Johnny Lawrence's POV

A hot, sick rage burned in my chest. That tow truck had dragged my Porsche away, the sound of its death rattle still echoing in my head. My last piece of the good life was gone, crumpled and smoking.

LaRusso Auto Group. The sign on the hill gleamed white and perfect, like Daniel’s fake, peaceful karate gi. I stormed across the lot, my boots pounding the gravel. My heart was slamming, a wild mix of fury and that old, deep ache that whispered, You lost everything, Johnny, and now this.

Inside, the sales guys—all wearing their dumb karate uniforms—paused their synchronized moves. Their eyes bugged out like they’d seen a ghost from the ‘80s. I shoved through the glass doors. Cool air blasted my face, but it did nothing to put out the fire inside me.

The place smelled like new leather and money, the kind I’d never have. Shiny cars were lined up like trophies, with those little bonsai trees sitting on the hoods like a bad joke.

The woman at the front desk froze, the phone halfway to her ear. Her fake smile cracked. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Where’s my car?” I growled, leaning in close enough to read her name tag. Karen. “A tow truck brought it here. You fix it. Now. Or I’ll raise hell.”

“Sir,” she stammered, “Mr. LaRusso handles that. Let me page him.”

“Page him. Yeah, go ahead. Tell the king his peasants are revolting.”

I drummed my fingers on the counter, my knuckles still raw from that mini-mart fight. The memory of that kid, Miguel, flashed in my head—the bullied runt who’d looked at me like I was a hero. And now here I was, begging in LaRusso’s polished palace. Humiliation twisted like a knife in my ribs.

The office doors swung open and there he was. Daniel LaRusso. His suit was crisp, his tie loose, like he’d just meditated his way to being a millionaire. His eyes locked onto mine, narrowing behind his nerd glasses. That same smug squint from ’84.

“Johnny Lawrence,” he said, his voice smooth as oil but laced with that old venom. “Still kicking ass and taking names, huh?”

The showroom went dead quiet. His sales guys started circling slowly, smirks creeping onto their faces like they smelled blood. I felt it, deep down—that old spotlight burning, the crowd waiting for a rematch.

Then I saw her. Sam poked her head out of an office door, her face going ghost white. Her ponytail seemed to droop. She was wringing her hands on her skirt like it was a lifeline. “Dad,” she whispered, her eyes begging him to make it stop.

My blood roared. My fists clenched. All the anger and grief came spilling out like beer from a tipped bottle.

“LaRusso, you prick! Your little princess totaled my ’79 Porsche! The only damn thing I had left from back when I was somebody!” My voice cracked, my throat tight. I stepped up, nose to nose with him.

He didn’t flinch. He just put his palm out, like that old Miyagi-block bullshit. “Whoa, easy, Johnny. Accidents happen. Sam’s covered by insurance, you’ll get it sorted.”

But his eyes had that winner’s glint. The one that said, I own you. Still.

“Sort it? Sort it like you sorted Ali? You swiped her right after the tournament, you Jersey con-man!”

The insults flew fast and meant to hurt. Old scars were ripping open, fresh and bleeding.

Daniel leaned in, his voice dropping low but echoing in the quiet room. “You mean after you went for the dirty move? After you tried to ‘sweep the leg,’ Johnny? You tried to snap my knee like a twig back in ’84.”

A murmur went through the sales crew. One of the bigger guys chuckled. “Tell him the crane kick comeback story, boss!”

My face burned. My fists shook with boiling rage. “That was a clean fight! The ref called your point! You pulled that illegal crane crap, stole the win, stole my shot at everything!” The words hung thick in the air. “Stolen girls, lost belts…”

I heard Sam gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. Her cheeks were burning red. I felt a twinge of something—bad for the kid, she looked mortified—but it was drowned out by my own humiliation. The crowd was eating this up like popcorn.

Daniel started circling me slowly, like we were back on the mat. His voice was a hiss. “You always choked, Johnny. Booze and bad calls. And now you’re crashing into my daughter. Sign for a loaner car and bounce, before I call the cops.”

Everything hit me at once. Grief for my car, for the life it stood for. Anger at him, at myself, at this whole stupid valley. I lunged in close, our faces inches apart, our breath mixing.

“Call ‘em! I’ll drop you and your clown squad, Cobra Kai style! Strike first, no mercy, baby!”

His sales guys inched closer. Their whispers turned to hoots. One of them yelled out the old taunt: “Get him a body bag!”

That was it. Sam bolted. The office door slammed shut behind her. Her princess poise was shattered. A flash of pity hit me, quick and sharp, but it was swallowed by the wave of my own defeat. The old wounds were throbbing like they were fresh.

I froze, my chest heaving. The fight drained out of me like air from a punctured tire. Daniel’s eyes were steady, victor-cool, but I saw a flicker in them—the ghost of the hell we’d both been through.

I snatched the paper. Signed my name with a hand that shook, the ink smearing. I turned for the door, my boots feeling heavy as lead.

The crowd of salesmen parted. Their smirks faded into awkward coughs. And then I saw him, over by a car. That kid, Miguel. The one from the apartments who got bullied. He was just hanging back, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and pain.

For a second, I felt seen. That spark of something real. But I shoved it down.

Outside, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the lot, shadows as long as my regrets. I trudged away, alone, the buzz of Reseda calling me back to the gutter.

LaRusso won again. Yeah.

But the snake in me hissed, louder this time. Not done. Not broken. Next round, we’d see who swept whose leg.

For now, there was just the hollow echo of ‘what ifs,’ and the sound of a girl crying in an office.

Damn it all.