Zeke stretched alongside Miguel, Hawk, and Aisha, their movements in sync as they prepared for the day's training. The atmosphere in the dojo was lighthearted, as it usually was before Johnny came in barking orders. A few new recruits hesitantly stepped inside, glancing around the room like they had just walked into enemy territory.

Hawk smirked as he noticed them approaching. "What do you think? Shit-head One and Shit-head Two?"

Aisha scoffed, looking the newcomers up and down. One of them was a tall, muscular black kid, his friend looking slightly more unsure beside him. "I was thinking more Mary-Kate and Ass-hat."

Zeke chuckled, adding his own insult, just to push the hazing a little further.

The taller kid straightened up, clearing his throat. "Well, I'm—"

"Did I say you could speak?" Hawk cut him off, tilting his head challengingly.

Miguel sighed, clearly the only one willing to ease their torment. "Guys, look, they're just messing with you."

The second kid looked relieved. "Thanks, man."

Zeke, however, wasn't ready to let them off so easily. "Besides, everyone knows your names are Ass-face and Douchebag. You don't like it? You can leave."

The taller kid paused before shrugging. "Dibs on Ass-face."

The group laughed, but the lightheartedness of the moment was quickly broken as the dojo's doors swung open.

Zeke turned, immediately recognizing the older man who stepped inside. John Kreese.

Kreese's sharp eyes scanned the room, lingering for a moment on a student wearing a shirt that read The Future is Female. He muttered under his breath, barely audible but dripping with disdain. "Jesus Christ."

Hawk, noticing him as well, whispered, "Who's that?"

Zeke's jaw tightened slightly. "Hold on." He stepped forward, standing in front of his grandfather. "Hey, Gramps."

Kreese nodded to him but said nothing. His focus shifted past Zeke, examining the other students with a critical gaze.

Miguel, trying to be polite, stepped up. "Hey, uh, can we help you, sir?"

Kreese's voice was low, unreadable. "No." His eyes swept over them before a smirk tugged at his lips. "But maybe I can help you."

Before anyone could question him further, Johnny emerged from his office, looking irritated. "What the hell is wrong with you? I said tomorrow."

Kreese shrugged. "Oh. Tomorrow, today, who can keep track, huh?"

🐍

Minutes later, the students were lined up in their gis, waiting for instruction.

Johnny stood before them, addressing the room. "Class, we have a visitor. This is Mr. Kreese. He's just an observer. Pretend like he's not even here."

Zeke felt the weight of his grandfather's gaze on him, watching closely, assessing him in a way that made his skin crawl.

Johnny clapped his hands. "Mr. Diaz, warm them up."

Miguel nodded. "Fighting positions!"

The class moved in unison.

"Front kick."

They executed the move.

"Forward strike."

They struck the air with precision.

"Side dab."

The entire class dabbed simultaneously, breaking into laughter.

Except for Zeke. His expression remained unreadable, his arms rigid at his sides.

Johnny's expression darkened. "What the hell was that?"

Hawk grinned. "We're just messing around."

Miguel, ever the voice of reason, added, "We have eleven and a half months until the next All Valley."

Hawk shrugged. "Yeah, besides, we already know how to kick ass."

Johnny shook his head in disbelief. "Oh, yeah? Really, huh? So you know everything? There's nothing left to learn?"

Aisha, trying to suppress her laughter, failed.

Johnny turned on her. "What's so funny, Ms. Robinson?"

Aisha stifled another giggle. "I'm sorry, Sensei, you just wouldn't understand."

Johnny raised an eyebrow. "Try me."

"It's a snake-doo."

Johnny frowned. "What the hell is a snake-doo?"

Zeke let out an exasperated sigh. "I have no idea," he muttered, though the irritation in his voice had more to do with their antics in Kreese's presence.

Johnny had enough. "Quiet! 5:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. Corner of Fulton and Raymer. You don't show, and you're off the team. Class dismissed."

As the students dispersed, Kreese stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Zeke's shoulder.

"That is your All Valley champion?" Kreese scoffed, glancing at Miguel with barely disguised contempt. He muttered something about the ridiculous move they had pulled during warm-ups.

Zeke tensed but defended his friend. "He's good. Just maybe messing around a bit."

Kreese's grip tightened for just a second before he let go, crossing his arms. "Messing around doesn't win championships, Zeke. You and I both know who should've taken that trophy."

Zeke clenched his jaw, the memory flashing in his mind—his semi-finals match, the brutal kick that had sent Robby crashing to the mat. The disqualification that followed.

His fists curled.

Kreese smirked, seeing the anger simmering beneath the surface. "That's it," he said. "Hold onto that."

Zeke swallowed hard and nodded.

Kreese's smirk widened.

Good.

🐍

Years Ago

The dimly lit attic smelled of dust and old wood, a space cluttered with remnants of Kreese's past—boxes of forgotten belongings, faded photographs, and a weightlifting bench shoved into the corner. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting long shadows on the walls.

Zeke sat on a wooden crate, his small hands clenched into fists, his face scrunched up in frustration. His baseball cap was tossed onto the concrete floor beside him, his little league jersey wrinkled and stained from the dirt of the field. He was trying not to cry, but his breath hitched in his throat, his chest rising and falling with unsteady, angry breaths.

Kreese stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching his grandson with a measured expression. "So, what happened?"

Zeke sniffed, wiping his nose roughly on his sleeve. "We lost." His voice was thick with emotion, barely holding back tears. "It was the championship. We were so close, but the other team got a hit in the last inning, and we—" His voice cracked as he kicked the crate he was sitting on. "It's not fair. We should've won."

Kreese didn't immediately respond. He stepped over to a rusted dumbbell resting against the wall and picked it up, rolling it between his hands. His eyes stayed on the weight as he spoke. "Fair doesn't mean a damn thing, kid."

Zeke glared up at him, still fuming. "But we deserved it. We played better the whole game. Then one stupid hit ruined everything."

Kreese finally looked at him, tilting his head slightly. "You think deserving something means you get it?" He let out a dry chuckle. "That's not how the world works."

Zeke frowned, kicking at the floor with his cleats. "Then what's the point? If you can do everything right and still lose, then why even try?"

Kreese stepped closer, crouching down so they were at eye level. His tone wasn't harsh, but it was firm. "Because losing teaches you something winning doesn't."

Zeke furrowed his brows. "Like what?"

Kreese set the dumbbell down with a heavy thud and rested his forearms on his knees. "It teaches you how much you hate it."

Zeke blinked, caught off guard.

"You lost today," Kreese continued. "And it pisses you off. Good. You should remember how this feels." He tapped a finger against his own temple. "You take that feeling, and you use it. Next time, you make sure you don't lose."

Zeke swallowed, his little hands still balled into fists in his lap. "But how?"

Kreese smirked, just slightly. "You work harder. You train smarter. You find the weaknesses in the people who beat you and make sure they don't get the chance to do it again." His voice was lower now, more serious. "Winners don't sit around feeling sorry for themselves, Ezekiel. They take the pain and turn it into something useful."

Zeke looked down at his hands, his nails digging into his palms. The frustration still burned in his chest, but for the first time since the game ended, it felt like something he could control.

Kreese gave him a pat on the shoulder before standing up. "Now, you can sit down here sulking about it all night, or you can start thinking about what you're gonna do different next time."

Zeke didn't respond right away, but after a long moment, he nodded. His jaw was still tight, his stomach still knotted with frustration, but Kreese was right about one thing.

He hated losing.

🐍

The sun hung high over the construction yard, beating down on the group of Cobra Kai students as they stirred heavy cement in large mixing tubs. Sweat dripped from their brows, their muscles burning with exertion. Miguel and Zeke worked side by side, shoveling and spreading the thick, gray mixture, their arms already aching from the labor.

"Don't add too much water," Johnny called out. "You wanna make it nice and thick."

Miguel paused for a moment, wiping his forehead. "Sensei, why are we mixing cement?"

Johnny shot him a look. "No questions. Keep stirring."

Off to the side, Kreese observed with his usual calculating gaze. He stepped closer to Johnny, his voice low. "Their muscles are gonna ache, sure, but if you wanna make them tough, you gotta give them something to be afraid of. No one is afraid of a little cement."

Johnny smirked. "They will be."

A loud rumbling filled the air as a large cement mixer rolled into the yard. The students looked up, some glancing at each other in confusion.

"Thanks, Cutter. I'll take it from here," Johnny said.

Cutter, a rough-looking man with grease-stained hands, eyed the students warily. "Hey, you didn't say nothing about no kids, Johnny."

Johnny crossed his arms. "Hey, you want your bar tab paid off or not?"

Cutter let out a sigh. "If you get caught, you take the heat." With that, he walked off, leaving the machine in Johnny's hands.

The students exchanged uncertain glances, especially when Johnny turned back to them with a serious expression.

"You think winning the All Valley gives you the right to goof off?" he asked. His voice was sharp, cutting through the humid air. "Well, I got news for you—winning one championship don't mean squat. A true champion never stops training. You gotta keep moving forward, or else you'll get stuck exactly where you are."

He stepped toward the cement truck, placing a firm hand on its metal drum. "It's like the cement in this truck. If that drum doesn't start turning, the cement inside will harden and get stuck." He looked at each of them, his tone deadly serious. "Is that what you want to happen to you?"

The students stood in tense silence before answering in unison. "No, Sensei!"

"Good," Johnny said. "Then climb up, get inside, and make it spin."

A hush fell over the group.

Miguel blinked. "What?"

Hawk shifted uncomfortably. "Sensei, we're sorry for messing around. We learned our lesson."

Aisha nodded. "Yeah, this seems a little extreme."

Johnny remained unmoved. "Get in!"

Miguel hesitated. "Sensei, this seems kind of dangerous. I mean, the fumes alone—"

"Quiet!" Kreese barked, his voice slicing through the tension.

Everyone turned to look at him.

"This man led you to the mountaintop, and you question him?" Kreese's eyes swept across the students with disdain. "Look at you. Look at all of you. I can't believe this pathetic pack of pussies competed in the All Valley, let alone won." He scoffed, shaking his head. "It's an absolute miracle."

His gaze hardened. "And who's responsible for that miracle? Johnny Lawrence. The best student in the history of Cobra Kai." He nodded toward Johnny. "My student."

Hawk's eyes widened. "You were Sensei's Sensei?"

"You better believe it, kid," Kreese replied, his voice thick with pride. His smirk widened as he added, "And I tell you, I've never trained a tougher student in my whole life. Except maybe my own grandson." He looked directly at Zeke, giving him an approving nod.

Zeke, who had been quietly observing, stiffened under his grandfather's scrutiny. He didn't respond right away, but something in Kreese's words ignited a familiar fire in his chest.

Kreese continued, his voice cold and firm. "So if you know what's good for you, you better listen to every goddamn word he says."

Miguel inhaled sharply, then exhaled, determination setting in. "I'll do it, Sensei."

Zeke nodded. "Let's go then."

Without another word, Miguel, Hawk, Zeke, and Chris climbed into the cement truck, ready to prove themselves once again.

🐍

Inside the cement mixer, the air was thick with dust and the damp smell of wet concrete. Miguel, Hawk, Zeke, and Chris stood in the large drum, their feet slipping slightly on the slick, gray mixture.

Miguel glanced around, eyes wide. "Holy shit."

Hawk ran his hands along the curved walls. "I've never seen the inside before."

Chris groaned, already regretting this. "Not on my new shoes, man."

Zeke, focused as always, ignored the complaints. "So, I guess we just start pushing the roller?"

Miguel nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

They each pressed their hands against the drum's interior and started pushing, but the resistance was immediate. The cement was thick, making the roller sluggish.

Chris gritted his teeth. "It's on my hands!"

"Come on! Get pushing!" Johnny's voice rang from outside, demanding effort.

Zeke didn't hesitate. "Let's go, guys! Move it!"

They pushed harder, muscles straining as they fought against the weight of the cement. At first, it barely budged, but as they adjusted their footing and leaned into it, the drum began to shift.

"Come on!" Johnny barked. "All of you, let's go!"

Kreese watched from a distance, arms crossed. "You ever done this before?"

Johnny smirked. "Don't worry. I got this."

Inside the mixer, Miguel wiped sweat from his forehead, breathing hard. "Come on! Don't just stand there!"

Zeke echoed his urgency. "Let's go! Let's go! Come on!"

Slowly but surely, the drum began to rotate.

Hawk's eyes widened. "Holy shit, it's moving!"

Zeke grinned. "Come on, keep going!"

Miguel's voice rose above the grunts of effort. "All right, there we go! There we go!"

Outside, Johnny watched as the mixer picked up speed. "A little bit faster!"

The boys inside pushed harder, the drum now rotating at a steady pace.

"That's it! That's it!" Their voices bounced off the metal walls, filled with exhaustion and triumph.

Johnny clapped his hands. "Good going. Good going."

Once the drill was over, the boys stumbled out of the mixer, covered in cement and sweat. Their arms felt like lead, their legs wobbly, but there was a shared sense of accomplishment in their exhausted smiles.

Johnny grabbed a hose and began spraying them down, washing off the cement. The cold water hit their skin like a shock, but none of them complained.

"You should all be proud of yourselves," Johnny said, a rare hint of admiration in his tone. "I know I'm proud."

He paced in front of them, eyes steady.

"Your parents would be proud, too," he added. "If you told them what we did here today. Which we won't."

Some of the students chuckled, others just nodded, too drained to react.

"You pushed forward like champions. Never stopping. Never being satisfied. Never giving up," Johnny continued. "And if you keep pushing and keep moving forward, you're gonna go to places you never even dreamed of."

🐍

Zeke slung his bag over his shoulder, shaking the stiffness out of his arms as he walked toward his car. The sun was setting, casting a burnt orange glow over the parking lot. He glanced over at Kreese, who was standing by the dojo door, arms crossed, looking surprisingly... content.

"Hey," Zeke called out, unlocking his car. "You need a ride back?"

Kreese shook his head. "I just need to stay for a minute. I'll see you back at home."

Zeke raised a brow at that but shrugged. He had learned a long time ago not to question Kreese too much when he was in one of his reflective moods. With a nod, he climbed into his car and drove off.

Kreese exhaled, rolling his shoulders before stepping back inside the dojo. Johnny was cleaning up, wiping down the equipment, clearly still running the day's events through his mind.

Kreese smirked. "I gotta tell you, Johnny, I didn't see that coming."

Johnny looked up, wary.

Kreese continued, pacing slightly. "The whole thing could've gone south real quick. Somebody could've died." He paused, nodding approvingly. "Takes guts as a sensei to put your students through that."

Johnny tossed the rag onto the bench. "I know what I'm doing."

Kreese lifted his hands. "Didn't say you didn't."

Johnny exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thanks for giving them that extra kick in the pants today. They needed it."

Kreese chuckled. "Anything I can do to help."

There was a beat of silence before Kreese tilted his head slightly. "What do you say you and I go grab a couple of tall boys? My treat."

Johnny hesitated, then shook his head. "Nah, I'm good."

"Come on," Kreese pressed. "You can walk me through tomorrow's lesson."

Johnny narrowed his eyes. "You're coming back tomorrow, huh?"

Kreese smirked. "If that's okay with you. I even have another proposition for you."

🐍

Johnny and Kreese stepped out of the store, each holding a tall boy in hand. The neon light flickered above them, buzzing against the quiet hum of the night.

From inside, the cashier glared at Kreese. "Hey, why don't you say it to my face next time?"

Kreese scoffed. "It's called America, big boy. Love it or leave it." He turned to Johnny with a chuckle. "He's a real son of a bitch, isn't he?"

Johnny exhaled, barely entertained. "Yeah. So, what was it you wanted to ask me?"

Kreese took a sip of his beer, eyes glinting. "I think it's time we bring in another familiar face. Michael."

Johnny froze mid-step, blinking. "Yeah, we did talk about that."

Kreese nodded. "Your old best friend, my son." He leaned in slightly. "Think about it, Johnny. It'd be just like old times—getting the crew back together, teaching the next generation of Cobra Kai the right way. With you, me, and Michael leading the charge, we could make this dojo stronger than ever."

Johnny scoffed, shaking his head. "You want me to bring the whole Kreese bloodline into my dojo? I already got you and the kid."

Kreese smirked. "Technically, it is my dojo."

Johnny clenched his jaw, ready to fire back, but before he could, a voice cut through the air.

"Dead, my ass."

Johnny turned, his expression darkening as Daniel LaRusso stepped out of the shadows.

Kreese grinned. "Well, what do you know? The gang's all back together." He let his words linger before adding with a taunting edge, "Well, almost all of us." His voice dropped into something mocking. "My condolences."

Daniel's eyes flashed with anger at the jab at Mr. Miyagi. His fists clenched at his sides, but he took a slow breath, steadying himself. "You're lucky he's not here."

Kreese's smirk didn't waver.

Daniel's eyes flickered down, and for the first time, he noticed Kreese's knuckles—bruised, worn, the scars of a lifetime of fighting.

He looked back up, his voice tight. "How are your knuckles doing there, Kreese?"

Kreese scowled