Encino, California – Present Day
The California sun hit different than the desert heat. Softer. Calmer. But to Mike Harris, peace was still a foreign concept.
He stood in front of a rundown apartment complex, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Inside were a few clothes, some medical files he didn't recognize, and a strange letter that simply read:
"Start over. Train. Find your balance. You've been given a second chance."
No signature. No return address. Just that.
Mike didn't know if it was divine intervention, reincarnation, or a mental breakdown. But he knew one thing: his body felt real. Stronger, even. Still 35. Still him. But without the limp, without the pain. Yet the scars in his mind? Those never left.
Two Days Later – Cobra Kai Dojo
The "Cobra Kai" sign hit him like a gut punch.
Memories of the name surged forward—TV clips, news stories, that infamous 1980s All-Valley showdown. It was all fiction to him once. Now it was real.
He watched from across the street as students sparred inside. Quick jabs, fast sweeps, a style built for domination.
Mike had seen this before—in war zones. It wasn't martial arts. It was combat. Raw and brutal.
And yet… something in it called to him.
Not to fight.
To discipline the fighter within.
He stepped inside, the bell above the door jingling.
A young woman—tough, guarded—looked up from the front desk. Tory Nichols.
"You lost or looking for a beatdown, old man?" she asked, half-joking.
Mike smirked. "Neither. I'm looking for control."
Tory raised an eyebrow. "You military?"
He nodded once.
"I can tell," she said, pointing toward the mat. "We've got two kinds here: those running from something… and those running toward it."
Mike looked at the sparring students, then at the mirror on the wall.
"I'm not running anymore," he said quietly.
From the back room, Johnny Lawrence appeared, towel around his neck.
"Who the hell are you?" Johnny asked, sizing him up.
"Mike Harris," he said. "Retired. Trained. Looking for something worth fighting for."
Johnny grinned. "Well, you came to the right damn place."
Later That Night
Mike stood alone in his apartment, wrapping his knuckles with tape. Slow. Precise. Methodical.
He wasn't just training to fight others.
He was training to fight the war within.
The trauma. The guilt. The ghosts.
He looked in the mirror once more.
This wasn't a soldier anymore.
This was the beginning of a grandmaster.