T.J. Watt refused to give up, refused to surrender. Even if his legs couldn't keep up with his torso, even if Lance had locked him out of position, he still seized the split-second opportunity and hurled himself forward.
Unnghh—ahhh!
Summoning every last ounce of strength, T.J. poured his entire upper body into the tackle.
Tackle.
T.J. got him.
The situation was different, but the scene felt all too familiar.
This time, Lance was ready. He pumped his knees and stomped the turf repeatedly. The moment he felt the pressure wrap around his waist, he began to break free.
Left. Right. Left.
He swayed back and forth like a pendulum, disrupting the tackle's balance. Once the grip around his waist loosened, Lance spun clockwise. Like a pair of figure skaters, he and T.J. whirled together—
But just a third of the way through the spin, T.J. was spent. The centrifugal force yanked him loose and flung him away.
Lance, now weightless and free, completed the spin, reoriented himself—
Pushed off, accelerated.
Tap tap tap tap—
Following the momentum and the spin's release, Lance launched himself forward. His stride snapped back into rhythm.
In the blink of an eye, he passed the 35-yard line.
No pause—he crossed the 30.
T.J. staggered, rebalanced, and chased again, but the gap widened. Burns surged past him, sprinting to catch Lance.
Up ahead, safety Terrell Edmunds was ready—
Surrounded front and back, Lance hit his max speed. He tore through like a hurricane.
A blur of motion.
Stride, sprint, break free.
Across the emerald turf, Lance turned into a streak of red light slicing through the black storm, charging solo into enemy lines.
25-yard line.
Edmunds went for a frontal stop—but Lance sidestepped right and drew Edmunds into a counterclockwise spiral, like a puppeteer pulling invisible strings. Edmunds flailed near Lance's left shoulder, but couldn't touch him.
Finally, Edmunds lost his footing. The world spun. He dropped stiffly and clumsily to the ground.
23-yard line.
Just one step later, cornerback Artie Burns closed in. His relentless pursuit had finally brought him near. He reached for Lance's right shoulder, a grin starting to form—
Missed.
The smile froze.
Lance accelerated, widening the gap with a burst of pure speed in just two strides.
Burns lost his balance mid-lunge, arms flailing like windmills to stay upright—but failed. He fell face-first in Lance's wake, eating turf and dust.
20-yard line.
No rest. Another safety, Sean Davis, closed in from the left at a shallow angle. Unlike others, he was cautious. Smaller and lighter, Davis didn't risk it all—he tried to use his body to pressure Lance, guiding him out of bounds.
Shoving, bumping, squeezing.
Side-by-side, Davis tried to ruin Lance's rhythm.
15-yard line.
Lance—braked.
Gasps echoed around the stadium.
No one expected this. In the middle of a full-speed run, boxed in from all sides, Lance stopped. Normally, he'd use raw speed to blow past defenders—but now?
What was happening?
Davis, pressing hard, lost his contact. With nothing to press into, he stumbled forward like a cartoon character flying off a cliff.
Davis: ???
Red, motionless.
Black, careening forward.
Davis sailed past Lance, as if on rails, and Lance stood there, calm as if waiting at a railroad crossing. Once the "train" passed, he moved.
And that was that.
Thud.
Davis hit the ground, face-first, helmet bouncing off the turf.
13-yard line.
Cutting through chaos, every stop and pivot had Lance's organs screaming. He had no breath to spare—his entire body tensed, clenching onto that one last breath.
Push, leap, hurdle.
He soared over Davis' calf—low and fast.
But on landing, his knee buckled. The push-off failed, his foot wobbled forward—he was about to fall.
In his periphery, black surged at him from behind.
T.J. Watt.
Kelsey tried to block T.J. to buy Lance time—but T.J., with pure rage, bulldozed over Kelsey like a freight train and charged toward Lance.
No time to recover.
Lance snapped his legs together and jumped.
A standing long jump—like a startled rabbit leaping forward.
BOOM.
Behind him, T.J. and Kelsey crashed into a tangled heap. A blast of heat swept up Lance's back—nearly scalding.
Step, push, adjust.
Lance stumbled forward, teetering like he might fall flat. His torso was parallel with the ground, knees wobbling.
But—
"Ten-yard line!"
"Five-yard line!"
"Unbelievable! Inconceivable! Lance's feet are barely touching turf, yet the drive from his legs still churns forward!"
The entire Arrowhead Stadium held its breath. Thousands of eyes locked on that lone red figure. The Steelers' defense had unleashed hell, but the Chiefs responded with unstoppable energy and poise.
That streak of red—like an arrowhead—pierced through a sea of black.
One step.
Two steps.
Then—a dive for the end zone.
In a surge of sound and fury, Felix couldn't hold back. His heart exploded with joy, warmth spreading through his chest. He stood, fists raised high, shouting—
Touchdown!
For a moment, Felix forgot about the shadow of cancer. He was lost in the now, glowing with life.
Because life isn't just length—it's depth, and width.
"End zone!"
"Touchdown!"
"Beautiful! Brilliant! Absolutely dominant!"
"Touchdown! The Chiefs fooled the Steelers with a fake pass–run play. Lance completes a 40-yard rushing touchdown!"
"An extraordinary ground attack. Lance showcased top form, practically singlehandedly embarrassing the entire Steelers defense!"
"The defending champs open with two easy touchdowns, taking a commanding lead over the Pittsburgh Steelers!"
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Powerstones?
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