Face cold and expressionless, Lilith carried out her duties with professional rigor—serious and meticulous.
When she heard Lance's joke, Lilith glanced at him.
Lance immediately felt that icy gaze, sharp as a blade, pricking his skin and sending goosebumps all over—killing intent practically radiating.
He followed her gaze.
Lilith coolly looked away, focused intently on her work, as if nothing had happened. It was enough to make one wonder if that fleeting burst of emotion was an illusion.
Inside the medical room, Lance prepared for a thorough concussion assessment; at the same time, the team doctors needed to check him head to toe to ensure no hidden injuries.
Looking up, he saw a television broadcasting the live game.
But before he could watch—it was turned off.
She set down the remote, turned to assist with the exam, and when she met Lance's look of helpless protest, she was unmoved, feigning ignorance.
Just as Lance was about to complain, Lilith spoke first.
Lance swallowed his words and obediently submitted to the concussion evaluation.
Test after test—even though his mind was still on the game, his thoughts scattered—he understood priorities. Sharpening the axe does not delay the cutting of firewood. He forced himself to stay calm and cooperate with the staff.
Meanwhile, as his adrenaline cooled, Lance carefully checked his own condition—
In the literal sense—no particular sensations, let alone pain or discomfort. Only now could Lance truly appreciate how powerful the system's cards were:
One reduced injury risk; the other doubled recovery effect.
Thanks to these boosts, he felt as good as before the hit—full of energy, no difference at all.
Buzz buzz, buzz buzz.
The staff around him whispered among themselves, glancing at the test results with visible surprise and disbelief—
It was getting noisy.
Lance cleared his throat. "Hey everyone—if you're going to gossip, maybe it's polite to do it out of earshot of the patient?"
The chatter stopped at once; a few embarrassed smiles appeared. The mood was no longer heavy—it lightened up.
Lance looked around. "Have you seen Captain America? Doesn't this scene feel just like when they made Captain America?"
Someone couldn't hold it in and chuckled.
One of the league's medical staff spoke up: "Lance, you passed the concussion protocol—congratulations. We're just a bit surprised: after that violent collision and…"
"And spinning through the air like a windmill?" Lance offered.
The man smiled awkwardly but politely. "Yet you're in excellent condition, no hidden injuries at all. We're just a little… surprised. But this is good news—you're clear to return immediately."
A little surprised? Probably more than a little.
Lance didn't push it. "So this really is a Captain America moment."
Smiles spread around the room.
The momentum was firmly back in Lance's hands. "Can I get dressed now? There's a lady here who might be drooling—I'm feeling a little shy."
Laughter almost broke out completely.
Only Lilith remained stone-faced, staring at Lance without expression.
Noticing Lilith's look, everyone quickly focused back on their tasks, packing up and preparing to leave.
At that point, Lance finally turned to Lilith, giving her a smile. "So, can I go back now? There's still a game going on out there."
Lilith nodded slightly. "No problem. After the game, we'll run a full follow-up evaluation to ensure no hidden injuries."
Without waiting for Lance's reply, she turned and walked to the corner.
Only then did she let herself feel the fear that had gnawed at her. Clenching her fists tightly, her fingers still trembled uncontrollably, her racing heart nearly leaping from her throat.
Fear. Worry. Unease. Doubt.
Emotions she hadn't felt in so long now gripped her tightly—she had to hold her breath just to stay composed.
In truth, this was all normal—just part of sports, part of football. Injuries are part of every game, even routine practice brings daily risks. Keeping calm and handling them professionally was her job.
Understanding the logic didn't make it any easier when it actually happened.
Deep breath. Another deep breath.
Lilith didn't want anyone to see her vulnerable—but unexpectedly, a voice called out from behind her.
Her heart skipped a beat.
All along, he had kept things formal—always calling her "Rosen," keeping distance, never crossing the line. But now, in a moment she didn't expect, he broke that rule without warning, shattering her entire perception before she could react.
She turned—and there was Lance, smiling.
"I'm ready to fight again."
Simple, direct, but filled with resolve and fire.
With that, Lance waved casually, turned, and left the medical room, heading straight for the field.
Lilith remained rooted in place. Long moments passed before she realized her cheeks were damp—her eyes brimming with tears.
So—he had seen her moment of weakness?
She held her breath, hastily wiping her face, turning toward the medical room window, peeking through the small gap at the tunnel exit.
Waiting. Patiently waiting.
Then that figure appeared.
Dressed in a red number 23 jersey, helmet in hand—not rushing, not anxious, but striding back onto the field with steady, determined steps. Before him, Arrowhead's sea of roaring red flames awaited. He lifted his chin slightly, shoulders back, walking forward with pride and purpose.
The crowd—a vast, overwhelming force.
The contrast—so stark. Yet that small figure seemed to diminish the vastness before him, as though his single silhouette could bear the weight of that entire sea of crimson fire.
The world itself bowed before him.
And then—the chant rose again.
"Lance. Lance. Lance."
What began as a spark spread in an instant, sweeping the stadium and swirling above Arrowhead like an unstoppable tide..
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