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THE STREETS OF BARCELONA WERE QUIET AT THIS EARLY HOUR, the soft hum of the bus's engine the only sound breaking the stillness. Inside, however, the tension was palpable, a silent storm brewing within the team. Cobra Kai had arrived in the city of dreams, but the energy was far from celebratory.

Y/n l/n sat at the very front, earphones in, staring out the window at the dimly lit streets. The distant sound of her music drowned out everything else, but it couldn't silence her racing thoughts. Her fingers subconsciously played with the zipper of her jacket, her jaw clenched as she tried to focus on the upcoming tournament. She had to. She couldn't afford to let anything or anyone throw her off her game—not now. But no matter how much she tried, her mind kept drifting back to the mess she'd left behind: the unspoken words, the glances that lingered too long, the kiss... and the heavy weight of everything she hadn't resolved.

At the very back of the bus, Kwon Jae-sung slouched in his seat, his hoodie pulled over his head. His music blasted through his headphones, yet his foot tapped anxiously against the floor. He'd perfected the art of looking calm, but inside, he was anything but. His thoughts were a whirlwind: Kim's stern warnings about his "distractions," the strange way y/n had avoided his existence, the sharp sting of her blonde friend's words earlier, and the ever-present ache of not knowing how to bridge the growing chasm between them. He clenched his fists, frustrated. 

Why was everything so damn complicated with him?

Tory Nichols sat two rows behind y/n, twirling a purple bottle cap between her fingers. Her brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. The bottle cap was a stupid memento, something she'd painted for her mother to help her battle the monsters that'd been hunting them. It reminded her of how much easier it was to have somebody fight her battles for her. How much easier it was to not be the one doing everything for everyone every time... 

Lee Byung-san, two seats over, grinned at his phone screen, his voice low as he spoke in Korean to his girlfriend. His carefree tone was a stark contrast to the mood in the bus. Meanwhile, Park Sun-woo wiped at his tears, smiling sheepishly at his phone as his mother's voice filled the small space.

Yoon Do-jin, ever the strategist, sat near the middle, his notebook open and pen in hand. He meticulously jotted down notes about the tournament, cross-referencing them with the profiles of the defending champions from two years ago. His sharp eyes flicked from the pages to his phone, and occasionally to his teammates. His shoulders were stiff, his brow furrowed. Something felt off. He hated distractions, and the tension between y/n and Kwon was like a dark cloud hanging over the team.

Kim Da-eun, seated near the front, adjusted her sleek black coat and shot a pointed glance toward Kreese, who sat in the aisle across from her. The unspoken message was clear: Handle him, and I'll handle her.

Kreese gave her a curt nod, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms. His gaze flicked to the back of the bus, landing on Kwon. The kid was good—better than good—but his head wasn't in the game. The old man could see it. And he had no patience for weak links.

The man slid into the seat next to Kwon, crossing his arms. His piercing eyes immediately locked onto Kwon, reading every flicker of doubt and frustration on the young man's face.

"Sit up," He ordered, his voice low but commanding.

Kwon obeyed reluctantly, straightening his posture, though his clenched fists remained in his lap.

"I can see it," Kreese began, leaning in closer. "The anger. The frustration. That fire inside you, begging to break free. And you know what? Good. Because that's what makes you dangerous. That's what makes you a fighter. But you're letting it simmer, letting it eat away at you instead of using it."

The boy glanced away, but Kreese wasn't having it. He jabbed a finger on the seat, forcing Kwon's attention back.

"This fight—this tournament—it's bigger than just you." He started. "It's your ticket out of whatever life you think you're stuck in. You win here, and the rewards will change everything. Scholarships. Opportunities. A future that people like you and me don't get handed on a silver platter. Do it for your grandma. She deserves the best care, doesn't she? You think she'd be proud to see you... moping like this?"

Kwon's jaw tightened, and Kreese nodded, his voice growing harsher. "This is for her. For everyone and everything you care about. You've got a chance to be a champion. To make your life—hell, this entire team's life—better. But that's not going to happen if you let your heart get in your way. You're the captain. You carry this team. You don't get to fail. You hear me?"

"Yes, sensei," Kwon said through gritted teeth, his fists now trembling from how tightly they were clenched, not out of anger or guilt, but rather of fierce determination.

"And then there's Miyagi-do," Kreese continued, his tone darkening, venom dripping from his words. "Our main enemy. The people who think they're better than you—better than us. You know what they are? Cowards. Weaklings who hide behind their fake humility and cheap tricks. They don't fight for survival; they fight to prove some moral point, like they're saints. But they're not. They're frauds. Hypocrites. And they don't deserve to stand in that arena with you."

Kwon's eyes darkened, his gaze hardening as Kreese's words struck a chord.

"They think they're unbeatable," He spat. "But you? You're different. You've got something they'll never have—power. Pain. Anger. You've been through hell, and you know how to turn that into strength. You've got the killer instinct. The hunger. You want to win? Humiliate them. Make them wish they never stepped onto that mat with you."

Kwon straightened further, his fists uncurling slightly as he took a deep breath.

Kreese leaned back, satisfied with the fire he saw building in Kwon's eyes. "If anyone can win this thing, it's you. Now get your head right, because tomorrow, we show Miyagi-do what Cobra Kai is really about."

Kwon gave a firm nod, his voice steady this time. "I won't let you down, Sensei."

"Good," Kreese said, standing up. "Now focus. And remember—no mercy."

At the other end of the vehicle, however, Kim rose from her seat, the heavy black duffel bag in her hand swinging with precision. Her steps were deliberate, her heels clicking softly against the bus floor. There was no malice in her expression as she stopped by y/n's row—only an air of quiet authority. Without asking, she set the bag down and took the seat beside her.

Y/n didn't flinch, but her shoulders stiffened. She kept her gaze fixed on the cityscape rushing past the window, earphones still in, drowning out the murmurs and occasional sniffling from Park at the back. She knew Kim was looking at her, that ever-penetrating gaze peeling away layers of her defenses.

But the girl didn't react. Not at first, at least... keeping her gaze fixed on the window, but her heart clenched. She could feel the older woman's sharp, calculating eyes on her, and it was suffocating. Finally, with a sigh, she pulled out one earbud and glanced sideways. "What is it?"

Da-eun leaned back, her posture elegant yet imposing, as though the world itself bent to her will. Her lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. "You tell me. What's wrong?"

Y/n scoffed, turning back to the window. "Nothing."

Kim's smile faded, replaced by a look of icy calm. "That's a lie. And you know I don't tolerate lies." Her voice was soft but carried a weight that made y/n's brows furrow.

"I'm fine," She muttered, gripping the edge of her seat.

"'Fine' doesn't win championships," Kim said coolly. Her gaze bore into the y/e/c ones of the girl's, dissecting her piece by piece. She waited a beat before speaking, her tone firm but devoid of the venom she often wielded. "This isn't about you anymore." Her voice was lower than usual, almost... motherly, though it carried the sharp edge of authority. 

"You've carried whatever it is that's bothering you ever since you stepped into my dojang. I can see it in the way you move, in the way you sit here sulking. But sulking doesn't win fights."

Y/n sighed and tugged the other earbud out. "I'm not sulking," she muttered, her grip tightening on the strap of her bag.

Kim leaned back slightly, studying her like a puzzle she was trying to solve. "Maybe you don't think so, but your body language says otherwise. I don't care what it is—your past, your fears, or whatever ghosts are haunting you. You're not fighting for yourself anymore. This is for the team."

"I know that,"  the girl snapped, finally turning to meet her sensei's gaze. Her eyes blazed with defiance, the frustration she'd bottled up threatening to spill. "I'm not distracted."

Kim tilted her head, her expression softening just slightly. For a moment, she said nothing, just watching, weighing the words. Finally, she nodded slowly. "No. You're not. You've always performed well under pressure..." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "But the question is, how long will that focus last?"

Y/n frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Sensei Kim began carefully, her tone dropping to a near whisper, "that the arena is where you settle everything. Whatever you feel—anger, pain, regret—leave it all there. You fight with your fists, not your heart. Emotions make you weak. They blind you."

Y/n held her gaze, unyielding. "I'm ready, sensei..." she said firmly. "I can handle it."

The older woman hesitated, her eyes narrowing as if considering whether to push further. Instead, she offered a cryptic smile. "Good. Be ready for what's coming, l/n." 

She glanced out the window briefly before turning back to the y/h/c-haired girl, her voice now cold, distant. "You've walked away from ghosts before, haven't you? You've got a habit of cutting ties when things get hard. But sometimes, they find you anyway. Just be prepared, y/n/n... Not every opponent fights fair—and not all battles are physical."

Y/n's breath hitched at the odd weight in her sensei's words. She opened her mouth to question her, but Kim rose abruptly, slinging her duffel bag back over her shoulder.

"We're here," She said simply, her tone dismissive. Without waiting for a response, she strode down the aisle, her heels echoing like a judge's gavel.

Y/n was left sitting there, her mind buzzing with questions. What did she mean? The thought lingered even as the bus pulled into the stadium parking lot. 

Something about the way Kim had spoken—like she knew something y/n didn't—set her on edge. And that warning... it felt personal. 

Too personal.

As the bus doors opened and the team began filing out, the girl forced herself to push the unease aside. Whatever Da-eun was hinting at, she'd face it head-on. She had no other choice. But as she glanced toward the looming stadium, a strange feeling settled in her gut. For the first time in years, the ghosts Kim spoke of didn't feel so far away.

But as she accurately acknowledged... the girl always performed well under crippling pressure.

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