosened, the drumsticks fell to the floor. His palms were stiff, twisted into a deformed state, muscles seized, unable to move. Every fiber of his being seemed to throb with the intense, sharp pain, and his body fell back, slamming into the wall and chair in a twisted, awkward posture.

The pain continued to grow, uncontrollable and overwhelming.

"Renly! God, Renly!"

Nathan rushed to him, his worry palpable. But Renly, completely unfocused, had lost his concentration. The shooting, too, had come to an abrupt halt. Nathan stepped forward without hesitation.

Before he could reach Renly, the latter's voice rang out. "Get the hell away! All of you, get out!"

The forceful words caused Nathan to halt abruptly. The surrounding crew followed suit, pausing in concern, forming a tight circle around Nathan.

Renly, eyes tightly shut, remained in place. The restraint he'd felt had vanished, but a new wave of insanity, darker and more consuming, had returned. He wasn't losing control this time—he was choosing to let go, immersing himself entirely in the role. The boundary between Renly and Andrew blurred in his mind, a deliberate act, though he knew it was dangerous.

It was an addiction—one he couldn't quite shake, even knowing it would destroy him in the end.

"Ha..." he sighed deeply, caught in the thrill and chaos, savoring both the pain and pleasure. It was the best way to describe Renly in that moment.

Breathe, breathe again.

"Give me a moment," Renly said, still not moving, his body locked in a state of tension, leaning against the wall. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing, calming himself slowly, as if replaying everything that had just happened.

The crew stood in silence, sensing the unease in the air. Renly's state was too strange—too erratic—but none could pinpoint exactly what was wrong. Rooney, Paul, and Ryan exchanged glances, all wondering the same thing.

Ryan, confused, gestured towards Renly, asking silently, What happened to him?

Renly reminded him of the time after Heather's death—not in his state, but in the aura around him, the calm before the storm, as though destruction was imminent.

Paul, too, noticed it. The unease in his eyes betrayed his uncertainty. He exchanged a look with Rooney, but they couldn't quite understand what was happening.

Damien, on the other hand, was visibly energized, his excitement growing. He reveled in the darkness, the obsession, and the descent into madness that Renly had brought to Andrew. It was as if Andrew was inching toward purgatory, slowly losing himself in the depths of despair. It was perfect.

"This is good," Damien said, seeing the real blood on the props. The dramatic effect was undeniable.

The drama manager, concerned, asked what should be done next, but Damien was already lost in the thrill of inspiration. He was eager to add more shots, to capture more moments—this was exactly what he wanted.

As he reviewed the footage, the creative vision began to take shape. The scene was complete in one take, but there were still details to capture. Damien was already planning how to elevate the entire scene with new angles and close-ups.

Meanwhile, Renly lay on the ground, his pain still raw, yet slowly becoming something he could endure. The drumbeats from Whiplash returned to his mind, and he couldn't help but focus on the rhythm once more.

The pain and excitement, the chaos and the calm—they were inseparable now. Renly was deep in it, and he wasn't about to escape.