Daniel LaRusso walked into Samantha's room, the familiar scent of teenage girl – a mix of hairspray, fruity body spray, and the faint underlying aroma of unwashed gym clothes – greeting him. The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, casting striped shadows across the posters of pop stars and the scattered textbooks on her desk.
"Hey, sweetie," he said gently, leaning against the doorframe. "Dinner's almost ready. Your mom's making that lasagna you like."
Samantha, perched on her bed with her legs crossed, didn't immediately respond. Her attention was glued to the screen of her laptop, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. A small pair of earbuds were nestled in her ears.
Curious, Daniel stepped further into the room. "What'cha watching?" he asked, his voice casual.
Sam startled slightly, quickly pulling out one of her earbuds. "Oh, hey, Dad. Just… something some kids at school were talking about." Her tone was dismissive, the typical teenage attempt to downplay anything her parents might show an interest in.
Daniel's curiosity piqued. He walked over and peered at the screen. It was a grainy, amateur video, clearly shot on a phone. The shaky camera work captured a chaotic scene behind what looked like a public restroom building. Four older, larger teenagers were surrounding a smaller, visibly frightened boy. Then, a taller, blonde-haired figure entered the frame, moving with a surprising speed and agility.
Daniel watched, his initial amusement fading as the scene unfolded. The blonde kid, who looked vaguely familiar, moved with an unexpected level of skill. He executed a swift spinning kick that took down one of the aggressors with shocking efficiency. The fight that followed was brief but intense, the blonde kid holding his own against the remaining three, his movements a mix of practiced strikes and instinctive reactions.
Eight minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity as Daniel watched, his initial casual interest morphing into a stunned silence. He recognized the setting – Zuma Beach, the site of Northwood Middle's recent field trip. And the blonde kid… where had he seen him before? He was tall for his age, unusually so. And there was something about his movements, a certain precision and power…
He watched as the blonde kid, despite being clearly outnumbered, managed to subdue all four of the older teenagers, his actions swift and decisive, yet seemingly controlled. There was a selfless quality to his defense of the smaller boy, who Daniel now recognized as Demetri, a quiet, nerdy kid in Sam's grade.
When the video finally ended, the screen displaying a still frame of the blonde kid standing over the unconscious teenagers, Daniel remained silent, his mind racing.
"That's… Braeden Love," Sam said quietly, breaking the lengthy silence. "He's in sixth grade now. Demetri's in my grade. Those other guys were from Inter-City High."
Daniel finally found his voice, a low murmur of disbelief. "Braeden Love? David and Emily's son?" He remembered Emily mentioning her son's unusual height and his interest in martial arts. This was him?
Sam nodded. "Yeah. Apparently, he just… jumped in. Everyone's talking about it. Demetri uploaded the video."
Daniel continued to stare at the still image on the screen, the image of a young boy displaying a level of fighting skill and courage that was frankly astonishing. Arthur Blackwood's grandson. He remembered David mentioning something about the boy taking martial arts lessons years ago. He hadn't imagined… this.
Across town, in a cramped, dimly lit apartment that smelled faintly of stale beer and pepperoni, Johnny Lawrence sat hunched over his worn couch, a half-eaten gas station pizza box precariously balanced on his lap. The flickering blue light of the television screen illuminated his weathered face. The local news was running a segment on the viral video from Zuma Beach, the shaky footage playing across the screen.
Johnny scoffed, taking a greasy bite of pizza. "Bunch of amateur hour." He'd seen real fights, brutal and unforgiving, back in his day. This looked like a schoolyard scuffle blown way out of proportion.
But as the video played on, something caught his eye. The tall, blonde kid moved with a certain… efficiency. There was a snap to his kicks, a directness to his strikes that hinted at actual training, not just some lucky flailing.
He watched, a flicker of something akin to grudging respect in his eyes as the kid took down the older teenagers one by one. He even recognized a few of the moves – a decent spinning heel kick, a sharp front kick to the gut. Not Cobra Kai, not exactly, but there was a definite aggression, a willingness to finish the fight.
The news anchor's voice droned on about the "heroic actions of a local middle schooler." Johnny snorted, reaching for his can of Coors Banquet. Heroic. Back in his day, you learned to look out for yourself. No one was coming to your rescue.
His mind drifted back to his own teenage years, the glory days of the Cobra Kai dojo. He remembered the rush of adrenaline, the feeling of power that came with knowing he was the best, the undisputed champion. He saw himself in the mirror of the old dojo, a lean, mean fighting machine, the star pupil under Kreese's harsh but effective tutelage.
He pictured himself stepping onto the mat at the All-Valley Karate Tournament, the crowd roaring, the spotlight shining down on him. And then, the image shifted, inevitably, to the smug, punchable face of Daniel LaRusso. The memory of that final crane kick, the sting of defeat, still rankled after all these years.
Johnny took a long swig of beer, the bitterness mirroring the resentment that still simmered within him. He imagined a rematch, not the clumsy sparring matches of their adult years, but a true, no-holds-barred fight, back in their prime. He saw himself unleashing the full force of Cobra Kai, the relentless aggression, the strikes that left no room for mercy. He imagined LaRusso, with his fancy Miyagi-Do nonsense, crumbling under the pressure, finally getting what he deserved.
He watched the end of the news segment, the image of the blonde kid fading from the screen. "Kid's got some moves," he muttered to himself, taking another bite of cold pizza. "But he ain't Cobra Kai." A seed of something – curiosity? Recognition? – had been planted, though Johnny himself couldn't quite name it.
Across the apartment hallway, a short and gangly and eighth grader Miguel Diaz was taking out the trash. The evening air was cool, carrying the faint scent of exhaust fumes and blooming jasmine. As he walked down the narrow alleyway towards the overflowing dumpster, his attention was fixed on the screen of his cracked smartphone.
He was watching the same viral video that had captivated the town, his dark eyes wide with a mixture of awe and longing. The tall, blonde kid in the video moved with a confidence and skill that Miguel could only dream of. He watched, mesmerized, as Braeden Love effortlessly took down opponents who were clearly bigger and older than him.
Miguel, standing slack-jawed, and watching Braeden Love in action was like seeing a glimpse of a level of skill that felt utterly impossible. As if it was a world away.
He paused by the dumpster, the overflowing bags of trash momentarily forgotten as he watched the spinning kick, the precise blocks, the decisive strikes. There was a fearlessness in Braeden's movements, a quiet determination that Miguel found deeply inspiring.
He wished he could move like that, with such power and grace. He wished he had the confidence to stand up for himself, to protect others. He was tired of feeling small, of being an easy target.
As the video looped for the third time, Miguel noticed his heart racing. A faint spark of interest igniting within him. He wanted to be strong. He needed to be strong.
He finally tossed the trash bag into the dumpster, the clatter echoing in the quiet alleyway. His gaze returned to his phone, the image of Braeden Love frozen on the screen. He wanted to be like that. He wanted to be strong enough to defend himself, strong enough to help others. The image of the "sixth-grade ninja" had planted a seed, a subtle yearning for a strength that he would, unknown to him at the time, later achieve.