"He's here, he's there, he's everywhere! He is the Edgewalker—Lance! Lance! Lance!"
The new season had only just begun, but Arrowhead Stadium was already roaring with familiar chants. Two drives, two first downs—defending champions Kansas City Chiefs were showing seamless offensive rhythm. After weeks of preseason fine-tuning, they seed to have found their chemistry, and the ho crowd exploded with unrestrained energy.
Karen Gray looked at Felix, who was in his wheelchair, pumping his fists with excitent. She raised her arms high and joined in.
Karen didn't know how much ti Felix had left, but for now, she chose not to worry about tomorrow. She lived in the mont, burning bright, living as if there was no tomorrow.
"Ah! Ahhhh!"
Felix and his mother locked eyes, both bursting into laughter.
But—
Tomlin wasn't laughing.
His gaze lingered on the No. 23 red jersey. He couldn't make out Lance's expression, but sohow, he could feel the burning sting on his own cheek.
Stop, read, burst.
That was Bell's signature style. And Lance had just pulled it off against the Steelers in the very first carry of the new season. The ssage couldn't be clearer. And to top it off, he gained an easy first down—it was a slap across Tomlin's face.
Frustration. Resentnt. Anger.
Was Lance openly taking Bell's side?
So it's true. Lance and Bell were scheming together, two of a kind.
Tomlin clenched his fists.
Lance: Any resemblance is purely coincidental.
Throughout the offseason, he'd been studying different training modules in the system, including Bell's, to find his own running style. This was rely his first attempt at real-ga execution—
A slap in the face?
Seriously, pure coincidence.
On the field, Lance lay on the ground, breathing heavily, annoyed that he had let TJ catch him. He should've used his high-step maneuver but got careless. He had no ti to interpret whatever death glare Tomlin was sending his way.
A hand appeared before him.
It was TJ.
Lance grasped it and stood up. Their eyes t, both grinning. Two opening drives, one win each. They were even.
TJ patted Lance on the shoulder with a teasing warning.
"Careful. You just pissed off our coach."
Lance frowned.
He looked toward Tomlin—and there it was. That dark, stormy stare, like sothing out of Get Out, enough to send chills across the field.
Then—
Tomlin looked away, reining in his emotions.
We'll see. Bell couldn't change a damn thing, and neither will you, Lance.
Tomlin swallowed his anger, refocused, and resud calling plays.
Lance turned back and caught TJ's fiery competitive gaze—just for a second—before TJ turned to regroup with his defense.
Lance smiled faintly. This was just the beginning. No need to show all your cards so soon, Coach Tomlin. Be careful, or the boat might flip.
Another clash lood as both teams lined up again.
Mahos high-fived Lance—no words, just focus.
Chiefs' 45-yard line. First and ten.
So far, the Chiefs had shown composure, sticking to solid, well-executed plays. They weren't reckless. This quiet confidence reflected a champion's depth.
A modest surprise, perhaps.
So—how would the Steelers respond?
More blitzes?
At first glance—yes.
Tomlin didn't blink. He stuck with the pre-ga plan, even stepping up the aggression. The safeties and linebackers crept forward. Though this was midfield, Pittsburgh compressed their defense to within 15 yards. Pressure layered upon pressure.
Yet, as a classic defensive powerhouse, Pittsburgh's front wasn't blindly aggressive. Their compressed formation still had depth.
D-line. Cornerbacks. Linebackers. Safeties.
Four levels. Four layers. All within 15 yards.
Beyond a generic pressure look, the exact plan was murky—
Blitz—yes. But from where? Linebackers? Safeties? Even corners? Positions were shuffled, roles disguised.
One of Pittsburgh's hidden aces.
Not just because Lance "imitated" Bell. Giving up two big plays and nearing midfield, the Steelers had to regain tempo and halt the Chiefs' montum.
Tomlin made his move.
On the surface—calm.
Underneath—the pressure skyrocketed.
Even the fans could feel it in the air.
Mahos straightened and adjusted the formation—
Initially, it was a pistol. Now it shifted to a shotgun. Hill moved from right to left. Lance stepped into Hill's old spot, now parallel with Kelce.
Result: a shotgun formation with three receivers on the left, and on the right, Kelce and Lance lined up.
Strong side—clearly the right. Kelce and Lance were both lethal in the short-passing zone.
Weak side—left, but with three wideouts who could run any route imaginable.
Chaotic brilliance.
And—one more detail.
Lance stepped a yard further back, no longer parallel with Kelce, now staggered behind him.
What did that an?
After what they pulled off in the Super Bowl, no one could guess.
Back in the Smith era, the Chiefs rarely changed plays last-minute. Now with Mahos, in only the third drive of the ga, he was already making on-the-fly adjustnts—
Was this the new norm?
You sche, I adapt.
The tactical tension between offense and defense cranked up another notch.
Mahos zeroed in on the linebackers. Knees bent, body coiled, he paused—building tension—then snapped the play into motion.
"Attack!"
Step. Push. Launch. Sprint.
Like an Olympic sprint, all five Chiefs receivers took off.
Including Lance.
Wait—what… what?!
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