American Football: Domination

The Super Bowl.

The ultimate dream for every football player.

Berry was no exception. For a long time, he thought his career would never give him a chance to step onto that stage and fight for the NFL's highest honor.

But now…

The opportunity was right in front of him.

One game. Just one more win.

His heart pounded with excitement.

But he forced himself to stay calm. Hope can be fragile—they still had an AFC Championship to win.

If they underestimated Jacksonville? They'd end up like Pittsburgh—watching the season end in bitter disappointment.

Nobody thought the Jaguars could sweep the Steelers.

Just like nobody thought the Chiefs could sweep the Patriots.

The closer they got to the dream, the cooler their heads needed to be.

All in.

Berry took a deep breath, steadying himself.

"James, how are we looking?"

He turned to White, his eyes filled with hope—but also nervous anticipation.

White understood that feeling all too well. He didn't drag it out.

"Everything's on track."

Berry's eyes lit up.

"So I'll be ready? I mean, if the team… you know…?"

White smiled.

"As long as you stick to the rehab plan—yes, you'll make it."

Berry clenched his fist. "Hell yeah!"

White patted his shoulder.

"Eric, have some faith in yourself. You've worked so damn hard. Your grit and determination are unreal. Nothing is stopping you from getting back on that field."

Berry's eyes burned with determination.

"You know what the rookie told me? They fight on the field—I fight off it. We're a team. No matter where we are or what we're doing, we fight together."

Berry turned to White, his voice firm.

"If my brothers are giving it their all, how could I do any less?"

White felt the energy surge through him too, but he stayed professional.

"Then are you ready for today's session?"

Berry grinned.

"Been waiting for you to say that."

Night fell.

The streets were alive with celebration.

Drunken voices sang off-key, mixing with the roar of engines and the clinking of beer bottles.

"AFC CHAMPIONSHIP, HERE WE COME!"

"FLY HIGH! FLY HIGH! FLY HIGH!"

"THE CHIEFS ARE COMING—BEWARE!"

It had been two days since the Divisional round ended. But Kansas City was still partying.

To outsiders, it might seem over the top.

They hadn't even made the Super Bowl yet.

But this was Kansas City.

24 years.

They had waited 24 years just to see their team win two playoff games in a row.

It wasn't about how many wins they got.

It was about what this team stood for.

No surrender. No quitting. No backing down.

That grit ignited hope in the city—

Hope that the long economic struggles would finally end.

Hope that the hardships would pass.

Hope that, just like the weeds pushing through cracked pavement, they would survive the winter and see the first ray of spring sunlight.

And that?

That was enough.

Kansas City wasn't greedy.

They had already gone far beyond expectations.

So they celebrated.

Meanwhile, in a back alley behind a restaurant, Provo crouched next to a filthy drainage trench.

He wore rubber gloves, a mask, and a shower cap—looking more like someone handling hazardous waste than a kitchen worker.

But this was his job.

Scrubbing grease-caked, sewage-coated kitchen equipment.

Not dishes—the pipes and containers that processed garbage, grease, and waste.

The stench was unbearable—the kind that seeped into your skin, making you reek for days no matter how much you showered.

And the pay?

$8 an hour.

Barely above minimum wage.

Nobody wanted this job.

But Provo had no choice.

The foul smell clawed at his throat, threatening to make him vomit up last night's burger.

Same city.

Two different worlds.

At the end of the alley, a sea of Chiefs fans flowed like lava through the streets, their red jerseys glowing under the night lights.

For the first time in years, Kansas City felt alive.

Provo stole a glance at them.

And froze.

His hands stopped scrubbing.

His eyes locked onto the celebration.

For a moment, his mind drifted.

The Chiefs had broken the playoff curse.

He should be happy.

But he wasn't.

Because he never believed in them.

Because he refused to believe in them.

He hadn't stood with them.

Now? He wasn't sure if he had the right to celebrate.

He had been hopeless for too long.

He didn't remember how to feel hope.

Like someone who hadn't eaten meat in years, suddenly taking a huge bite of steak—

His body might reject it.

It might make him sick.

He had lived in the dark for too long.

Drowning in misery, regret, and loneliness.

Even suicide felt like too much effort.

So he just… existed.

Like garbage, clinging to life for no reason.

He had forgotten how to hope.

And not just him.

The whole city.

Kansas City had been down for so long, they had forgotten what it was like to have a future—to believe things could get better.

All they knew was how to complain. How to be angry.

He didn't know how to do anything else.

But more than anything?

He was scared.

Scared that he was a curse.

Scared that if he allowed himself to believe, he would jinx it all.

Maybe the only reason the Chiefs were winning…

Was because he had kept his distance.

Because he had stayed in the gutter, far away, so his bad luck wouldn't touch them.

Maybe this was how it had to be.

Him, rotting in the filth.

And them, writing history.

But still…

Watching the sea of red burn through the night—

His heart stirred.

Then—someone appeared at the alley entrance.

Provo's body tensed.

His desperate longing vanished in an instant, buried under fear and shame.

He ducked his head, pretending to focus on work.

"…Chris."

Provo's hands tightened.

He snuck a glance.

It was West.

Provo didn't look up. Instead, his voice turned sharp.

"You shouldn't be here. You'll ruin your boots."

West sighed.

"Chris, I never wronged you. You don't have to push me away."

Provo bristled like a porcupine.

"Oh? So I should be grateful for your charity?"

West: "Yes."

Provo froze.

He… admitted it? Just like that?

His head snapped up.

West met his gaze without flinching.

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Powerstones?

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