"Residents of Foxborough: 'At that mont, I truly believed he would kill .'"
"Survivor at Gillette Stadium: Football is not a violent sport. Expel the rotten apples that tarnish this ga."
"It's all been a lie—Lance finally tore off his mask of hypocrisy."
"Losing the ga and raging at the fans—out of control anger?"
"When an NFL player raises his fist toward the spectators…"
"Clearly, it's not the first ti—Lance, with his MMA background, nearly killed an opponent on the mat before. A violent tendency hidden in plain sight."
"Gillette Stadium's bloodless riot—A night of sha for the NFL."
"Knew it all along—an angel's face, a devil's soul. It was all an act."
"Super Bowl MVP threatens to kill fans—is this the true face of the league's future poster boy?"
RUMBLE. A wave of headlines crashed across the internet.
The bigger the star, the more controversy follows.
Lance had been under the spotlight, but his consistent, dominant performances kept the critics at bay, forcing them to whisper from the shadows.
Now, finally, the floodgates opened.
The haters, like rats scurrying from sewers, ran rampant online, their malice unchecked.
And this was just the beginning.
More vile, ugly, terrifying rhetoric sprouted like mold, corroding the public sphere, a dark tide ready to consu Lance with its claws and fangs.
Everything spiraled out of control.
Just as the Patriots expected—the dia-savvy, battle-hardened franchise seized the upper hand in the PR war.
As night fell, with NFL officials and Chiefs executives fast asleep, the narrative storm raged on. Social dia's imdiacy accelerated the wildfire, turning the public stage into a smoldering ruin overnight.
By dawn, the storm was unstoppable.
Claws out, ready to tear Lance apart.
Crisis lood quietly.
And Lance? Where was he?
Step. Step. Step.
Steady, rhythmic footsteps broke the morning calm, cutting through the streets of Kansas City. Autumn's cool air brushed against him, the horizon painted with shades of blue and purple. The world seed vast, quiet, peaceful—the perfect morning for a run.
Lance was running.
One would expect him, now branded public enemy number one, to cower in the shadows. Instead, he strolled beneath the sunrise, bold as ever.
Not a trace of the victim's fear.
Social dia?
He ignored it. Planned to keep ignoring it.
Lance understood—the online world is a fragile, fleeting bubble. Praise, hate—it all vanishes like mist within hours. Only emptiness remains.
Dwell on it, and you get sucked in—more anxious, more restless, impossible to focus on what matters: training, and winning.
Of course, that didn't an total ignorance.
Lance trusted his team. Donald Yu would update him if it truly mattered. Otherwise? Stay locked in—one focus only: the ga.
So, morning as always, Lance began with his warm-up run.
The real world was calm, unlike the digital hysteria. His feet hit the pavent, feeling the earth, the wind, the gentle morning sun brushing his skin. That was real.
Lance refocused.
Last ga? Left in the past.
They wouldn't be defined by one defeat. Quite the opposite—the sting of failure would fuel them, sharpen them for the next battle.
In the NFL, gas co week after week. Win or lose, the schedule rolls on. You learn to look forward, or you collapse.
No one wanted to relive last season's nightmare—six wins, then six straight losses.
Compared to online outrage, the next ga was worth far more energy.
Until…
As he neared the Chiefs' training facility, Lance saw them.
A black mass of bodies crowded the entrance.
Lance furrowed his brow.
First thought: dia.
Probably reporters fired up by the Gillette Stadium incident. Maybe so hadn't even slept.
But… sothing felt off.
Too many people.
A rough scan—no fewer than 500, maybe 800 gathered.
That scale? Unheard of outside of Super Bowl celebrations.
It was almost intimidating.
Lance's mind churned as he jogged closer, not slowing, not hurrying—steady, composed.
Closer. Closer.
Then, the first few faces in the crowd spotted him.
"Rookie…"
"Rookie!"
One by one, more heads turned. They saw Lance—and cheers erupted.
It felt like the marathon finish line at the Olympics:
A dead-silent crowd, now roaring to life as the first runner appeared, regardless of allegiance—pure, unfiltered energy.
The chants grew, swelling into one unified voice.
"Rookie!"
"Rookie!"
"Rookie!"
Lance froze, bewildered, eyes scanning the scene for context.
At the front, people fumbled with signs—white boards, letters scribbled hastily in marker, trying to assemble a ssage.
The letters jumbled. Lance smiled in amusent.
"Wrong order," soone called out. They scrambled, adjusting positions.
Finally, the ssage appeared:
"ROOKIE, YOU'LL NEVER WALK ALONE!"
The grammar now made sense. The crowd fell silent, then together, they sang:
"He's here, he's there, he's everywhere—he's the Edge Walker, Lance, Lance, Lance!"
Again, and again.
Unified, passionate, loud—the morning sun glistened on them as their voices soared into the sky.
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Powerstones?
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