The music throbbed like a living heartbeat through the walls of the mansion, so loud the chandeliers rattled and the floor seemed to pulse beneath polished shoes. Champagne mist hung in the air, sticky-sweet and sharp, clinging to the fabric of suits and the glittering skin of women pressed too close to men they barely knew. Camera flashes lit the corners like lightning. Laughter rolled like thunder. Somewhere in the crowd, a hundred voices shouted his name, rising and falling in drunken rhythm.
"Gavin! Gavin! Gavin!"
He raised his glass of Dom Pérignon, and the roar came again, deafening, almost violent. He gave them the smile they expected—the one plastered across sneaker ads, halftime interviews, and billboards the size of buildings. His jaw flexed, teeth gleaming under the spotlights. A perfect performance. He'd rehearsed it his whole adult life.
The announcer's voice boomed from hidden speakers. "Six-foot-three! Two hundred and ten pounds! Five-time Super Bowl champion! Five-time Super Bowl MVP! Six-time league MVP! Let's hear it for America's quarterback, Dallas' very own—Gavin King!"
Confetti cannons exploded, raining paper shreds over the dance floor. A Victoria's Secret model threw herself at him, arms around his neck, lips brushing his ear as she whispered something rehearsed, something sultry. He didn't even register her name. Kayla? Kylie? They blurred together: the perfume, the perfect hair, the ambition hidden behind every painted smile. They wanted proximity to the glow, not the man inside it.
He downed the champagne in one long swallow, the bubbles biting at his throat. It was the only thing that still felt real. Everything else—the chants, the confetti, the flashbulbs—felt like being trapped in a highlight reel that refused to end. He had the wealth, the women, the rings. America had carved his name into living stone before his thirtieth birthday. And yet, as the bass shook the walls and another round of cheers went up, all he wanted was silence.
Across the room, Madison was already shirtless, a two-hundred-kilo wall of lineman muscle, pouring shots of tequila into the hollow of a model's stomach. His beard dripped with foam. Teammates shouted encouragement, howling like frat boys on their first spring break. Madison grinned, wide and reckless, a giant who could block a tank on the field but still drowned his fear in liquor when the lights went out.
Gavin loosened his tie, tugged the collar open. The room was too hot, the laughter too loud, the touch of every eager hand too much. He slipped away, moving through bodies grinding against marble counters and rookies vomiting into silver bowls worth more than their signing bonuses. Past the hallway lined with modern art no one noticed anymore. His footsteps sank into thick Persian rugs as he escaped into the quieter wing of the house.
The noise dimmed behind him. The silence pressed closer.
And there she was.
Leaning against the wall outside his private suite, one heel dangling from her fingers, the other still strapped to a perfect foot. Gigi Hadid, nineteen, maybe twenty, fresh-faced but already knowing how to bite her lip at the right time, how to let her eyes widen like a promise. Hungry, not just for him, but for the world he represented.
"You always run from your own party?" she asked.
He chuckled, low and humorless. "I like the part without the cameras."
She laughed, a light sound that belonged on talk shows and glossy magazine spreads. Rehearsed, but still sweet. When he opened the door, she followed him inside as if she'd been waiting all night for the invitation.
The suite was dark but rich. Heavy oak doors muffled the bass to a distant vibration, like thunder rolling on the horizon. The air smelled of leather, expensive cologne, and the faint sweetness of whiskey. A king-sized bed loomed in the center, draped in sheets that cost more than most people's rent. A minibar sparkled in the corner.
Gigi flopped backward onto the mattress, blond hair spilling like a golden spill across the pillows. She giggled, legs in the air as she kicked off her other heel. Fresh. Effervescent. Annoyingly perfect.
"Your fans think you're untouchable," she said, propping herself up on her elbows. "But here you are, hiding in a bedroom."
Gavin sank into the leather chair across from her, his smirk sharp enough to cut glass. "Even gods need a break."
She laughed again, tilting her head, studying him like she already knew the photograph she wanted. He knew her type. Rising star, hungry for the right picture with the right man. Calculated. Determined. He reached for his phone and thumbed open an app. Not social media. His finance tracker. He did this after every conquest. He called it "donations," but he knew the truth.
Nineteen years old. Career on the rise. Pre-Leo. Untainted. That alone doubled her stock.
Base price? Two hundred thousand.Effort? She was trying—laughing at his weak jokes, leaning forward like he was the sun. Another fifty.Performance bonus? The line about paying him if she could. Cute. Another thirty.
Three hundred and eighty thousand. A reasonable investment.
Across the room, Gigi rose and padded toward the bathroom, hips swaying, humming something low. She didn't shut the door. He watched her disappear, already calculating the headlines tomorrow, the whispers, the inevitable denials.
Then he heard it.
A gag. Wet. Harsh.
He frowned, lowered his phone. "Don't puke on my time, sweetheart."
Another retch, violent. Something splattered on tile. Then a choked gasp, guttural, raw, too primal for drunken sickness.
Gavin sat forward, brows knitting. "Come on, at least hit the toilet—"
The sound changed. Thick. Wet. Wrong.
A spray. A splash. Not wine. Not food.
Blood.
The smell hit him a moment later—copper and bile, sharp enough to sting his nose. The first thud shook the doorframe, heavy enough to make the mirror tremble. He stood slowly, every muscle tight.
"Gigi?"
No answer. Just another thud. Wet. Sharp. A hiss of air between clenched teeth, like someone trying to tear their own throat apart.
He stepped toward the bathroom. The frosted glass wall shimmered under the dim light, blurred shapes twisting behind it. Another slam. A crimson smear appeared, sliding down like paint.
"Jesus Christ…"
Her silhouette jerked against the glass. Once. Twice. Her head snapped forward and back, harder each time. The pane quivered, spiderweb cracks blooming. Her blood spread wider with every impact, dripping onto the marble.
He had seen concussions. He had watched men seize on the field. But this wasn't random. This was deliberate. Mechanical. Wrong.
"Cut it out!" His voice cracked. "You're gonna kill yourself!"
Another smash. A muffled crack of bone. Something broke at the bridge of her nose. He could hear it. Her shadow lifted its head. For one terrible instant, her face pressed against the glass. Nose bent sideways, eyes bulging, mouth stretched wider than human. A soundless scream.
Then she slammed again. Faster. Harder.
Thud-thud-thud-thud!
The pane trembled. Cracks widened.
From outside came another sound—different, distant. A scream. Not playful. Not drunken. A scream that ripped through the night air, ragged, desperate. Real.
He stumbled to the window, yanked the curtain aside. Outside, by the pool, shadows writhed. Two men in tuxedos struggled, one dragging the other into the water. Limbs flailed. Splashes turned black with blood under the pool lamps. The screaming stopped. The water rippled red.
"Shit…"
Another crash behind him. He spun.
Gigi's body slammed the glass again. Her blood smeared grotesque handprints across it, as if she wanted to claw her way out. The pane groaned, cracks running wild. Gavin's pulse hammered. His eyes flicked to the fireplace. Above it, mounted for decoration, gleamed a pair of ceremonial blades. Dust coated their hilts, but the steel shone sharp in the dim light.
Another slam. The pane bowed inward.
For the first time in years, the man called untouchable felt something he hadn't since childhood: panic.
He lunged for the fireplace, ripped the largest knife from its mount. Heavy. Serrated spine. Cold steel in his grip. Not a football. Not a trophy. Something older. Primal.
The glass burst.
Shards exploded into the room as Gigi tumbled through in a frenzy of blood and broken limbs. Her mouth gaped, jaw unhinged, shrieking without sound. She came at him like a rabid animal, faster than thought, eyes rolled white, body twitching with impossible strength.
He swung.
The knife carved into her shoulder. Blood sprayed. She didn't slow. Her hands clamped his chest, nails digging, teeth snapping for his throat. He stumbled back into the minibar, bottles toppling and shattering, whiskey fumes rising to mix with iron.
"Get off me!"
He jammed his forearm under her chin, holding her back. Her face was pulp, eyes bulging, jaw grinding. She didn't look like Gigi anymore. She didn't look human at all. Her shriek rattled his bones, spit hot on his cheek.
Adrenaline surged. For one blinding moment, it felt like the pocket collapsing, four defensive ends crashing down. No time. No room. Make the throw or die.
He drove the blade upward.
Steel ripped through her throat, cartilage splitting, bone cracking. Warm blood gushed over his hand. She convulsed, jerking like a puppet with cut strings. He forced the knife across, sawing through. Her head sagged, connected only by a flap of flesh before it tore loose and dropped to the floor with a hollow thunk.
Her body twitched once. Twice. Then collapsed in a heap of glass and silk.
Gavin staggered back, chest heaving. His stomach lurched. He bent over and vomited onto the shards at his feet. His hands shook. His ears rang. He had ended careers with hits before, broken bones, ruined bodies. But this was no game. This was no field.
This was something else entirely.
Outside, more screams tore through the night. Rapid gunfire crackled like fireworks, sharp and panicked. Glass shattered. A man shouted, high-pitched with terror, then was silenced in a wet gargle. The bass from the speakers had stopped. The music was gone.
All that remained was chaos.
Gavin wiped his mouth with the back of his blood-soaked hand. He looked at the twitching corpse at his feet, the head staring lifeless from the tile.
And then it hit him.
This wasn't one girl.This wasn't a freak accident.
It was happening everywhere.