Kansas City Chiefs.
Fourth-and-one.
Fake pass, real run.
Were the Jacksonville Jaguars unprepared?
Impossible.
Though they had no time to fully communicate and adjust their strategy—blindsided by the Chiefs' sudden decision to go for it—this was a team whose defensive excellence had been ingrained all season. Their tactical discipline was embedded in their very core.
Pressure. Pass defense. And, of course, run defense.
They covered it all.
This was the foundation of Jacksonville's defense—they didn't rely on a single superstar to save the day. They relied on the strength of the entire unit.
If one player missed, another was right there to follow up.
The moment Jacksonville realized Smith's fake, they reacted instantly—Sacksonville flexed its muscle.
Because Sacksonville wasn't just about sacking quarterbacks—it was about suffocating offenses at the line of scrimmage, whether against the pass or the run.
Campbell. Jackson. Ngakoue. Jones.
The defensive front surged forward.
But did the Chiefs not anticipate this?
Of course they did.
Reid's decision to go for it wasn't reckless. If anything, he was known for being a calculated coach, not one to take unnecessary risks. The fact that he overruled offensive coordinator Matt Nagy and opted to go for it meant that this decision was made before the game.
A fake pass?
It was just bait—setting up the real play: a screen pass.
The moment Lance received the ball, the offensive line drove forward in unison, forcing the Jaguars' defensive front leftward and clearing space on the right.
One side was playing the unexpected.
The other was trying to impose their will.
"Kansas City's offensive line versus Jacksonville's defensive front"—a battle of pure power.
Muscle against muscle. Helmet against helmet. Gritted teeth, labored breaths. The tension in the air was enough to set fire to the turf.
Campbell: Damn it.
He saw it instantly—the moment the right side opened up, creating a direct lane for Lance.
There was no time to think. Campbell ripped himself free, grabbing, pulling, pushing—ignoring any risk of a penalty. He unleashed all his strength, breaking from his blockers, taking one long stride to position himself directly in Lance's path.
But—
A shadow appeared in his way.
Smith?
Campbell almost cursed out loud.
Damn quarterback—what are you even doing here?
He had no interest in tackling a quarterback for once.
"Get out of my way!"
Campbell swatted Smith aside like an afterthought, sending him tumbling backward.
But that momentary delay—
That split second—
Was all Lance needed.
He cut inside past where Smith had been standing and burst forward.
One step.
Past the line of scrimmage.
Another step.
Fourth-and-one—converted.
Campbell: F**. F*** F*** F***.*
He was half a step too slow, but he still refused to give up.
Ahead lay the red zone.
No retreat!
Campbell launched himself forward, diving low, arms reaching for Lance's legs.
But—just a fraction too slow.
Lance high-stepped through, shaking off the tackle, leaving Campbell face-down in the dirt, chewing grass and dust.
Even the curse on his lips was swallowed.
Damn it!
Campbell slammed a fist into the ground. Then—
From the corner of his eye, he saw a figure—Posluszny!
"PAUL! STOP HIM! STOP HIM!"
Lance had already spotted him.
While the Jaguars' linebackers and corners had spread out to cover short passing routes, Posluszny had held his ground, waiting for his moment.
"Posluszny versus Lance."
Linebacker versus running back.
A battle of power and agility.
Campbell's interference had slowed Lance just enough for Posluszny to get into position, his muscles coiled, eyes locked on his target.
Stay calm. Paul, stay calm!
Posluszny forced himself to remain patient. He didn't charge in recklessly. The entire defense was behind him. If he could just hold Lance up for a second, teammates would arrive to swarm him.
The one feeling pressure should have been Lance.
And it was.
Lance had entered the red zone, but from the corner of his eye, he could see Jaguars' defenders closing in from every angle.
He had no time.
So—
He made his move.
A step right—then instantly cut left.
A violent stop-and-go shift.
Posluszny hesitated.
Lance immediately cut right again.
A third move, this time at full speed.
It was ruthless—like a boxer setting up a knockout punch, keeping his opponent off balance.
And it worked.
For a split second, Posluszny froze, his weight trapped between shifts, unable to react.
Lance exploited the opening, shooting past him, brushing against his shoulder as he sprinted by.
Posluszny: What—?!
Panicked, he lunged with open arms—
But grabbed nothing.
Air.
Damn it!
For a brief moment, he felt like a complete fool, toyed with and left behind.
No time for frustration.
Because ahead—
Jacksonville's secondary had already formed a wall.
The red zone belonged to the Jaguars.
One second, they were covering passes.
The next, they were closing in on Lance.
Telvin Smith led the charge.
From his angle, he could see Lance shifting toward the sideline.
They called him the Edge Walker, but to Telvin, this wasn't an escape. It was a dead end.
Jacksonville's defense had already closed in.
Telvin planted his foot and exploded forward.
But—
Out of nowhere—
KELCE.
Kelce blindsided Telvin with a crushing block.
Telvin crashed into Kelce, unable to adjust in time, watching helplessly as Lance slipped through the gap behind him like smoke.
Lance and Kelce had executed a perfect pick play.
But there was no time to celebrate—
Because two more figures stood in his path.
Tashaun Gipson.
Jalen Ramsey.
Two defensive enforcers.
Gipson, untouched, had been tracking Lance the entire way. He had him locked in like a hawk watching its prey.
Ramsey, having broken off from Kelce, now had his sights set squarely on Lance, pure determination in his eyes.
One left. One right.
Two gatekeepers standing five yards from the end zone.
It was a wall.
A mere five yards away—so close, yet impossibly far.
A step from glory.
A chasm to cross.
So—was this the end?
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Powerstones?
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