San Francisco. Levi's Luxury Apartment. Time: 9:00 AM.
The cold, unforgiving light of the morning sun pierced the bedroom window, yet Levi found no warmth. He awoke trapped in the cruelest of prisons—the [Rebound Penalty].
His body, usually an engine of destruction, was a useless, aching husk. The pain, though dulled slightly from the night's peak, lingered, a constant, throbbing reminder of his absolute mortality.
He tried to perform a simple act: clenching his fist. His hand wobbled pitifully; the muscles refused to contract with any force. It was soft and weak, unable to crush even an egg.
The sheer humiliation of his physical state was almost worse than the pain itself. The Human Tank was now a human ragdoll.
He checked the System mentally: Body Reconstruction Progress: 90%. Estimated Time Remaining: 1 Hour 15 Minutes.
"Damn it," Levi cursed silently, the word a mere breath of frustration. The timing was a dagger to his throat. The "Non-Natural Force Hearing" was scheduled for 10:00 AM. This meant he would remain utterly powerless—a complete zero in all physical attributes—for the first crucial fifteen minutes of the proceeding.
Commissioner Roger Goodell, the old fox, had undoubtedly engineered every trap with surgical precision.
The door clicked open, and Dr. Sophie Vance entered, carrying a new, bespoke three-piece suit. The exhaustion of her sleepless night was etched into the dark circles beneath her eyes, but her professional composure was locked firmly in place.
"The press is downstairs," she said, her voice low, clinical, and tight with barely contained anxiety. "CNN, ESPN, even the BBC. They're all waiting to see if the Human Tank is truly broken."
Sophie moved to him, her hands steady as she helped him sit up and began carefully fastening the buttons on his shirt. Her touch was purely professional, but Levi could feel the underlying panic in the slight stiffness of her fingers. "I can write you a certificate for acute myocarditis. We can delay this for a few days," she suggested, desperate for a way out.
"No need," Levi shook his head, looking at his terrifyingly pale reflection in the mirror. His face was drawn, yet his eyes held a cold, unwavering defiance. "Avoid the first, but you can't avoid the fifteenth. If I don't show up, they'll assume I have something to hide. Goodell wins by default."
"But you can't even walk steadily!" Sophie protested, her voice rising in genuine fear. "A gust of wind could knock you over!"
Levi's eyes drifted to the corner of the room. There, stood the standard issue wheelchair Sophie had brought up last night for moving him to the living room during the worst of the pain.
"Then we'll use that," Levi said, a wicked, amused curve twisting his lips. The sheer absurdity of the plan was exhilarating. "Time to give them a performance that wins an Oscar."
The Grand Entrance
Time: 9:50 AM. New York. NFL Headquarters.
The entrance of the NFL Headquarters was a brutal spectacle. Flashing cameras created a blinding, chaotic white light. Hundreds of reporters and protestors jammed the main doors.
Signs reading 'Fraud!' and 'Dope Fiend!' bobbed menacingly above the crowd. Everyone was waiting for the fall of the 'Gridiron Tyrant.'
A sleek black SUV pulled up, the focal point of a thousand lenses.
The car door opened. First, Dr. Sophie Vance emerged, immaculate in her severe business attire, her face a mask of iron composure. She moved quickly to pull a standard wheelchair from the back.
Then, the focus of the world slid into view. In the chair sat the man who had terrified the entire league: Levi.
He was impeccably dressed in his sharp, tailored suit. A massive pair of dark sunglasses hid the sickly pallor of his face. In one hand, he held a cup of Starbucks coffee—the ultimate symbol of casual, arrogant unbotheredness.
The crowd erupted in a cacophony of astonishment and immediate, venomous mockery.
"A wheelchair? Is he paralyzed?"
"Hah! I told you he was a fraud! The dope wore off!"
Facing the torrent of scorn and flashbulbs, Levi didn't flinch. He leaned back in the chair and, using every ounce of his zero-attribute strength, casually crossed one leg over the other.
He lifted the edge of his sunglasses just enough to expose one eye, staring directly at the swarming reporters as if they were nothing more than an unpleasant swarm of gnats.
"Dr. Sophie," he drawled, his voice steady, though he could taste the metallic tang of his adrenaline-fueled terror. "Push slowly. Don't want to frighten these country bumpkins who've never seen the world."
Arrogant. Even in a wheelchair. Even when one sneeze could break his neck.
Sophie pushed the chair through the frenzied crowd, her spine rigid with a devotion that transcended her professional duty. She played the part of the devoted aide perfectly, shielding him from the chaos.
The Execution Chamber
Time: 9:58 AM. Top Floor Conference Room.
The massive, mahogany doors were pushed open by a stern-faced attendant, and Levi slid into the room, chair and all.
The atmosphere was thick and cold, designed to intimidate. Across the long table sat Commissioner Roger Goodell, flanked by a dozen grim-faced investigative committee members.
The room's centerpiece, however, was the instruments of his judgment: a huge, flashing military-grade punch testing machine—capable of registering forces up to 5,000 lbs—and a bone penetration scanner. The trap was laid.
Goodell watched the wheelchair approach, a look of smug, cold triumph gleaming in his eyes.
"Mr. Levi, welcome," Goodell began, the smile not reaching his cold, reptilian eyes. "Since you are indisposed, we shall skip the pleasantries. Please rise from your chair and strike this machine with your full force. If the data is satisfactory, you are free to go."
Goodell checked his Patek Philippe watch. "It is now 10:00 AM. You have ten minutes. If you refuse to strike within ten minutes, it will be considered a confession, and you will be banned for life."
Levi sat in the wheelchair, his eyes fixed on the cold steel of the machine.
[SYSTEM COUNTDOWN: Recovery Time Remaining: 13 Minutes.]
A three-minute difference! If he struck now, he would register 5 pounds of force—the punch of a toddler—and be instantly disgraced, his career and reputation annihilated.
He tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest, a thin layer of cold sweat coating his forehead. His face, however, maintained his trademark arrogant smirk. His survival depended on his acting skills.
"Commissioner Goodell," Levi sneered, his voice steady despite the searing agony that threatened to overwhelm him. "So eager? Are you afraid I'll break your machine and you don't have the budget for repairs?"
Goodell slammed his hand on the table. "Stop the theatrics! The countdown has begun!"
Levi had to bluff his way through the next three agonizing minutes, live on national television, with zero strength and a body screaming in agony. This was the ultimate high-stakes performance, and he had to win.