Cobra Kai Dojo – The Next Morning
The scent of sweat, vinyl, and intensity filled the air. The energy was sharp—competitive. Even dangerous.
Mike Harris stood off to the side of the mat, arms crossed, observing the drills. Fast strikes, flawless takedowns. But something was missing. Flow. Control. Purpose.
"Yo, new guy!" someone called.
It was Hawk—mohawk freshly dyed red, ego even brighter.
"You here to watch or join?"
Mike stepped onto the mat, calm but firm. "I'm here to test limits. Starting with mine."
Hawk smirked. "You sure you can keep up, Grandpa?"
A couple of the students snickered.
Johnny Lawrence walked in at just the right moment.
"Alright, alright," he barked. "We're not here to flex for TikTok. You want to prove something? Spar."
Johnny gestured at Mike. "You. You're up. Show me what you got."
Mike pulled off his jacket, revealing lean muscle—not bodybuilder bulk, but soldier strength. He stepped onto the mat, facing Kyler, one of the more aggressive students.
The bell rang.
60 seconds later, Kyler was on the floor—breathless.
Mike had moved with surgical precision: no wasted effort, no flash. A parry, a shift in weight, and a single takedown that used Kyler's own force against him.
Everyone stared.
Mike extended a hand to help Kyler up.
"I'm not here to be the best," Mike said. "I'm here to rebuild."
Johnny nodded slowly. "You've got something. Experience. Control."
Tory crossed her arms, watching intently. For once, her smirk was gone. Replaced by curiosity.
After class, Johnny approached Mike. "You ever teach before?"
Mike shook his head. "Only soldiers. Not kids."
"Well, you're about to. We've got students who fight with fists but haven't learned what a war really is."
Mike looked around at the faces—cocky, damaged, hopeful.
"Then maybe I can teach them the difference."
Elsewhere – Berlin, Germany
Inside a sterile training compound, a group of masked recruits sparred in brutal, mechanical routines. No emotion. No hesitation. Just power.
Dr. Elara Kessler watched from a monitor, adjusting files marked FANG V2.
Her eyes narrowed on one file: "HARRIS, MICHAEL – Status: Anomaly"
She smiled faintly.
"Ghosts don't fade. They return."