New York. NFL Headquarters, Top Floor Conference Room. Time: 10:13 AM.
The instant Levi burst from the restroom, the carefully constructed facade of order and authority in the conference room vaporized. The powerful shockwave of the security guard's collision—a 200lb man sent flying like a discarded puppet—had momentarily paralyzed the room.
Levi was no longer the sickly, pale patient in a wheelchair. He was reborn, a being of pure, golden kinetic energy. His eyes, burning with the light of his restored and enhanced Diamond Form, projected a predatory confidence that filled every cubic inch of the room. His bespoke tailored suit, now taut and straining against his instantly hardened, expanded muscles, screamed elemental power.
Commissioner Roger Goodell, who moments ago had been the master of the trap, instinctively vaulted backward from his chair. His expression shifted violently from smug triumph to utter, raw, and unadulterated terror. "This... this is impossible!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with disbelief. "He can't stand! He was faking the sickness! He's using drugs! That power is synthetic!"
"He is not using drugs!" Dr. Sophie Vance charged forward, her medical professionalism momentarily usurped by a fierce, maternal protective loyalty. She positioned herself near Levi, glaring at the panicked committee. "He is clean! He is purer than all of you combined! You have his report!"
Levi ignored the frantic accusations and the terrified, grasping fear radiating from the league's elite. He moved with a terrifying, unhurried grace toward the centerpiece of the room: the flashing, military-grade punch testing machine. This 5000lb rated behemoth was Goodell's ultimate weapon, designed to expose his zero-strength state.
Levi stopped before the half-meter-thick sensor plate. He reached out with the bandaged hand—the one mutilated by glass shards only hours before—and lightly tapped the surface with his finger, the sound a deeply resonant metallic dong.
"Is this the coffin you prepared for me, Commissioner?" Levi asked, turning to face Goodell. His voice was cold and unforgiving, the amplified fear in the room a tonic to his confidence.
"I fulfilled the 'Urine Tactic.' Now I am ready. But are you absolutely certain this cheap piece of machinery can withstand my greeting?"
Goodell, seeing his carefully cultivated authority crumbling on live television, had nothing left but primal rage and a desperate need to win the wager. "Silence! If you can hit over 5000lbs, I will kneel before you and resign! Now, deliver your full force!"
The Diamond Strike: Annihilation.
"You promised," Levi murmured, confirming the wager with a slight nod. He did not take a preparatory step back. He did not adjust his hips for leverage. He merely raised his right fist—the one still protected by the blood-stained gauze—as if swatting a bothersome insect.
The System roared its final confirmation:
[SKILL: DIAMOND FORM (50X) TRIGGERED!]
[PUNCH INITIATION: FULL FORCE]!
Levi's arm muscles coiled and released with impossible, nuclear speed. He didn't punch; he pushed his fist lightly, contemptuously, into the sensor plate.
KRAKATOOM—!!!
The sound was apocalyptic. It was not the dull thud of human collision; it was the catastrophic, internal shriek of high-density metal being molecularly dismantled. The sensor plate instantly erupted in a spider-web pattern, the core circuit board short-circuiting with a loud ZZZZAP! The thick hydraulic supports that stabilized the machine bent and twisted like soft taffy under an invisible, overwhelming force.
In less than three agonizing seconds, the million-dollar, military-grade machine—designed to absorb 5000lbs—literally exploded.
Black sensor paneling flew outward, accompanied by blinding sparks and a thick cloud of acrid, burnt smoke. The air tasted of ozone and defeat.
Silence descended, heavier and deeper than any tomb. Goodell, the committee members, and the FBI agents were frozen in mid-scream, mouths agape. Dropped files, pens, and coffee cups lay scattered across the polished floor.
A broadcast commentator's voice, transmitted faintly through a surviving microphone, choked out the disbelief: "Did... did he just explode the machine?! The sheer power defies the limits of the broadcast!"
Levi calmly retrieved his hand. It was completely unscathed. The gauze, despite the catastrophic explosion, was barely ruffled. He casually patted his suit, brushing away non-existent ash.
The Negotiation: Terms of Surrender.
"Commissioner," Levi said, his voice terrifyingly calm amidst the smoking wreckage. "You said you would cover the damage. I believe the test has been completed, though the data logging mechanism seems to have failed." He paused, letting the implication hang. "Now, let's talk compensation. I was subjected to insult, public slander, and the threat of illegal imprisonment."
Goodell's face cycled through horror, denial, and finally, a sick, venomous gray. "You... this is non-human power! This is cheating! I will have ten more labs test your DNA!" he screamed hysterically, clinging to the only legal recourse he had left.
Levi laughed, a deep, contemptuous sound that echoed his victory over the league's rules. "My bone density report is already on file. Dr. Vance has confirmed I have diamond-grade bones. It's a gift. You chose to use cheap, tofu-dreg engineering to test me, and it failed. Whose fault is that?"
Levi walked up to the long table, towering over the terrified Commissioner. He leaned in, his golden eyes radiating cold menace. "We negotiate the compensation now."
"What do you want?" Goodell managed, his voice a strained whisper.
Levi straightened, his expression hardening into absolute resolve. "It's simple. For the next game against the Dallas Cowboys, I demand Unrestricted Collision Rights. The referees must ignore any dirty or illegal play by the Cowboys—no flags for unnecessary roughness against me. And I reserve the right to use my full, unlimited force as I see fit."
"That is a violation of every league rule! It constitutes a license to injure!" Goodell stammered, horrified.
"Rules?" Levi scoffed, pointing a contemptuous finger at the still-smoking debris. "You set a trap using FBI agents and illegal accusations. You were willing to ruin the career of a minority star athlete on national television.
Do not speak of 'rules' to me." He paused, lowering his voice to a chilling whisper. "Either you agree to my terms, or I release the footage of this entire hearing—the footage of the NFL Commissioner personally setting a legal trap against a minority star athlete—to every major media outlet in the world."
Goodell's body sagged. The word 'minority' was the final nail in his corporate coffin. The public relations fallout would destroy his career and the league's stock price instantly.
"Agreed," Goodell ground out, his eyes black with hatred. "Unrestricted Collision Rights. But if you cross any line that even remotely touches my authority again, I will still find a way to make you pay."
"That's all I needed," Levi smiled, turning directly to the camera, his confidence overwhelming. "Dallas Cowboys, your judgment day has arrived. Prepare your insurance policies."