John Lawrence's POV

The locker room door clicked shut, sealing me in with the echo of the crowd and the stink of sweat. The fluorescent lights buzzed, a dying insect heartbeat. Cold air bit through my torn gi.

I slumped on the bench, an ice pack numbing my temple, water trickling down my neck. Every breath was a knife-twist in my ribs. Blood crusted on my lip, metallic and familiar.

The door slammed open. I know it was Kreese.

His boots marched across the tile, sharp and final. His shadow fell over me, long and dark. He didn’t speak, just circled. Like a shark circling her prey.

“Lawrence.” His voice was a whip-crack. “Look at me.”

I dragged my head up. The world swam. “Sensei.”

“You had him.” He stopped in front of me, arms crossed. “Swept the leg. Pinned him. And then? You hesitated. Mercy.”

Heat flushed my neck. “He got lucky with that kick—”

“Luck?” His laugh was a dry, bitter thing.

“Luck is for the weak. You think I survived ‘Nam on luck?” He leaned in, his breath hot and sour. His fingers, iron-strong, grabbed my chin, forcing my gaze up. “Mercy is weakness, Johnny. Weakness gets you killed.”

I jerked back. The ice pack clattered to the floor. “I didn’t show mercy! I went hard. Strike first, strike hard—”

“Words.” He yanked me up by my gi collar. His face was inches from mine, veins bulging. “All talk. No bite. You let that Jersey punk dance around you. ‘Wax on, wax off’? A joke. And you bought it.” Spit stung my cheek. “You’re Cobra Kai. Or you were. Now? You’re soft. Rotten.”

The words hit harder than LaRusso’s foot. My chest tightened. “Sensei, I—”

“Shut it.” He shoved me back onto the bench. “Failure. A Cobra without fangs. All hiss, no strike.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Strike first, Lawrence. Or get struck down. Forever.”

Memories flashed, unbidden. Dawn drills in the parking lot. Me at fifteen, puking after push-ups on gravel, Kreese’s boot on my back. “Pain builds character, boy.” The chant of “No mercy!” echoing off cinderblock walls. Fists pounding pads until knuckles split, blood on the mat. My brothers beside me—Bobby, Tommy. A family forged in his iron fist. Hard. Unbreakable.

Or so I’d thought.

Now, he stripped it all bare. “Trailer trash roots, Johnny. That’s all you are. Daddy split when you were five. Left you scraping for scraps. And look at you. Still scraping.” He paced a tight circle. “I gave you everything. A dojo. Purpose. A shot at being somebody. And you piss it away on pity?”

Tears burned. I blinked them back, fists clenching. “I ain’t pitying nobody. I fought for the team. For you.”

“For me?” He stopped, his laugh colder than the melting ice on the floor. He pulled a photo from his pocket, glossy and worn, and shoved it into my hands. Last year’s Cobra Kai. All of us, grinning after regionals. Me in the middle, his rare, proud smile beside me. “This was us. Unbeatable. Now look at you.” The photo trembled in my grip. “Bent. Broken. A damn embarrassment.”

The weight of it crushed me. Letting him down was worse than any loss. This was my family. My only one. “I’m sorry. I’ll train harder. Dawn till—”

“Save it.” He turned, his boots stomping toward the door. “Fix yourself. Or stay broken.”

The door banged shut. The echo lasted forever.

Alone. The buzz of the lights was deafening. I looked down at the photo. Our smiling faces mocked me. Warriors? Hell. I crumpled it in my fist.

The metal locker in front of me was already dented. I swung. My knuckles connected with a sickening thud. White-hot pain flared. Skin split, blood smearing the faded blue paint. The dent deepened.

A vow burned in my gut. Reclaim the edge. No more soft. No more mercy. Strike first. Always.

I wiped my bloody hand on my torn gi, grabbed my bag, and stuffed the crumpled photo inside. I left the melting ice pack on the floor and pushed out into the empty hall. Arena ghosts whispered—empty seats, spilled soda underfoot.

The night air outside was cool. My Camaro waited, beat-up and faithful. The engine turned over with a rough cough. The radio blared Asia—“Heat of the Moment.” The guitar wail synced with the throbbing in my head.

I pulled out, tires crunching gravel. The freeway lights blurred. Tears threatened, hot and sharp. I wiped them away. The radio climbed louder. "Gave it all for the thrill." The thrill was gone, replaced by a hollow ache, my fists still clenched on the wheel. Kreese’s voice looped in my head. Failure. Soft. Trailer trash.

Home was a dark trailer on the edge of everything. I parked crooked, killed the engine, and silence rushed in. My knees buckled on the steps. Inside, I stumbled to the couch and collapsed. The ceiling fan whirred. My fist throbbed. My head pounded.

Sleep wouldn’t come. Just the echoes. That kick. Their cheers. Kreese’s glare is all in my head.

Thirty-four years later, that dented locker feels like yesterday. And failures? They don’t fade. They fester.