The Greatest Showman #1497 - Thread the Needle

In July, the fires of summer blaze, and by September, clothes are laid out in anticipation of the changing season.

According to the "Book of Songs," August signals a gradual cooling; summer is coming to an end, and autumn is on the horizon. Yet, New York in August remains immersed in a sticky, restless heat—far from the cooling breezes of fall.

I can't hear the cicadas; all I hear is the roar of engines. I can't see the jungle, only the sea of people. I can't feel the heat wave; only the relentless traffic surrounds me. The air is thick with the restlessness of the city, its humidity blending with the tension in the streets.

The faces of the people are slick with sweat, their expressions carrying the manic energy characteristic of this urban landscape. The hurried footsteps stir up clouds of dust, as if the city itself were alive, shaking off the weight of the day under the heavy golden sunlight. The shadows stretch long and interlace with one another, creating a hazy mist that blankets the city—silent, yet ever-present.

In this suffocating heat, how many people can truly stop, sit at an open-air café, and sip a leisurely cup of coffee? Some might say only the wealthy can afford such indulgence. But the truth is, the rich tend to retreat into air-conditioned rooms for their respite. It's the fashionable ones, the ones eager to project an air of nonchalance, who sit at the open-air cafés, their coolness a thin veneer of sophistication.

In many ways, the customs and airs of the elite can be seen as a "disease"—a form of pretense. But it's also their last bastion of serenity. Their ability to remain composed amidst chaos is what sets them apart from the "ordinary" people. Over time, this tranquility has become ingrained in them, and they are accustomed to it.

Across from Renly sat Andre Hamilton, feigning contemplation, though his eyes occasionally flickered to Renly, sizing him up in quiet observation.

Renly, on the other hand, was savoring his coffee slowly, the steam rising in gentle swirls. Despite the heat of the coffee, he carried an air of contentment and relaxation, like a cup of tea enjoyed in the middle of winter. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, but he never seemed to break a sweat, his demeanor as calm as ever. The sweltering heat of midsummer seemed to evaporate in his presence.

Andre held out for a while, pretending to think, but eventually, his patience broke. "I'm going in," he declared, not seeking Renly's approval, but rather making a final decision.

Without waiting for a response, Andre stood and pulled out his rattan chair, retreating into the cool air-conditioned café. Renly, unhurried, followed suit and motioned to the waiter to guide them indoors as well.

Sitting across from Renly, Andre raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Dear God, I can now confirm that you're a true madman."

Renly flashed a smile. "You mean a lunatic or a pervert?"

Andre chuckled. "No, I meant more like an alien. You're the only person I know who can be so at ease in the heat. You should've tried living like this—Alexander would've never stood for it."

Alexander Hamilton, Andre's older brother, and heir to the Duke of Hamilton title, was renowned for his impeccable manners and poise. Andre, the youngest, on the other hand, had been indulged by his family and had developed a more laid-back, carefree attitude toward etiquette. His manners were acceptable but often slipped when it mattered most.

Andre shrugged, used to such remarks, and smiled complacently. This confidence, born of his noble lineage, was effortless—an innate part of him that needed no show of pretense.

But then, Andre's smile faltered. He saw that Renly remained calm and unperturbed, no signs of worry or impatience showing. It became clear that Renly saw through his façade. "So, you're not worried at all?"

"Can my concerns really affect the outcome?" Renly replied, not missing a beat.

Andre gritted his teeth. "You know it does."

"Well, now I'm starting to worry," Renly said with a light-hearted grin.

Andre rolled his eyes but couldn't help but smile. Renly's ability to maintain such composure made him feel like he had already lost the game. It was the same feeling he'd had since their first meeting—he never seemed to get the upper hand.

"Why do you always boss me around? You're like a duty-bound general." Andre grumbled, half-joking, half-frustrated.

"Because you trust me," Renly said with a grin.

Andre was left speechless. The answer was simple, yet it carried an unspoken weight. Renly's calming presence had a way of making people want to follow him, to believe in him without even realizing they'd done so.

Shaking his head, Andre returned to the matter at hand. "Honestly, you should know by now—if you recommend a project, if you're willing to produce, I'm in. You're the only person in Hollywood I trust right now. So, of course, I'm willing to invest."

Renly leaned back in his chair, eyes thoughtful. "Andre, business is business, and friends are friends. You didn't start a production company for the sake of goodwill, you're in it for the profit. Don't let sentiment cloud your judgment."

Andre nodded, understanding, but Renly added, "I hope you do invest, of course, but remember, you're more important than any film project. It's rare to find friends who are worth the effort, and I value that above everything else."

The waiter arrived, delivering the coffee for both men. Renly took his cup and sipped slowly, savoring the warmth. Andre watched him, incredulous.

"This act isn't working on me, Renly. You should've tried this routine with Eaton," he muttered. "It's just lazy, really."

Renly smiled but said nothing. The remark didn't bother him.

Andre sighed, giving up. "Let's get back to work. What's your take on the investment costs for this project?"

Renly had already explained the framework of Nightcrawler—the core concept and basic content of the project. Andre was now thinking it through, but Renly knew he was trying to make him squirm a little, hoping Renly would push for more.

But Renly wasn't biting. He stayed calm and steady.

The conversation led to specifics—how much would it cost? Andre didn't flinch at the numbers Renly suggested: five million to ten million. Andre wasn't concerned by the figures; for him, it was all part of the game. "What do you think if I ask Matthew to help with the numbers?"

Renly thought for a moment. "You can try, but Matthew's not the best at understanding capital operations in Hollywood. If you can, find someone with industry experience to guide him, and then you can meet with Matthew. The ideas will click better."

"I'll keep that in mind," Andre nodded, his mind already racing ahead. "But you'll need to brief Matthew properly. His temper is notoriously bad, and I won't be able to get through to him unless you're the one to convince him."

Renly laughed. "I refuse to be the one to disturb Matthew's working rhythm. It's for his own good."

Andre rolled his eyes but couldn't resist a grin. "Fine, fine. I won't argue. But this project? You're producing, or I'm out."

As the conversation continued, a familiar figure appeared—Eaton Dormer, who slid seamlessly into the conversation without missing a beat.

"Why'd you call him here? Are you sure he's not late?" Andre asked, exasperated.

Renly smiled. "No, I actually delayed him by half an hour. Thought it would be enough time to get you settled."

Andre shot Renly a deadpan look.

Eaton, unbothered, chimed in, "Half an hour? No, one minute will be enough."