The Greatest Showman #1461 - Negligible

The minor commotion outside the practice room faded quickly, barely having a chance to rise, and had no impact on the shooting inside.

Damien stood beside the camera, a mix of excitement and nervousness, focusing all his attention on the shot. His mind raced with thoughts of how to edit the final film. This scene had far surpassed the boundaries of the script and was now evolving in a way he hadn't anticipated.

In the script, this moment was nothing more than a frame with no specific plot; all Damien needed to capture was a state and emotion. He hadn't fully planned how to present it, hoping that, through collaboration with the actors, the best way to express it would emerge naturally during the shoot.

The script read:

"Andrew goes to the bathroom, prepares a bucket of crushed ice, returns to the practice room, and begins to practice 'Caravan.' But due to the injury on his palm, his rhythm falters, leading him to lose control of his emotions. After venting, he resumes practicing."

That was all.

Before filming began, Damien had discussed the basic emotional context with Renly and then gave him the freedom to take control of the performance.

Now, Renly's performance had completely diverged from the script, but Damien was undeterred. Witnessing Renly's raw emotion, Damien was filled with sparks of inspiration, watching fragments of the scene come together and clarifying a picture that had once been unclear.

Still, Damien wasn't sure when to call "cut." Lacking enough experience, he decided to let Renly continue performing, waiting for a signal—a mental cue to conclude the scene.

Andrew sat back on the stool, carefully opened his right palm, and stared at the bloody wound. Slowly, almost painfully, he closed his hand into a fist, dark red blood staining his fingertips. The sight was chilling, and his forearm muscles shifted, the movement almost demonic.

Then, he slowly dipped his right fist into the ice bucket. The sound of the ice scraping against the skin was like needles pricking his flesh. His muscles tightened, and then relaxed, as if he could feel the release of pain, but only temporarily. The cold of the ice numbed everything, freezing the pain into the water. But as the ice melted, the pain would resurface, intensifying with each moment.

The blood slowly diffused in the ice water, the dark red hue resembling bright, vivid paint. A heavy, metallic scent of blood began to linger, permeating the space with a sense of doom.

"Whoa!"

Andrew lifted his right fist again, grabbing the drumstick. The blood slid down the stick and onto the drum's surface, leaving faint rose-red streaks on the instruments, like delicate, crystalline amber.

Then, his gaze shifted to the hanging drums.

The jazz drums had been destroyed, but Andrew could still continue practicing his double-jump technique, especially with his right hand.

His upper body leaned forward slightly, a movement not in line with standard technique—where the back should be straight, and the shoulders relaxed. But Andrew didn't care about perfection now. His eyes blazed with rage, intense as a falcon's gaze, focused on the hanging drums as though he could tear them apart with his stare alone.

He raised his right hand, adjusting his grip as his fingers relaxed. Then, without hesitation, he struck the drums with full force, accelerating the speed to an extreme—yet his attempt was flawed.

His blows were not rhythmic but frantic, speeding up with no control or accuracy, like a child testing how fast they could hit. There was no music in his strikes, only a chaotic rhythm devoid of theory or form.

But Andrew didn't collapse. Instead, his eyes narrowed, a dark intensity settling over him. The energy of his blows turned violent, as if he were witnessing a brutal murder—punches landing with destructive force, the scene filled with bloodshed and mayhem.

With each strike, his eyes sharpened, and his anger grew.

The dim light in the room cast a golden glow on the hanging drums, and the energy from Andrew's blows reverberated throughout the space.

He knew his strikes were meaningless.

But that knowledge only fueled his rage further.

His eyes reddened as all the anger surged from deep within him. Through clenched teeth, he muttered curses with increasing venom:

"You're trash! Useless! A waste! You should be replaced! You can't even master basic skills, and you think you deserve to be a drummer? Arrogant! Stupid! Garbage! Pathetic! Shameless!"

The words came out, each one more scornful than the last, each one a release of the searing hatred within him.

This wasn't Andrew anymore. It was Fletcher.

In that moment, Andrew became possessed by Fletcher's spirit—his eyes burning with a crimson rage, spitting curses, releasing every ounce of venom. It was as if he was violently tearing apart the last remnants of his self-control. The adrenaline coursed through him, distorting his expression into something twisted and grotesque.

Faintly, a smile curled on his lips. It was a mockery, not of others, but of himself—his futile attempt at self-restraint. A cruel pleasure seeped through his eyes, as if he was no longer tormenting himself, but rather the version of himself Fletcher had scorned.

It was a powerful, destructive force.

For a moment, the faces of Andrew and Fletcher merged in his mind, recalling the first day he had joined the band and faced Fletcher's unrelenting pressure. It was a day when Andrew had nearly cracked, his dignity and pride shattered beyond recognition.

But today, he was crushing whatever pride remained in him. He had broken it with his own hands.

Just as it seemed Andrew might completely fall apart, his gaze softened, emptying of all expression. His eyes became blank, lifeless, like the black eyes of the dead. No trace of emotion remained, no vitality. Then, slowly, a flicker of light gathered in his pupils, a cold, merciless fury boiling to the surface, like a storm gathering.

Snap.

The fury vanished, replaced by a cold, chilling calmness. The storm was gone, and Andrew's expression was once again neutral—no anger, no madness, no violence. It was as if nothing had happened at all. His composure was more unsettling than his rage.

This sudden calmness sent a chill down his spine. The unnatural stillness felt like the calm before an impending storm.

Without another word, Andrew stopped.

He sat there, motionless, breathing heavily.

The blood continued to drip from his drumstick, staining it with the remains of his fury. Despite his expressionless face, the stillness was more terrifying than any outburst. The silence in the practice room was oppressive, as if the world had come to a halt.

No one noticed Melissa anymore. Her earlier episode had been forgotten, insignificant in comparison to Renly's performance. All attention was focused on Renly, who continued to perform with unwavering focus.

The rising panic in the eyes of those watching was palpable. Their palms began to sweat, yet they dared not move or make a sound.

"Card!" Damien suddenly shouted, standing straight and stepping away, breathing heavily as though he had just emerged from underwater.