The essence of competitive sports is, in many ways, like the tribes of primitive society—
Fighting for survival.
There is no right or wrong, only the raw drive for food, water, and life itself. Everyone works to protect the lifeline of their own tribe.
It's that simple—you live, I die.
As defending champions, the Kansas City Chiefs are a massive target. Every other team watches them closely, ready to pounce at the first chance to bring them down, never missing an opportunity to humiliate them.
They are competitors.
There is only one Super Bowl champion each year, and the defending champions are the prize everyone longs to topple.
Of course, there are also the trolls—people who don't care about the Chiefs specifically, but hurl abuse simply to vent their emotions. The Chiefs just happen to be in their line of sight, and so they unload with everything they've got.
An overwhelming barrage of insults.
Right now, that's exactly what's happening.
This season, the Chiefs have been outstanding—no "rookie wall" in sight, stronger than last year, carrying the momentum of a defending champion, neck-and-neck with the Los Angeles Rams at the top of the league.
Higher expectations also mean higher hatred.
Yet against elite teams, the Chiefs have lacked a touch of luck. After losses to the Patriots and the Rams, they've now suffered their third defeat of the season—this time to another first-tier powerhouse, the Los Angeles Chargers.
Fraud. Pretenders. Unreliable.
The backlash rushed in instantly, drowning the Chiefs.
"Good night, hope you die peacefully."
"Sorry, but the Chargers should've won 35–0."
"The Chiefs are no different from the dog crap in the ditch behind my house."
"No hype, no bias—just objectively, one team looked like a champion, and the other… looked like the Chiefs."
"You jackasses miss chances again and again, only finding confidence against weak teams. The moment you face a true champion-caliber team, you're exposed. Defending champs? Ha. Kiss my ass."
"Best Chargers, worst Chiefs—please, NFL, stop mindlessly hyping Lance."
"This is your so-called next face of the league? Then the NFL might as well shut down now."
"Brady's successor? Next GOAT? Hah! Funniest thing I've heard all year. Lance is the most overrated talent in NFL history."
"Lance, stop talking to the media. Your jokes aren't funny—they're stupid. Go study the playbook instead."
"You could tell from the Hunt incident—when the top is rotten, the bottom follows."
"Because you beat the Patriots last year, you're treated like superheroes? Stop praising the Chiefs—they're just like the Patriots, birds of a feather. The Rams are the real champions!"
"Serves you right. The cover-up of the Hunt incident—justice may be slow, but it always arrives."
"HAHA, happiest moment of the season—Coach Lynn, you're the best."
Attacks. Taunts. Mockery. Contempt.
Every kind of insult imaginable, flooding in from every corner. For a moment, it felt like half the world stood against the Chiefs.
And this was just the tip of the iceberg.
Open social media, and the hate spills over—uglier, filthier, bloodier words filling every corner of the screen.
Even seeing it with your own eyes, it's hard to believe people can hold such deep hatred, pouring it out without the slightest restraint.
The guns, the cannons—every weapon is aimed squarely at Lance. As captain and leader of the Chiefs, more than two-thirds of the hate is directed at him alone.
"…So this is the ceiling of the league's future quarterbacks? Heh."
"The Chiefs thought they'd struck gold, but it was fool's gold all along."
"I know the league is desperate to find the next Manning or Brady to keep the QB storylines alive—but I didn't realize they were this desperate."
"Honestly, with Mahomes playing like this, I don't know how you can hype him with a straight face."
"Bust. Oh, sorry—tenth overall pick, so maybe 'bust' isn't the right word, but let's be real—there was never much hope to begin with. The Chiefs should cut their losses and find another quarterback."
"They brought this on themselves. They should've kept Smith instead of gambling on a second-year kid. I guess seeing rookie Lance succeed a little blinded them into betting big on Mahomes. But come on—quarterbacks aren't running backs."
To be fair, Mahomes wasn't at his best in this game:
58.8% completion rate, 199 passing yards, two touchdowns, one interception.
All season lows—but that's only because his earlier performances had been phenomenal. Compared to the league average, this was still far from terrible or disastrous.
Even so, the game against the Chargers stayed competitive until the final moments.
But does anyone care?
No.
Brittany couldn't stand to watch anymore.
She kept reminding herself—don't check social media, don't engage with trolls, don't let online noise disrupt her mood.
But it's not easy.
She'd put her phone away, lock it in a drawer, shut out all the noise… but within five minutes, she'd find an excuse to pick it back up.
And before she realized it, she was back on social media.
Seeing the insults, she couldn't hold back. She dove into the comment section, firing back with a stream of sharp, cutting replies—typing so much that the character limit warning popped up. Only then did she pause, breathe, and calm down.
Taking a deep breath, she deleted every reply she'd posted.
She couldn't be impulsive or reckless—getting into a shouting match online would only feed the haters.
That wouldn't help Mahomes.
In the end, Brittany set the phone down, grabbed her keys, and forced herself out of the house.
She needed to be completely away from the phone, the TV, the computer—away from the internet entirely. Only by shifting her focus could she truly calm down.
When she opened the door, she froze, realizing the sky was just beginning to lighten. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, and the city was only just waking from the night.
She hadn't slept a wink all night. Without realizing it, dawn had arrived.
So now what? Where should she go?
"Morning."
From a distance came a greeting. Brittany looked over and saw Lance returning from a morning run.
He didn't slow his stride, continuing forward.
Brittany hesitated for a moment, but before her brain could decide, her voice had already escaped her throat.
"Lance!"
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Powerstones?
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