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Chapter 27 - 27 The King’s Unbroken Reign

LeBron James pulled his black Mercedes G63 out of TD Garden's underground garage. Boston's streets glowed wet under the night, neon lights bleeding into puddles. Jay-Z's Takeover hummed from the speakers—lyrics of rivalry and conquest, like a soundtrack to the tough game he'd just finished. His team won, but the quiet shift of power between him and Paul Pierce had stirred something ugly; in corners of the city, resentment still simmered.

At a stoplight, LeBron tapped the brakes. A quick glance in the rearview mirror caught a beat-up Ford Mustang—one that'd lingered just behind him since he left the arena. He frowned, but didn't tense. For a superstar, fans or paparazzi tailing you was routine.

Then the Mustang lurched forward, cutting him off hard. The driver's window rolled down, and a young face—twisted, eyes blazing—snarled out. He wore a faded Celtics jersey, number 34: Paul Pierce's number.

"James! Get out of Boston! You don't belong here!" His scream cut through the rain and LeBron's half-open window, sharp and clear.

LeBron's heart jolted, but his face stayed calm. He reached to roll up his window, foot edging the gas—ready to let the G63's power shake the guy loose.

But the second before the light turned green, the kid leaned out of his window. With a gun.

Bang!

The shot wasn't deafening. But it hit hard—deadly.

It struck LeBron's driver-side window. Bulletproof glass spiderwebbed instantly, a white impact mark dead center. But it held. The Mercedes' armor did its job.

LeBron felt the force jolt through the door, his ears ringing. Instinct took over: he ducked hard toward the passenger seat, right foot slamming the gas pedal to the floor. The G63's tires spun briefly on the wet asphalt, then roared forward.

Bang! Bang!

Two more shots. One hit near the rear license plate; the other shattered the back windshield. Glass flew, but LeBron's duck and the car's surge kept him safe.

Adrenaline flooded his veins. He gripped the wheel tight, weaving through the rainy streets at a reckless speed—sharp lane changes, tight turns—fighting to lose the Mustang. His mind, though, stayed cold and clear. He hit the pre-installed emergency button, connecting straight to his private security and local cops.

In the rearview, the Mustang tried to chase. But LeBron's driving and the G63's power left it behind fast. Soon, it vanished into the traffic and rain.

LeBron didn't slow until he reached a bright, busy main road. He pulled over, took a deep breath—his fingers trembled, but only a little. A quick check: just small cuts from glass shards, a racing heart. No real harm. He locked the doors and called his agent, Rich Paul.

"Rich, I got shot at. Boston. Guy in a Mustang, Pierce jersey. I'm fine—car's bulletproof. No injuries. Get security on it, tell the cops. Lock this down. No details to the media. Not a single one." His voice was scarily calm, commands sharp and clear.

Ten minutes later, sirens wailed closer. Cops swarmed, surrounding the G63. Boston Police Commissioner William Evans showed up personally—LeBron's fame and the attack's severity demanded it. His face was tight.

"Mr. James, can you describe the guy? The car? We'll lock down the city to find him!" Evans said fast, waving officers over to check the bullet holes.

LeBron gave as many details as he could—emphasized the Celtics 34 jersey. But he added, calm as ever: "Commissioner, I need this investigation quiet. Fast, but quiet. No media circus. Don't tie this to the team, the fans… even Pierce. This is one crazy guy. A criminal act. Not more."

Evans got it right away. LeBron was stopping a powder keg—keeping the story from blowing up into "Boston fans attack LeBron" or a race-fueled hate crime. The city was already on edge; that would ignite chaos.

But media moves faster than police. They swarmed like sharks to blood. Even with LeBron's team and cops clamping down, the headline hit every news site instantly: LeBron James Shot At In Boston. Details got twisted, rumors spread.

LeBron's team put out a statement fast: "Mr. James is unharmed. We thank the Boston Police for their quick response. We trust law enforcement to handle this, and we urge the public to stay calm—no speculation." Careful words, no blame.

It didn't stop the fire. Paul Pierce's name got dragged in, even with no proof. Pierce posted on social media within hours: "Shocked and angry about what happened tonight. Violence like this is never okay. Thank God LeBron is safe. Real Celtics fans and I condemn this. We love basketball, we love competition—not this. #PrayForLeBron"

The statement tried to distance him, but comments exploded—guesses, rage, lies.

Danny Ainge and the Celtics front office scrambled. They condemned the violence, promised to help cops. Chaos.

LeBron got escorted to his hotel, security tight. He refused a hospital trip, just had his private doctor check him over. Clear. Then he stood alone at the suite's floor-to-ceiling window, staring at Boston's skyline.

Rain hit the glass again—echoing the bullet's impact from hours before.

His face was hidden in shadow, but his eyes were sharp, cold. This attack wasn't just a threat. It was a warning—ugly, dangerous. It proved what he'd thought: changing this city, shaking up the old order, had poked a raw nerve. Unleashed hatred.

Hatred for replacing a legend (Pierce). Hatred for an outsider coming in and taking control. Maybe even deeper, messier city anger.

But LeBron James—this reborn king—didn't feel fear. He felt something colder, hotter: resolve. Violence wouldn't make him back down. It would make him dig in harder—shape the team, shape the city, on his terms.

He picked up his phone, called Rich Paul.

"Rich, keep the investigation going. But we don't change plans. And call Nike—call our media people. We move up the schedule. Time to plant the King's flag here. For good."

This shooting was a poison. But poison can be a catalyst. It might speed up his reign. He'd show everyone: on the court, off the court—nothing stops him.

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