Ezekiel Kreese stood on the football field, his muscles tensed with anticipation. The sun blazed down, casting long shadows across the grass as the team went through their practice drills. Zeke watched as one of the newer players struggled through a linebacker drill. The boy, a bit smaller and less experienced, fumbled his steps and crashed into the tackling dummy awkwardly, drawing laughter and jeers from the other players.

"Come on, Kreese! My grandma hits harder than that!" one player shouted, sending the rest into fits of laughter.

The boy's face turned crimson with embarrassment and anger. Unable to contain himself, he swung a wild punch at one of his tormentors, catching him off guard. The field erupted into chaos as the brawl spread, players grappling and throwing punches indiscriminately.

Later, Zeke found himself in the coach's office, his face still flushed with anger. He stood with his arms crossed, glaring at the coach who was pacing back and forth behind his desk.

"Six fights you've had in practice. SIX!" the coach yelled, slamming a fist on his desk for emphasis. "What the hell is wrong with you, Kreese?"

Zeke's jaw tightened as he struggled to keep his temper in check. "Coach, you don't understand. Those guys were—"

"I don't want to hear it!" the coach interrupted, his face turning red with frustration. "This is football. Everyone's going to be a dick sometimes. It's part of the game."

Zeke's fists clenched at his sides. "Football is about aggression, isn't it? Isn't that what you always say? Play hard, hit harder?"

The coach shook his head, his expression a mix of anger and disappointment. "There's a difference between playing aggressively and starting fights. You've crossed that line too many times, Kreese."

Zeke took a step forward, his voice rising. "They provoked me! What was I supposed to do? Just stand there and take it?"

"Yes, if that's what it takes to stay on the team," the coach replied, his voice firm. "But you didn't. And now, you're off the team."

Zeke felt a surge of fury. "You can't do that!"

"I can and I have," the coach said, pointing towards the door. "Now get out of my office."

Zeke's vision blurred with anger as he turned and punched the wall, leaving a dent in the plaster. The coach watched him with a cold, critical eye. "You might want to get that anger under control, Kreese. Considering your family history."

Zeke spun around, his eyes flashing with fury. "Yeah? I'm not on the team anymore, so why don't you give your shitty advice to someone else."

The coach just shook his head, a look of resignation on his face. "Pack your locker, Kreese. You're done here."

🐍

Zeke drove home with clenched fists gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white with tension. The frustration and anger from his encounter with the coach churned inside him like a storm. His face was bruised, a testament to the fight that had gotten him kicked off the team. There was only one thing that could help him channel his rage and clear his mind: the heavy punching bag in his basement.

He pulled up to his house, a sprawling property in the upscale neighborhood of Chatsworth, CA. The house, with its manicured lawn and impressive façade, was a stark contrast to the turmoil Zeke felt inside. He stepped out of the car, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary, and was immediately greeted by his mother, Diana.

Diana, a striking woman with dark hair and a concerned expression, hurried over. "Mijo, tu ojo, ¿qué te pasó?" she asked, her voice a mix of worry and frustration.

Zeke shrugged, trying to downplay the situation. "It was practice, Mom. Just a little scratch."

Diana fussed over him, examining his bruises more closely. "Esto no es solo un rasguño. ¡Debes tener más cuidado!"

As they spoke, Zeke's younger sister, Sofia, descended the stairs. She was sharp-tongued and quick-witted, always ready with a comment. "Wow, you look like shit," she remarked, her eyes widening at the sight of his battered face.

Zeke shot her a sarcastic look. "Thanks, Sofia. Always the ray of sunshine."

Diana turned to scold her daughter, switching between English and Spanish. "Sofia, no hables así de tu hermano. Show some respect!"

Sofia rolled her eyes but didn't push further, sensing the tension in the air.

"Thanks, Mom, but it's nothing," Zeke insisted, trying to brush off his mother's concern.

Just then, his grandfather John Kreese appeared at the top of the stairs. John had been living with them for a few months now, ever since he left the homeless shelter.

The relationship between Diana and John was strained at best, but she tolerated his presence for her husband's sake.

John's intense gaze fell on Zeke, taking in the bruises and the simmering anger.

John descended the stairs slowly, his eyes never leaving his grandson. "Looks like you've had a rough day, kid."

Diana shot John a warning look, clearly not in the mood for his tough-love approach. "John, ahora no es el momento," she said, her voice tight with irritation.

John ignored her, focusing on Zeke. "Come on, let's go to the basement. We need to talk."

Zeke followed his grandfather down to the basement, leaving his mother and sister behind. The basement was Zeke's sanctuary, a place where he could let out his frustrations without judgment. The walls were adorned with posters of martial arts legends and a large mural of a cobra, a nod to his family's legacy.

John leaned against the wall, watching as Zeke began to wrap his hands, preparing to unleash his anger on the heavy bag. "So, what happened?" he asked, his voice calm but probing.

Zeke's punches began, each one more forceful than the last. "I got kicked off the team," he said between strikes. "Coach says I fight too much."

A/N: I just realized how much he looks like young Kreese

John nodded, his expression unreadable. "And do you?"

Zeke paused, sweat dripping from his brow. "I don't know. Maybe. But they push me, they provoke me. What am I supposed to do? Just take it?"

John stepped closer, his presence commanding and intense. "You're a Kreese. We've never been ones to back down from a fight. But there's a difference between fighting to prove a point and fighting to win."

Zeke's punches slowed as he absorbed his grandfather's words. "I just... I don't know how to control it. The anger, the frustration. It's like it's always there, waiting to explode."

John placed a hand on Zeke's shoulder, a rare moment of physical affection. "Then we work on that. Together. You have the potential to be great, Zeke. But first, you need to learn control. Discipline. That's the only way you'll truly win."

🐍

As Zeke pounded away at the heavy punching bag in the basement, the door swung open, and his father, Michael Kreese, stormed in, his face red with frustration. He was on the phone, locked in a heated argument.

"Come on, Stevens, it's football! You hit people, you get in fights—it's part of the game!" Michael's voice echoed through the basement.

On the other end, Coach Stevens's voice was firm. "Michael, I should have kicked your son off the team a long time ago. Letting him stay would send a bad message to everyone. We can't have players thinking it's okay to act out of control."

Michael's anger flared. "Oh, so you think being a shitty coach is the answer? Maybe you should be the one getting fired!"

Stevens responded calmly. "Michael, your son needs to learn to control his anger. He can't go through life striking first and lashing out at others."

"Let's skip the theatrics, okay?" Michael snapped back. "How about you focus on actually winning a game this year, and I'll take care of my own son. Got that?"

Stevens remained resolute. "I won't change my mind, Michael. My advice might help him in the long run."

Michael ended the call abruptly, clenching his phone with frustration. He turned to find Diana and Sofia standing nearby, their expressions filled with concern.

"Diana, they kicked Zeke off the team," Michael said, his voice tight with anger. "It's ridiculous. Fights happen in football. I can't believe they did this."

Diana, her voice a mix of sympathy and frustration, responded, "Lo sé, Michael. Es difícil."

Michael's eyes softened slightly. "Where's Zeke?"

Diana sighed. "Está en el sótano con tu padre. (He's downstairs with your father.)"

Michael nodded and headed towards the basement, his mind racing with thoughts of how to support his son. As he descended the stairs, he saw Zeke working the punching bag with intense focus, while John Kreese, his father, observed silently, occasionally offering pointers.

"Dad," Michael called out, catching John's attention. "How's he doing?"

John looked over, his expression unreadable. "He's working hard, like always. Just needs to channel that energy properly."

Michael approached Zeke, placing a reassuring hand on his son's shoulder. "I talked to Stevens, but he won't change his mind. It's not right, but we'll deal with it."

Zeke paused, breathing heavily. "I messed up, Dad. I didn't mean for things to get this bad."

Michael shook his head. "It's not your fault. Your coach doesn't get it. Fights are part of the game, but you've got to find a way to control that anger. It's not just about football; it's about life."

John stepped in, his voice firm but supportive. "Listen to your father, Zeke. You have the potential to be great, but you need discipline. Focus your energy, control your impulses."

Zeke nodded, taking in the advice. "I'll try, Grandpa. I just don't know where to start."

John gave a small smile. "Start with the basics. Stay calm, stay focused. You've got this."

Michael watched as John demonstrated some basic moves, guiding Zeke through the techniques with a steady hand. It was clear that John's training went beyond mere physical skill—it was about instilling discipline and control, elements that were crucial for Zeke's growth.

Diana's voice called down from upstairs, a mix of Spanish and English. "¿Todo bien allá abajo? ¡Vamos a cenar pronto!" (Everything okay down there? We're having dinner soon!)

Michael looked up and replied, "Sí, todo bien. Ya vamos. (Yes, everything's fine. We're coming up soon.)"

🐍

After dinner, Michael and John Kreese stepped outside, lighting cigarettes under the dim porch light. The air was cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the heated conversation brewing between father and son.

John took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly. "You know, Michael, Ezekiel has potential. Real potential. Maybe football just wasn't the right way to channel it."

Michael raised an eyebrow, skepticism clear on his face. "And what do you suggest, Dad? Another sport? Another team? He's already been kicked off one."

John's eyes gleamed with a fervent intensity. "Karate. It's his legacy. He's a natural-born fighter, Michael. He would fit right in."

Michael shook his head, blowing out smoke. "I don't know, Dad. Karate is your thing. Times have changed."

"But the principles haven't," John insisted. "Discipline, strength, control. Those are timeless. And eventually, Sofia could learn a thing or two as well."

Michael laughed, the sound echoing through the quiet night. "The only thing Sofia uses to fight is her mouth."

John chuckled but quickly grew serious again. "Michael, listen to me. He needs this. You need to trust me."

Michael's eyes narrowed. "What's this really about, Dad?"

John paused, his expression unreadable for a moment before he leaned closer. "Cobra Kai is back."

Michael blinked, confusion spreading across his face. "What do you mean, back?"

John's voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. "The dojo has reopened. Cobra Kai is back in the valley."

Michael felt a rush of memories flood his mind, pulling him back to the days when he trained in the dojo under his father's watchful eye. He saw himself alongside his friends, learning karate, sweating through intense drills, and sharing laughs. But those memories were tainted by the arrival of a kid from Reseda who disrupted everything. After John's assault on Johnny Lawrence, Michael had distanced himself, going off to college and not looking back.

"And now Cobra Kai has returned," Michael murmured, still trying to grasp the reality. "But who could have reopened it? Certainly not Bobby. He's a pastor now, wouldn't stand for that crap. Jimmy has a family, Tommy was in the hospital, and Dutch... Dutch is in prison."

He looked at John, his eyes searching for answers. "Johnny? Last I heard, he was laying bricks on the street."

John nodded slowly. "Yes, Johnny Lawrence. He reopened Cobra Kai."

Flashback

Michael stood in the dojo, the air thick with the smell of sweat and the sound of bodies hitting the mat. His father, John Kreese, barked orders from the front of the room, his eyes sharp and commanding.

"Strike first, strike hard, no mercy," Kreese bellowed. "Michael, show them how it's done!"

Michael stepped forward, his heart pounding with pride. He demonstrated a series of moves, his form perfect, his strikes powerful. He glanced at his father, seeking approval, but Kreese's eyes were already on someone else—Johnny Lawrence.

Johnny, the golden boy, the star pupil, executed the same moves with an ease and confidence that made Michael's heart sink. Kreese clapped Johnny on the back, a proud smirk on his face.

Michael clenched his fists, a mix of jealousy and resentment burning in his chest. No matter how hard he tried, he could never measure up to Johnny in his father's eyes.

Flashback Over

Michael remembered the day his father had nearly choked the life out of Johnny Lawrence after he had lost to LaRusso. He had been there, frozen in shock, unable to move as he watched his father's rage explode. It was the moment that had shattered everything.

Later, when Miyagi intervened, it was like watching a force of nature. Miyagi had dismantled Kreese's fury with a calm, almost serene power that left an indelible mark on Michael's young mind.

Michael's mind whirled, the memories of his youth clashing with the present. He remembered the jealousy he had felt toward Johnny, who had been his friend but had also received most of John's attention. Johnny was a champion, and Michael had often felt overshadowed. But now, Michael had a comfortable life, a good job, and a family.

Despite his settled life, the thought of Cobra Kai being back in the valley intrigued him. And it clearly intrigued John too.

John's voice broke through Michael's thoughts. "We need to make our move, and I know what to do."

Michael looked at his father, the old fire in John's eyes reigniting something in him. "Alright, Dad. What's the plan?"

John took a deep breath, steadying himself. "First, we get Zeke into the dojo. He needs the discipline, the training. He's got the potential to be even better than Johnny."

Michael frowned, thinking about his son. "Zeke's got a lot of anger, Dad. I'm worried it'll consume him like it almost did me."

John shook his head. "It won't. Not if he has the right guidance. And I can give him that."

Michael looked down at his cigarette, the ash growing longer. "And what about me? What's my role in all this?"

John smiled, a rare genuine smile. "You, Michael, are going to help me run Cobra Kai. Together, we'll make it stronger than ever."

Memories of his youth flooded back once more—standing in the dojo, learning the ways of Cobra Kai, the thrill of competition, the camaraderie with his friends. The thought of rekindling that fire, of being part of something bigger, was tempting.

As they stood on the porch, the glow of their cigarettes fading into the night, a new chapter for the Kreese family began to take shape, driven by the legacy of Cobra Kai and the fire that still burned within them.

The valley was about to witness the resurgence of Cobra Kai, whatever that may be.