Back on the stage, Joy Behar tried to force a laugh, but even she looked shaken.
“Well… that wasn’t in the script,” she muttered under her breath, earning a nervous chuckle from a few audience members.

Ana Navarro folded her arms.
“I’m sorry,” she said sharply. “If he can’t handle tough conversations, maybe—”

Whoopi cut her off with a raised hand.

“Ana. Enough.”
Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of a woman who’d seen decades of television chaos — and knew this was different.

The audience sat frozen, whispering anxiously. Some had their phones out, already texting friends about what they’d just witnessed. A few producers were waving frantically from the wings, signaling the hosts to move on.

But no one was moving on.

Whoopi finally exhaled and said, “Roll to commercial.”
Her tone was flat, resigned.
The cameras cut, the lights shifted, and the hosts slumped back as though they’d just survived a storm.

Backstage: The Aftershock

AJ walked down the hallway, ignoring the chorus of footsteps behind him.
A senior producer — out of breath — finally reached him.

“AJ, please,” she pleaded. “We can clarify everything. We can issue a statement. We don’t want this to blow up.”

AJ stopped, turned, and stared at her with the exhausted eyes of someone who’d been holding himself together for far too long.

“It already blew up,” he said quietly.
“But at least it was real.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.
He pushed open the exit door and stepped into the afternoon sunlight, the cold breeze hitting his face like a reset button.

For a moment, he just stood there — breathing.

Inside the Studio: Panic Mode

Back on set, the hosts were gathered in a tight huddle as producers tried to regroup.

“We need to address it when we come back,” one producer insisted. “The internet’s going to light up — we have to own the narrative.”

Ana scoffed. “Oh, it’s already lighting up.”

Whoopi pinched the bridge of her nose.
“This is why I hate when people think they know someone’s story. You poke hard enough at the wrong wound, and it bleeds.”

Another producer rushed toward them with a tablet in hand.

“Uh… guys? It’s been four minutes. The clip has over 600,000 views on TikTok.”

Joy’s jaw dropped.
“Four minutes? That’s not viral — that’s violent!”

Outside: AJ Makes a Choice

AJ’s phone buzzed nonstop — texts from his manager, missed calls, notifications exploding.

He didn’t open any of them.

Instead, he looked up at the sky, took a deep breath, and whispered to no one:

“I’m done hiding.”

He started walking.
Away from the studio.
Away from the noise.
Away from the version of himself he’d been expected to perform.

For the first time in years, AJ McLean wasn’t following a script —
he was writing his own.