The Giants lined up for their second series, showing a heavy rushing formation.
This time, Lion couldn't crack open the pocket. But Zhao Dong, towering over the scrum, spotted the quarterback's fake handoff. The ball never touched the halfback's gut—it was still in the QB's hands.
The quarterback dropped back, trying to buy vision downfield. With the Giants' guards crashing right, the Jets' defensive front shifted that way to plug the run lanes. The secondary began to rotate too, shading toward the right.
"Left wing!" Zhao Dong barked, pointing.
At his command, the Jets' back line instantly broke off their shift and locked onto the Giants' receivers.
That one adjustment changed everything.
First—because of the fake, the Giants' offensive line had slid right, leaving no barrier between Zhao Dong and the quarterback. He tore through the pocket like a missile.
Second—the Jets' coverage didn't bite. The corners and safeties stayed glued to their men, shutting down the tight end and both wideouts.
That left the Giants' quarterback stranded. With eight blockers tied up and only three targets blanketed, he had nowhere to go.
Panic flashed across his face. With Zhao Dong bearing down like a wolf, he tucked the ball and tried to scramble.
But this quarterback wasn't built for it. He wasn't one of those rare dual-threats—brains and legs in one package. He was a pocket passer, and pocket passers don't outrun Zhao Dong.
Two steps into his run, he was crushed. Zhao Dong leveled him with a bone-rattling tackle that echoed through the stadium.
"YEAH!"
Jets fans erupted as the sack set the Giants back three yards. Now it was third-and-long, deep in their own red zone, only 17 yards from disaster.
---
Up in the booth, Russell Neveda was grinning. "Beautiful defense! The Giants are backed up to third-and-13. They're playing with fire this close to the end zone."
Wells Michael added, "Especially against Zhao Dong. Remember the Colts game? Multiple red zone interceptions—one of them he even returned for six. With his wingspan, vertical, and timing, his ball-hawking ability is terrifying. The Giants better pray he doesn't get another shot here."
The Giants managed to claw forward four yards on third down, but it wasn't enough. Fourth-and-9. They had no choice but to punt.
The special teams came out, and the Giants booted it safely out of bounds, conceding field position just to keep it away from Zhao Dong's return skills.
---
The Jets' offense trotted back onto the field. Head coach Edward wanted to exploit Zhao Dong's size and speed, so he slid him out wide at the strong-side receiver spot.
"Damn Chinese coward!" snarled Giants' defensive tackle Panther Ringer Howard, glaring at Zhao Dong as he lined up. He'd been waiting for a chance to take a shot—if Zhao Dong played tight end or halfback, he'd be licking his chops.
But Zhao Dong wasn't looking his way. His eyes were locked on cornerback No. 12—the same dirty player who had tripped him earlier in the game.
The Jets broke the huddle. Quarterback Welin Paul barked the count.
"Attack!"
Zhao Dong exploded off the line. Cornerback No. 12 shadowed him step for step, angling between Zhao Dong and the quarterback, hoping to jump the route.
But Zhao Dong had baited him. He suddenly throttled down, forcing No. 12 to hesitate. Then, with a lightning burst, Zhao Dong accelerated again, blowing right past him. In two strides, the corner was two steps behind, out of the play.
Welin Paul saw it instantly. From the pocket, he cocked his arm and fired.
A perfect rainbow—thirty-plus yards, spiraling fast downfield.
Now, the Giants' other corner and their safety scrambled, converging on Zhao Dong.
The ball sailed fast, dropping ahead of Zhao Dong. He turned his head, sprinting at full tilt, eyes locked on the spiral. Focused on the catch, he didn't see the safety and corner converging from the left.
The pass dipped hard. Zhao Dong's legs churned, but even at his speed, he was a step behind. He had no choice—he launched forward in a full-body dive.
The spiral dropped perfectly into his hands. He cradled it against his chest just as the safety and cornerback collided with him in midair, slamming him to the turf.
Bang!
Grass and dirt flew, but Zhao Dong never let go. The referee's whistle pierced the noise. First down Jets. He'd hauled it in at the Giants' 32-yard line.
But before he could rise, cornerback No. 12—the same cheap-shot artist who tripped him earlier—came barreling in. Pretending he couldn't stop, he planted his cleats squarely on Zhao Dong's neck before jogging past.
"Oh, that's bad…" Russell Neveda groaned from the booth.
The stadium gasped in unison.
Zhao Dong felt the searing pain in his cervical spine. Without hesitation, he activated his system's minor injury recovery, warmth rushing through his body as the sting vanished.
"Damn it!" he snarled, shoving the safety and corner off him. He sprang up, eyes blazing, and charged straight at No. 12.
"Sir! I didn't mean it—I swear!" No. 12 was already spinning excuses at the referee. But the moment he saw Zhao Dong storming toward him, he bolted, ducking behind teammates like a rat.
"Fuck him!" Zhao Dong roared, jabbing a finger toward the coward. His voice thundered through the stadium. "That bastard tried to break my neck!"
On the Jets' sideline, General Manager Maureen Phillips lost it. He shoved a league staffer aside and kicked open the bench gate.
"Get out there! Help him! Kill that son of a bitch!"
"Move!" assistant coach Melos bellowed, charging ahead of the players like a man possessed.
"Stay back—you can't go out there!" panicked stadium staff tried to hold the line, but the dam had broken. More than 30 Jets players and 20 coaches surged onto the field. Behind them, Zhao Dong's 24-man bodyguard unit stormed in like a private army.
The Giants' bench had no choice but to respond. Their players and coaches vaulted the barrier, squaring up.
"Kill him!"
"Damn No. 12!"
Jets fans erupted in fury. The roar inside Giants Stadium shook like an earthquake.
"This is boiling over," Neveda muttered, shaking his head. "The benches have cleared—no way to stop it now."
Wells Michael spat in disgust. "That was dirty as hell. If that wasn't intentional, I don't know what is. Cheap shots like that? Embarrassing. The Giants dug their own hole here."
But neither announcer sounded surprised. In the NFL, fights weren't rare. Last season alone, nearly 700 bench-clearing scuffles had broken out. In a league built on collisions, fists came with the territory.
Security flooded the field, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. The brawl spread like wildfire.
---
Zhao Dong bulldozed a defender out of his way, eyes locked on one man: No. 12. But standing in front of him now was Black Panther Ringer Howard, grinning like he'd been waiting for this.
"Perfect timing," Howard sneered, squaring up.
But before he could make a move, Zhao Dong's bodyguards swarmed. Within seconds, the Panther was flattened, fists raining down on him.
No. 12 tried to slip away, but the bodyguards encircled him too. He stumbled backward, trapped, until Zhao Dong stepped through the circle.
"Zhao, wait! Don't—"
CRACK!
Zhao Dong's hook connected like a freight train. No. 12 folded, hit the grass, gagging and retching.
Zhao Dong didn't stop. He unleashed kick after kick, each one punctuated by No. 12's screams. Blood spattered from the cornerback's nose and mouth.
"Mercy! Please—ahhh! Spare me!" the man wailed.
Zhao Dong delivered two more savage kicks before pulling back, unwilling to kill him outright. Instead, he pivoted and drove a boot into Black Panther's ribs, silencing him with another howl of pain.
The circle of bodyguards tightened, blocking cameras and players alike. All anyone outside could hear were the screams inside that wall of muscle.
On the sidelines, neither Giants players nor coaches dared break through. They wrestled with Jets players in a chaotic melee, but no one came to rescue No. 12 or Panther.
Inside the human barricade, Zhao Dong stood over them both, chest heaving, fury burning in his eyes.
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