Miguel's pov

Sirens wailed, cutting through the Afternoon. Red and blue lights flashed against the mini-mart walls. I was on my back on the cold ground, my heart pounding. My ribs ached from where the guys in polo shirts had kicked me. My bag of chips was crushed under me. My wallet was gone, my lunch money stolen. My pride was shattered.

Then, everything changed.

Johnny, the grumpy guy from my apartment building, exploded into the lot. He was a blur of motion. His fists flew, and he dropped the bullies one after another. They hit the asphalt with groans. I watched, frozen, blood on my lip. He stood over them, chest heaving, his eyes wild.

Cops swarmed in. Boots thudded. An officer yanked Johnny’s arms behind his back. The handcuffs clicked shut, sharp and final.

“You’re under arrest, sir,” the cop said, his voice flat.

Johnny didn’t resist. He just stood tall, his face calm, like this was normal. The bullies whimpered on the ground. One held his bloody nose. Another curled up in pain. I felt a grim satisfaction. They always picked on me—the new kid from Ecuador. The one with the accent and the funny walk.

They called me names. Shoved me in the halls. I always took it, trying to make myself small.

But tonight, someone saw. Someone fought back.

I scrambled to my feet, my knees shaky. I grabbed my wallet from where Johnny had tossed it. The cash was still inside. My hands trembled as I shoved it into my pocket. The cops were pushing Johnny toward a squad car.

“Thanks, man,” I whispered, my voice cracking.

He glanced over his shoulder. Our eyes met for just a second. I saw something in his look—not just anger, but a deep pain I recognized.

“Get outta here, kid,” he grunted.

The car door slammed. The police car sped away, its lights fading. I was left alone in the parking lot with the echoes of the fight. A feeling of awe hit me hard. That wasn't just a fight; it was skill. He moved like the heroes in the old karate movies my Abuela watched. He had power. I had none. I was bullied so much I felt like I was made of paper.

*******

Hours later, I was in the police station with my Abuela. The place smelled like stale coffee and fear. A cop led me to a small room with gray walls.

Johnny was there. He sat in a metal chair, his wrists cuffed to the table. He wore an orange jumpsuit. He looked smaller, tired. The fury was gone.

The cop left us alone. My heart hammered in my chest.

Johnny looked up. “You again. What are you doing here, Diaz?”

“That was amazing,” I said, the words rushing out. “The way you took them down… it was like, bam! Pow! No sweat.”

He snorted. “Yeah, amazing. Tell that to the judge. Those rich kids’ daddies will have me in jail for years.”

I didn’t care about that. I had seen what he could do. I needed it.

“Teach me,” I blurted out. “Please. Teach me how to do that.”

I stepped closer, my palms pressing into the cold table.

“I’m sick of it. Every day at school, they circle me. They trip me. They steal my stuff. They call me names until I want to disappear. Back in Ecuador, I had friends. Here, it’s a war, and I’m losing. You could show me how to fight back. How to stand up.”

My eyes stung, but I refused to cry.

He stared at me for a long time, his jaw tight.

“Kid, I’m no sensei,” he said, his voice rough. “That was just… me, losing my temper. That Cobra Kai ‘no mercy’ stuff? It’s poison. It’ll get you hurt or expelled. Go home. Play video games. Find a safe hobby.”

His words were a dismissal, but they weren't cruel. They were just tired.

I could see the fight was over. The thrill was gone, leaving only trouble behind.

He turned his head away, looking at the blank wall. “Officer! We’re done here.”

The door opened. Cold air washed in.

I walked out, my heart heavy. My Abuela was waiting, her rosary beads in her hands. She looked worried.

He had said no. But as I left, I held onto the memory of that fight—the speed, the power, the respect it commanded. It was a small spark in the dark.

Maybe he would change his mind. For now, I had seen what was possible. And for the first time, I wanted to fight for myself.