"Haha, half-breed! Your father's a piece of shit, your mother's a whore, scum like you is what happens when trash breeds with trash!"
"Disgrace! You're nothing but a disgrace!"
"Get the hell out of here! This sacred land doesn't welcome you, you pathetic mutt!"
The insults rained down, filthy, repulsive, and utterly disgusting.
One after another, vicious and bloody, grotesque and vile.
This wasn't unusual for visiting teams in an away stadium, but tonight—it was worse than ever. The distorted faces in the crowd looked demonic, and the most revolting part? They didn't just target the players, but their innocent families too—
Family should be off-limits. Mothers, siblings, relatives—they should never be dragged into this.
Mahomes, trapped in his swirl of guilt and frustration, hadn't even noticed the jeering. But now, those sharp, piercing words cut through his mental fog, lighting his emotions ablaze, anger devouring his reason in an instant.
Mahomes clenched his fists and spun around, his youthful face twisting with fury—only to be confronted by a sea of hostile, distorted faces, blurring together in a raging mob of bloodthirsty cruelty.
It wasn't one or two hecklers—it was hundreds, thousands, a tidal wave of malice crashing down on him.
But then, a figure surged past Mahomes like a lightning bolt—a white jersey bearing the number twenty-three charged forward, radiating sheer killing intent.
Furious. Lethal. Unstoppable.
Clark froze, startled by the sight.
He'd never seen Lance .
The Lance he knew was always composed and unshaken, smiling at danger even on the edge of disaster, unflappable no matter the storm.
But now? Lance emanated pure killing intent, like flames burning from his eyes. One glance from him sent Clark into a cold sweat, paralyzed, hurriedly looking away.
Burns rushed forward, calling out, "Lance!"
Even Burns couldn't stop Lance this time.
Lance stepped forward, like a demon breaking free from hell. His pace quickened, his aura sharpened, charging directly into the wall of blue hostility ahead.
In one motion, Lance ripped off his helmet and hurled it to the ground. Water bottles, towels, benches—all crashed and scattered. The cackling fans jolted, stunned by the outburst. Before they could react, they realized—the demon in their eyes was already upon them.
Face flushed, dripping with sweat, as if he'd carved his way out of hell, Lance was unstoppable.
The sheer intensity of his killing aura gripped their throats. The front rows instinctively shrank back, knees wobbling, bladders threatening to give out.
Lance had climbed up—
Gripping the edge of the stands, he hoisted himself up, towering above, standing atop the railing, glaring down upon the cowards who moments ago thought themselves so brave. His tall, muscular frame cast a shadow over them, like Lucifer unfurling his dark wings.
A trembling mess of weak, helpless creatures huddled together.
This moment froze in time, destined to become Gillette Stadium legend.
That white number twenty-three, standing defiant amid the storm, facing an ocean of blue hatred alone—undaunted, unflinching. With sheer presence, he silenced the raging wave.
The sea of blue rippled, seethed, but ultimately—bowed. One by one, they lowered their arrogant heads, submitting beneath Lance's feet.
A few still stood, fists clenched, spitting venom, their curses relentless.
But Lance's gaze locked onto them.
Eyes wide, furious, Lance didn't yell—he simply projected his voice with terrifying clarity:
"I'll snap your necks like I squash bugs. Then we'll see which one of you grovels the hardest like the pathetic little parasites you are."
"Say it. Keep going. Please."
Calm. Precise. Every word hit like a hammer.
One by one, Lance's eyes locked onto each cowardly face, dissecting them.
No profanity. No chaos. Even a faint smile curved his lips—but the bloodthirst beneath it was suffocating.
Finally, the mob remembered—Lance's MMA background wasn't just for show. The quiet menace radiating from him was real, visceral, deadly. His sculpted, tense muscles brimming with power, his towering figure engulfing the stands—they shrank in his shadow.
One by one, they shriveled, hunched their shoulders, pressing themselves into their seats like small animals huddling for safety. They believed every word Lance spoke.
That smile? Far scarier than any threat.
The bravest faltered, knees buckling, slinking down silently—a sea of paper tigers exposed.
A fan in a Patriots number twelve jersey, realizing too late that he stood alone. But sitting down now, in front of everyone? Utter humiliation.
Number twelve summoned his courage, locking eyes with Lance. "Half—"
The insult barely left his mouth before he saw Lance smiling wider, eyes sparkling with eerie encouragement.
"Go on. I'm right here. I'm listening," Lance whispered.
Number twelve's heart spasmed: this lunatic.
Lance kept smiling, as if discussing weekend bar plans, his voice honey-sweet yet dripping with menace.
"For every word, I'll knock out a tooth. Say another, lose another."
"Yeah, yeah—I'll probably get fined. Maybe sued. But hey, I've got the cash to hire lawyers. We can drag this out for years. I've got time."
"One word, one tooth. Sound like a fair deal? Want to play this game with me?"
Number twelve froze, trembling uncontrollably, instinctively clamping his mouth shut, guarding his teeth.
Trapped. Utterly trapped.
Then, Lance's smile vanished. His voice cut like a blade:
"Don't wanna talk? Sit."
Number twelve's knees buckled, collapsing into his seat.
Lance grinned again, casually hopping down, never turning his back on the crowd. He slowly retreated, raising his hands, rallying the stadium like a rock concert conductor—
"Louder! Come on, let's hear it. Bring the storm!"
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