John Lawrence pov

The stale taste of last night’s Coors was a familiar greeting as I pried my eyes open. Sunlight stabbed through the blinds, making my head throb.

At fifty-one, waking up still felt like getting jumped. My feet hit the carpet, which probably hadn’t been cleaned since the nineties, and I shuffled to the bathroom. The mirror was foggy, but it couldn’t hide the lines dug deep around my eyes or the gray sneaking into my stubble.

My hair was a greasy mess, still clinging to that old mullet style. "Lookin' sharp, Johnny," I mumbled, my voice rough from smoke and bad sleep.

The kitchen fridge groaned like it was on its last legs. Inside was a sad collection: a few leftover beers, some ancient ketchup packets, and that Polaroid stuck to the door.

It was Robby, maybe five years old, wearing a backwards Dodgers hat with a gap-toothed grin. His mom, Laura, had her arm around him, both of them laughing in some Encino park. That was before all the fights and the court dates, back when I was still a dad and not just a deadbeat.

"Hey, kid," I whispered, my thumb smudging the edge of the photo. Has it really been three years since I saw him last? I showed up late to his birthday with a cheap skateboard, and he just stared at me like I was some stranger asking for directions. He had my eyes once, full of fire, but now there was nothing. Just silence, and it was all my fault.

I shook the thought away and cracked open a warm beer. The bitter fizz was the best hangover cure the Valley had to offer. My phone buzzed on the counter. It was Dutch, my old Cobra Kai buddy, still built like a brick wall even though he delivered pizzas now. "Yo, Johnny, you kickin'? Got a job some leaky sink in an Encino mansion.

The owner's a total douche, but cash upfront." I thumbed back a clumsy reply, grabbed my keys from the counter—a jangling mess of truck key, apartment key, and that beat-up '84 All Valley medallion I kept for luck.

Outside, the October sun was already baking the pavement. My '92 Ford Ranger sat waiting, rust eating away at the fenders. The engine coughed and then rumbled to life.

The AC was long dead, so I just cranked the window down and pretended it was a T-top. Merging onto the 101 was like diving into a river of angry metal—a mix of shiny new Benzes and tricked-out lowriders, all honking and swearing.

A huge billboard loomed over the traffic: Daniel LaRusso in his karate gi, smiling that smug smile next to his "Wax On, Drive Off!" auto group slogan. My gut tightened. There he was, Mr. Perfect, with his fancy cars and perfect family, all because of one cheap crane kick back in '84. Not a clean win.

He swept my leg. The memory hit me hard and fast: the roar of the crowd, Kreese yelling from the sidelines, my roundhouse kick landing solid, feeling his ribs give. He stumbled, swung wild, and then, because I dropped my guard for one stupid second, his foot shot up and smashed into my knee. I heard the crack before I felt it. The ref gave him the point. They called it legal. It was rigged, and everyone knew it.

I pushed the memory down and cranked the radio, letting Van Halen’s "Panama" blast over the road noise. I drove past the old strip malls, the sushi joints, the boarded-up storefront where the original Cobra Kai dojo used to be, weeds now pushing through the cracked asphalt.

Encino was a different world, all manicured lawns and big houses. The job was at a giant beige mansion trying to look like an Italian villa, complete with a fountain spitting water. The owner answered the door, some finance guy in sockless loafers, talking into his phone. "Yeah, the fix-it guy's here. Looks like he time-traveled from an '80s video." He chuckled at his own joke and waved me inside.

The sink was leaking bad, the pipes crusted with mineral deposits from the hard water. I squeezed under the cabinet, my wrench scraping against the old fittings. Sweat soaked my shirt as the guy hovered, bragging about his Tesla and some stock deal. "Ever think of leveling up? This handyman hustle—it's so... working stiff."

I gave the valve a final hard turn, and the water stopped with a hiss. "Level up? Nah, I just fix the drips before they drown the place," I said, biting back what I really wanted to say. The real lessons I learned were from Cobra Kai. Strike first. Strike hard. No mercy. Kreese’s voice was a bad echo in my head.

I was done in twenty minutes. He handed me two hundred-dollar bills, scribbling on a receipt and mumbling about giving me four stars online. "Bump it to five, or I'll unclog your ego next," I told him. His laugh was fake, and the door slammed shut behind me. Back in my truck, I peeled out, the tires squealing a little.

The 101 was a parking lot on the way back, a river of red taillights. The news on the radio talked about wildfires up north and rich people evacuating Bel Air. That was the Valley for you—close enough to see the glamour, but always smelling the smoke.

I pulled into my spot back at the apartment, the truck leaning crooked. The mailbox was full of bills and a pink slip from the landlord, another friendly reminder. I trudged up the stairs, my legs feeling heavy, and the door groaned open to that familiar stale smell. I dropped my toolbox by the couch, which sighed under the weight, and cracked open a fresh beer.

Flipping on the TV was a mistake. ESPN Classic was showing the '84 All Valley finals. There I was in my black gi, headband soaked with sweat, facing that kid from New Jersey. The arena was loud, Kreese was glaring from the corner, and I was moving well. I remembered the jabs, the fakes, the solid roundhouse that cracked his ribs.

He staggered, came in wild, and then it happened. My guard dropped for a split second, and his leg came up. The boot hit my knee, and I heard the snap before the pain even registered. The ref pointed to LaRusso. No disqualification. Just a cheap shot that changed everything.

I threw the remote at the wall and the TV died with a pop. My heart was hammering in my chest, my fists clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms. I paced the worn floor, my boots thumping on the buckled boards.

I passed the kitchen, saw the closet door slightly ajar like it was taunting me. I yanked it open, dust motes dancing in the light. On the top shelf, behind some rusty tools, were the trophies. The '82 Junior Winner. The '83 Valley Crusher. And the big one, the '84 second place, its base chipped from when I’d thrown it after the loss. I ran a finger over the engraved name: Johnny Lawrence, Cobra Kai. Kreese’s voice hissed in my memory: "Pick a mark, Johnny. No mark, you're punching shadows."

A mark. Right. LaRusso had his. He had his empire and his perfect life. And I had this apartment, this box of regrets, and the ghost of my kid judging me from a photo on the fridge. The beer in my hand tasted sour. I slammed the closet door shut, the trophies rattling inside.

Outside, a car backfired, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet. The Valley was getting dark, the streetlights flickering on. Another day was done, drained dry.

But deep down, under the bitterness and the hangover, I felt that old itch, a coiled snake waiting for a reason to strike.

It wasn't gone. It was just waiting.