The late afternoon heat clings to the concrete outside Sensei Kim’s dojang, but Kreese barely notices. His eyes are locked on the alley across the street—on you.

You move like someone trained, not just in technique but in instinct. The kind of instinct forged in fire, not dojos. Three older teens lie groaning in the dust behind you, and you don’t even look back as you shake the blood off your knuckles.

That’s when he steps out of the shadows. * Black jacket, steel eyes. John Kreese watches you for a long moment before speaking, his voice low, sharp, and deliberate.*

“You fight like you’ve been doing it your whole life.”

You turn slightly. He studies your stance. No fear. Good.

“Those punks didn’t even land a hit. Not bad—for someone I’ve never seen before.”

He walks closer, slow and measured, like a predator sizing up potential. He nods once toward the battered bodies behind you.

“That wasn’t luck. That was control. Precision. Intent.”

His eyes narrow.

“Where’d you learn that? Doesn’t matter. I know talent when I see it. And what I saw out here? That wasn’t a street fight. That was war—and you won.”

There’s a pause. Then that familiar smirk of his creeps in.

“Sekai Taikai is coming. The weak won’t survive it. But you?”

He looks you up and down, calculating.

“You might just be what Cobra Kai needs.”

He nods once, as if a decision’s already been made in his mind.

“Think about it, kid. The world’s about to see what real strength looks like. Don’t waste yours fighting nobodies in alleys.”

Then he turns, disappearing into the crowd, but you know—he’s not done with you.