The world spun wildly. Both players, dazed and disoriented, scanned ahead for the red No. 23 jersey.
Even if his steps were unsteady, Lance refused to fall.
Lance held his breath—
Every muscle in his body tightened to the limit, his movements delicate yet purposeful, like a ballerina performing on a narrow stage. Spinning, leaping, twisting—he battled gravity and inertia, fueled by sheer willpower.
As he completed a full 360-degree spin, the field ahead opened up.
A narrow path lay before him. Not wide, but straight.
Lance adjusted his footing. His wobbly steps barely gripped the turf, like running on clouds, yet he kept pushing, forcing his body forward.
On his left, he spotted a flash of white—the Steelers' away jersey.
One of the linebackers.
Desperation in his every move, the white-clad figure threw himself toward Lance, hoping to bring him down before he could regain his balance.
Every nerve in Lance's body screamed, but he couldn't dodge. His footing was too unstable to resist or evade. If the defender hit him, this drive was over.
After all, the Chiefs had already converted on 4th-and-4. Falling here wouldn't ruin everything, right?
The game wasn't over. The battle wasn't over. That fire still burned within him—
The fat lady hadn't sung yet.
Staggering, swaying, Lance's movements were like the last leaf on an autumn tree, clinging stubbornly to its branch, defying the inevitable arrival of winter.
The white jersey flew past, completely missing its target.
The two players passed within inches of each other. Lance saw the defender's wide-eyed shock through the face mask. The linebacker flailed, arms outstretched, but his hands barely brushed Lance.
By then, Lance had already steadied himself and taken a sidestep to the left.
The path ahead was wide open.
Bart: "Damn it! Somebody stop him! What is the defense doing?"
"One tackle, two tackles, three tackles—Lance has just slipped through three attempted tackles in a span of five yards!"
"Twisting, turning, evading—he's broken through the Steelers' dense defensive front!"
"Lance is picking up speed! He's crossing the 45-yard line, the midfield stripe—he's past midfield!"
"Watt is closing in!"
"Hilton and Haden are chasing him!"
"The Steelers' defense is scrambling to recover."
"Oh, my God, we're witnessing it again!"
"Lance is at full speed now! He's sprinting downfield, leaving defenders in the dust!"
"His top-end speed—no one's catching him!"
Now, only one obstacle remained.
Having crossed midfield, Lance blew past the Steelers' 40-yard line, then the 30.
Two safeties—the last line of defense—closed in from different angles.
The Arrowhead crowd could barely contain themselves. The tension reached a fever pitch, hearts pounding in unison.
The Edge Runner, once again, soared past defenders with grace and speed, dragging the Chiefs out of the dark night and toward dawn.
Ahead of him, Steelers safety Sean Davis angled in from the left, while Mike Mitchell charged head-on.
They were Pittsburgh's final hope.
This season, the Steelers had been plagued by injuries in the secondary, leaving them without a traditional strong safety. They'd been rotating free safeties into that role, adapting their schemes to stay unpredictable.
And tonight, it had worked wonders—
Especially for Mike Mitchell.
Since being drafted by the Raiders in 2009, Mitchell's career had been defined not by brilliance, but by his reputation for dirty hits.
Tonight was no different.
First, he delivered a helmet-to-helmet hit that left the Chiefs' No. 3 running back, Charcandrick West, concussed and sidelined.
Then, he targeted Alex Smith's legs after the quarterback had released the ball.
Arrowhead Stadium erupted with boos.
The NFL fined him after the game, but Mitchell didn't care.
To him, those boos were cheers.
"This is football," Mitchell said. "If you can't handle it, go join the cheerleading squad."
Now, he had Lance in his sights.
Like a wolf stalking prey.
He glanced down at Lance's knees.
Lance was heading straight for him.
Bending his knees, lowering his center of gravity, Mitchell advanced. He moved with the precision of a hunter, tracking every shift in Lance's balance.
Then, without hesitation, he launched.
Like a freight train, his 221-pound frame aimed directly at Lance's knees.
Those vulnerable knees were right there—
But at the last second—
Lance lifted onto his toes.
He twirled gracefully, executing a flawless 360-degree turn just inches from Mitchell's grasp.
He hit nothing but air, his body crashing to the turf.
Stunned, Mitchell lay on the ground, watching Lance glide past him.
The two had been so close, he could feel the heat radiating off Lance's body.
But he couldn't stop him.
Lance didn't even look back.
Was someone trying to tackle me?
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