𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑. family line

DAEUN STOOD IN THE CORNER OF THE LOFT, her arms crossed, pressing her shoulder blades into the cold plaster wall. The apartment was dim, cluttered with laundry that hadn't been folded and dishes left stacked on the tiny counter in the corner of the kitchen. It was a one-room space, the kind that had to serve as everything at once — kitchen, bedroom, living room, and dining area — though in reality, it was barely enough for even one purpose.

The wooden floors were scuffed, marked with the tracks of old tenants who had dragged their furniture in and out over the years. The ceiling was low and stained with the damp spread of mildew, the kind you could never quite get rid of no matter how hard you scrubbed. It smelled faintly of rice, onions, and the tang of laundry detergent that never seemed to fully rinse out of their clothes.

Jimin stood in the narrow strip of space between the kitchen counter and the low table where they ate. She was small but fierce, her voice sharp and crackling with frustration. She had one hand on her hip, the other holding a spatula like a weapon of authority, as if she'd snatched it from the frying pan mid-lecture. She had been cooking dinner when she found out — again — that Daeun had sneaked off to watch the delinquents practice martial arts in the woods instead of coming straight home from school. Her anger was erupting in a stream of sharp, deliberate Korean, each word slicing the air with the precision of a fishmonger's knife.

"Are you crazy?" Jimin snapped, pointing the spatula like a judge's gavel. "Did you go there again? Why don't you listen? How many times do I have to tell you? You keep this up, and you'll grow up useless."

Daeun flinched but said nothing. She had learned that anything she said would only make it worse, and besides, she didn't care if her mother got angrier. Jimin always got angry — whether it was over the laundry not being hung right or the shoes left at the wrong angle by the front door. What was one more outburst?

Daeun could feel her brother's eyes on her, though he didn't say a word. Kang Jihyun sat cross-legged on the mattress, quiet and still, as if by making himself smaller, he could disappear entirely into the threadbare blanket covering the bed.

Jihyun hated moments like this. Hated being caught in the space between his mother's fury and his sister's defiance. He knew the script of this argument by heart: Jimin yelling, Daeun staring back with that flat, defiant look on her face, like she'd already decided that none of it mattered. She always seemed to be daring their mother to do something — what, Jihyun couldn't say. Maybe hit her. Maybe give up on her entirely.

Jihyun wished, not for the first time, that Daeun would just stop. If she would just come home like she was supposed to, just keep her head down and do what their mother wanted, things would be easier. But he knew Daeun too well.

Of course he did — they were twins, after all.

He knew that once she got an idea in her head, no amount of yelling or punishment would change it. She was like a nail hammered deep into wood — stuck, bent, and impossible to pull out without splintering everything around it.

The loft was unbearably small when their mother was in one of her moods, her presence filling every corner, making it feel like there wasn't enough air to go around. The only window was a narrow slit above the sink, overlooking the alley where the garbage trucks rumbled through every morning. The walls were so thin that sometimes, when the neighbors fought, it felt like their voices were coming from inside the apartment.

Even now, the muffled sounds of footsteps and distant TV shows leaked through the walls, a reminder that there were other lives just beyond their own cramped, unhappy existence.

Jimin threw the spatula down onto the counter with a clatter and turned back to the stove, muttering under her breath. "I think I'm gonna go fucking crazy. You think you can do whatever you want?"

Daeun kicked off her shoes at the door without untying them properly, the laces flopping uselessly over the worn-out soles. She didn't apologize. She never did. Instead, she crossed the room in three quick steps and plopped down on the mattress beside Jihyun, bumping him with her shoulder as if to say, It's over. She's done for now.

Jihyun exhaled through his nose but didn't look at her. He was still holding onto the hope that one day Daeun would change — that she'd get tired of fighting and just follow the rules for once. But then, he thought bitterly, she wouldn't be Daeun, would she?

Their mother slammed the lid down on the pot, sending a cloud of steam into the air. "If I catch you sneaking off again, you'll be sorry," she snapped, though her voice had lost some of its edge now that the worst of her anger had been spent.

Daeun smirked, leaning close to Jihyun so their mother wouldn't see. "What do you think she's going to do, ground me?" she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

Jihyun stared straight ahead, pretending not to hear her. He wished Daeun would understand that he wasn't like her. He didn't want trouble. He just wanted things to be quiet.

But Daeun thrived in chaos. She was the kind of person who'd sneak off to watch that dojo — what was it's name? — knowing full well what would happen when she got caught — because to her, the thrill was worth the punishment.

And that was the difference between them.

Jihyun wanted peace.

Daeun wanted freedom.

Their mother's fear was woven into everything — into the scoldings, into the way she watched them walk out the door each morning as if they might never come back. But the real reason behind Jimin's rage over Cobra Kai lived like a ghost in their cramped apartment, haunting the spaces between words.

It was always there, the unspoken truth beneath every argument: the memory of Euntaek, their father, lying dead on the mat eleven years ago.

Jihyun couldn't remember his father. In fact, his memories of him were just secondhand stories, worn down by repetition. The way you hear about something so often that you start to confuse it with a memory of your own. What he did know — what had been drilled into both of them — was that martial arts were off-limits.

Forever.

No exceptions.

It wasn't just a rule; it was law.

It was as fundamental as not sticking a fork into an electric socket or not running into the street without looking both ways.

Martial arts equaled death. This was a fact in their household, immutable and absolute. The loft's walls were built around that fact, their lives confined by it.

The story went like this: Euntaek, young and ambitious, when he stepped into his final tournament. Tang Soo Do championship, kind of fancy — but was just a dingy rec center, a handful of judges, and the smell of sweat thick in the air. He was good at what he did, though. Everyone said so.

Jimin had been sitting in one of the stadium seats, watching him with that mixture of nervous pride and affection that she rarely showed anymore. She'd been pregnant with them, heavy and restless, her belly stretching against her thin dress, shifting uncomfortably on the hard metal bleacher. She was watching when it happened — how one moment Euntaek was standing tall, adjusting his black belt, and the next, he was crumpled on the mat. Dead. Just like that.

A freak accident, they called it. Some kind of trauma to the chest. The paramedics said there had been nothing anyone could've done, not even if he'd fallen right into a hospital bed. It was one of those things — tragic, unpredictable, senseless. The kind of story that people told in hushed tones, marveling at how quickly life could flip on you, the way a matchbook catches fire with just a spark.

Jimin didn't see it that way. For her, it wasn't an accident. It was a curse.

Martial arts had taken Euntaek from her, and she wasn't about to let it take her children too.

She made that promise to herself on the cold linoleum floor of the hospital waiting room, where she sat in shock, one hand resting on her belly, whispering to the two unborn children inside her: I will keep you safe. I will keep you alive, no matter what.

And so, from the moment Jihyun and Daeun could walk, there were rules — dozens of them, all designed to protect. Don't play rough with the other kids. No karate movies. No boxing gloves. No martial arts classes, ever. If Jimin saw them ball their fists too tightly when they got angry, she'd slap them open, as if to say, Not you. You will not end like him.

It was an obsession disguised as love.

So when Daeun discovered the Cobra Kai dojo tucked into the trees a few blocks away — hidden behind the old gym, where the walls were covered in peeling posters and ivy grew unchecked — it was as if she'd uncovered a forbidden treasure.

Jihyun still didn't know how she'd found it. Daeun always had a knack for finding the things she wasn't supposed to: candy hidden in the back of cupboards, secret stashes of cigarettes their mother had sworn she quit years ago, and now, this dilapidated dojo.

She hadn't told Jihyun about it at first. He only found out after she started sneaking off after school, coming home with scuffed knees and the faint, unmistakable scent of mother nature clinging to her clothes. It was the way she carried herself too, shoulders squared and chin tilted up, like she'd unlocked something new inside herself.

He knew he should've told their mother, but he didn't. Not because he thought Daeun was right — he didn't. He hated the idea of her going there, hated the way it made him feel sick and uneasy, like they were dangling too close to the edge of a cliff. But he also knew that trying to stop her would be pointless. Daeun wasn't the kind of person you could reason with once she'd made up her mind.

She was the storm you waited out, hoping it wouldn't knock down the whole house.

And so he kept quiet, watching her slip through the door each afternoon and praying she'd get bored of it eventually.

But she didn't. If anything, it seemed to light something inside her — a fire that grew brighter the more she defied their mother.

Jihyun didn't understand it. He didn't want to understand it. For him, the idea of standing on a mat, squaring off against someone — feeling their blows land, risking everything — was unimaginable. But Daeun was different. She thrived on the thrill, the tension, the danger. It was as if she was chasing after some part of their father, a part she'd never known, as though by stepping into that greenery, she could finally meet him in some way neither of them ever had.

And that terrified their mother. Because Jimin knew exactly what waited at the end of that road: a body on the mat, limp and lifeless. A replay of the worst moment of her life, all over again.

The thing about Daeun, though, was that she didn't care. Or maybe she did — maybe she cared too much, and this was the only way she knew how to show it. Either way, she kept sneaking off, knowing full well what it meant to their mother. Knowing, too, that she would keep getting caught and keep getting scolded and still not stop.

Jihyun sat beside her now, knees drawn to his chest, listening to their mother stir the pot on the stove with jerky, angry movements. He could feel Daeun shifting beside him, restless as always, already plotting her next escape.

He wanted to tell her to stop. Wanted to beg her to just let it go, for once. But he knew her too well for that. She was Daeun, and Daeun never let anything go. Not fear, not anger, and certainly not a dream — even if that dream belonged to a man who died before they ever got the chance to know him.

And so, he stayed quiet, as always.

Because that was the other thing about being twins: sometimes, you had to let the other person carry the dream — even if it was the thing that might kill them.

"Come with me this time," Daeun whispered, her breath hot against Jihyun's ear. She was leaning in too close, as she always did when she was plotting something — her voice low and conspiratorial, as though they were hatching a plan to rob a bank instead of just sneaking through a patch of trees. "It's so cool there. You'll love it. Just once, come with me. Please?"

Jihyun stared straight ahead, pretending to focus on the swirl of damp clothes piled in the corner or the scratchy hum of the cheap radio that buzzed weakly on the kitchen shelf. He always said no when Daeun asked him to come. Always. It wasn't even a decision anymore — just a reflex, a habit so deeply ingrained that the word slipped from his mouth without thought.

His job was to say no, and hers was to ask again and again, wearing him down like a river polishing a rock.

"C'mon." She nudged him with her elbow, her lips curling mischievously. "It's not even real karate. I mean, you should see these people — they're just punching the air and acting tough. You wouldn't be in danger or anything. It's basically... I don't know... cardio with yelling."

He swallowed, glancing toward the kitchen. Their mother's back was turned, her sharp shoulders hunched as she ladled out bowls of soup. The sound of metal on porcelain clinked steadily, a rhythm that filled the room like a ticking clock. Jihyun knew that in a minute, maybe less, she'd turn around and call them to the table.

He shook his head, just slightly, so Daeun would get the message. But she didn't give up — of course, she didn't. She never gave up.

"You're such a coward," she hissed, though there was no malice in her words, only the easy, familiar taunt of siblings. "What are you so scared of, huh? You think the trees are gonna fall on you? Or the instructor's gonna high-five you to death?" She nudged him again, harder this time, until the mattress shifted beneath them. "Just one time. I swear."

He clenched his jaw and kept his gaze locked on the far wall, where an old family photo hung crookedly in a plastic frame. Their father looked young and smiling in that picture, holding a fishing rod in one hand and squinting into the sun as if the world hadn't yet shown him what it was capable of. Jimin stood beside him, already looking worried, though back then she still knew how to smile.

Jihyun wondered what their father would think if he were here now — if he'd side with their mother, or if he'd laugh and ruffle Daeun's hair and tell her to go ahead, that martial arts was about discipline, not danger.

But he wasn't here. And all they had left was their mother's rules.

"Why do you even want me to go?" Jihyun muttered, not because he didn't know the answer, but because he wanted to stall, to give himself a moment to breathe.

Daeun grinned, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief. "Because you never do anything fun. It's sad, really."

"It's not fun," he whispered back. "It's stupid."

"No, it's fun," she insisted, her voice like the whisper of dry leaves rustling in the wind. "And you'll see that if you just come with me. For once."

Jihyun could feel the words building up in his throat, the same ones he always said: No. I'm not going. It's not worth it.But this time, something shifted. Maybe it was the way Daeun was looking at him, her face lit up with excitement, her whole body vibrating with energy like a wire pulled too tight. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was the relentless weight of always being the one to keep them in line. Whatever it was, he felt it crack, just a little.

Before he knew what was happening, he leaned in and whispered, "Fine. I'll go."

The words were out of his mouth before he could take them back, soft and quiet, as if saying them too loudly might make them real. For a second, he wasn't even sure he'd said them at all — until Daeun's grin stretched so wide it looked like it might split her face in half.

She didn't make a sound, but she slapped his arm, quick and excited, hitting him over and over like a child who'd just won a prize. Each tap was light and rapid, little bursts of joy, as if she was trying to contain her excitement but couldn't quite manage it. Jihyun glared at her, but he didn't really mean it.

"Stop it," he muttered, glancing toward the kitchen, but Daeun just grinned wider, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She gave his arm one last slap — harder this time, like a victory lap — and leaned back against the wall, smug and satisfied.

"You're not gonna regret this," she whispered, her voice buzzing with excitement.

Jihyun wasn't so sure. He already regretted it, and they hadn't even left yet.

Daeun shifted closer on the mattress, her knee knocking against his. Her dark eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. "We just have to wait until she's asleep," she whispered, her voice low and eager, as if the thrill of the plan was already unfolding in her mind. "If we leave around midnight, she won't even know we're gone."

Jihyun turned his head just slightly, enough to give her a sideways look that said everything: Are you insane? Of course, that was the point. Daeun had always been a little crazy, but she had a way of wrapping you into her madness, making it seem almost reasonable, almost worth it.

"Okay, okay, listen," she whispered urgently, scooting closer so their heads were almost touching. "The back door—it squeaks, right? So we can't use it. But if we climb out the window, the one by the sink, we can jump down onto the trash cans. It's not that high. I measured it."

Jihyun's stomach dropped. Of course she measured it.

"And then," Daeun continued, eyes gleaming, "we sneak down the alley. It's dark, so no one will see us. We just have to be quiet when we get past Mr. Jung's place — his dog always barks if he hears anything."

Jihyun pictured the route in his mind: the narrow alley behind their building, the sharp left turn past Mr. Jung's rusted gate, and the stretch of cracked pavement leading to the trees that hid the old gym. He knew exactly where the dojo was, even though he had never been there himself. Daeun talked about it like it was a place out of a dream, describing it in hushed whispers after they went to bed, her words drifting through the darkness like a spell.

"It's not far," she whispered now, as if she could sense his hesitation. "Just through the trees. And once we get there, we can watch from behind the big rocks — no one will even know we're there."

"And then what?" Jihyun muttered. "We just sneak back home before she wakes up?"

Daeun nodded, her smile widening. "Exactly. Easy, right?"

Easy. Sure. Like it was easy to risk everything for one stupid night of sneaking around. But Jihyun knew better than to argue with her once she had that look in her eyes — the look that said she'd already made up her mind, and all she needed now was for him to go along with it. And the worst part was, she always made it sound so simple, so fun, like they were the heroes of their own secret adventure.

Jihyun rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the familiar weight of guilt settle over him. He knew this was a terrible idea. He knew he should say no, right now, before things got any further out of hand. But the truth was, he was tired. Tired of saying no, tired of fighting her, tired of feeling like the only thing holding Daeun back from the edge. Maybe, just this once, he could let go. Just to shut her up.

Just for one night.

Their mother turned around just then, holding two bowls of soup in her hands. Her expression was sharp, suspicious, as if she could sense that they were up to something, though she didn't know what yet.

"Eat," Jimin said curtly, setting the bowls on the table with a clink. "No talking. Just eat."

Jihyun shot Daeun a warning look, but she just smiled, all innocence now, her excitement tucked neatly beneath the surface. She reached for her spoon, her movements slow and deliberate, as if to say, See? I can behave too.

But Jihyun knew better. The promise had already been made.

And with Daeun, once a promise was made, there was no going back.

MIDNIGHT CAME SLOW AND HEAVY, LIKE a tide that pulls everything under. The small loft was shrouded in darkness, broken only by the weak glow of streetlights filtering through the thin curtains. The sounds of the city outside felt distant, muffled by the hum of an old fan in the corner, and beneath it all, their mother's snores rumbled steadily, rising and falling like waves crashing on a shore.

Jihyun lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, every muscle in his body tight with unease. He hadn't even tried to close his eyes — not that it would've mattered. His mind had been a mess of tangled thoughts, anxieties blooming like weeds, choking out any chance of rest.

What if Mr. Jung's dog barked and woke their mother? What if they slipped off the trash cans and sprained an ankle? What if their mother caught them? The consequences spiraled endlessly in his head, but none of them mattered now. Midnight was here, and they had a plan.

Beside him, Daeun hadn't slept either. He knew it without needing to look — her excitement buzzed in the air between them, bright and sharp, a current he couldn't ignore. She always got like this when there was trouble on the horizon, her energy crackling with the same reckless thrill that left him exhausted. And sure enough, before he could second-guess anything, she nudged him sharply in the ribs, her elbow sharp as a twig.

Jihyun flinched, shooting her a warning glare, but Daeun only grinned in the dim light, her eyes glinting with mischief. She pressed a finger to her lips, her message clear: Don't mess this up now.

Jihyun sighed inwardly and sat up as quietly as he could, listening to the rhythmic sound of their mother's breathing. It filled the room like a lullaby they both knew by heart — steady, heavy, the sound of deep sleep. He could picture her on the mattress in the other room, curled on her side with her back to the door, exhausted from another long shift at the convenience store.

Daeun gave him another nudge, this time a softer tap on the shoulder, her way of saying, Come on. Let's go. She moved first, slipping out from under the thin blanket with the kind of smooth, deliberate movements she always used when she was up to something.

Her bare feet hit the cold wooden floor without a sound, and she crouched low, waiting for Jihyun to follow.

He hesitated for just a second, long enough to ask himself why the hell he was going along with this, but then Daeun turned back and gave him that look — the look that said You promised, and just like that, he was up and moving too.

The loft was so small that even a whisper could feel like a shout, so they didn't speak. Daeun led the way to the kitchen, her steps light and careful, as if she'd rehearsed this a thousand times in her mind. The old window above the sink sat crooked in its frame, paint chipped along the edges.

Daeun reached up, her fingers curling under the sill, and with a slight grunt, she pushed the window open. It gave with a soft creak — too loud for Jihyun's liking — and they both froze, hearts pounding in unison, listening for any change in the rhythm of their mother's snores.

Nothing. Just the rise and fall of her breath.

Daeun shot Jihyun a triumphant grin. See? her expression said. Easy.

She climbed up first, swinging one leg over the sill, then the other, and dropped down onto the trash cans outside with a soft thud. Jihyun winced, waiting for the inevitable metallic clatter, but Daeun landed light as a cat. She waved for him to follow, her grin widening.

Jihyun climbed up next, awkward and slow, his breath coming in shallow bursts. He didn't have Daeun's grace — never had. His foot slipped on the edge of the window, and for a split second, his stomach lurched as he imagined himself tumbling headfirst into a pile of cans. But he caught himself just in time, gripping the windowsill with sweaty hands.

Daeun stifled a laugh from below, slapping her palm over her mouth.

"Not funny," Jihyun hissed under his breath, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.

Daeun only shrugged, her shoulders shaking with silent amusement.

When he finally made it down, landing awkwardly beside her, she tugged on his sleeve, her excitement bubbling over again. "Come on," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "We've got to move before Mr. Jung's dog hears us."

They slipped through the narrow alley, sticking close to the shadows. The air was cool and damp, the kind of autumn night that made the city feel both alive and abandoned at the same time. Jihyun could hear the distant hum of traffic from the main road, but here, among the twisting alleys and sagging fences, it felt like another world entirely.

When they reached the bend near Mr. Jung's gate, they both stopped, holding their breath. The old man's dog — a grumpy mutt with a bark sharp enough to wake the whole neighborhood — lay somewhere just beyond the rusted fence, hidden in the dark. Jihyun could feel his pulse in his throat, waiting, waiting, but the dog didn't stir.

They slipped past silently, like ghosts, and then they were running — light-footed and breathless — toward the cluster of trees that hid the dojo from view. The pavement beneath their feet gave way to soft dirt, the scent of pine and damp leaves wrapping around them. Daeun's hair bounced behind her as she ran, her grin so wide it felt like it could split the night in two.

And despite himself — despite the fear gnawing at the edges of his mind — Jihyun felt a strange, fleeting thrill ripple through him. He hadn't planned on this, hadn't wanted it, but here he was, running through the dark with his sister, feeling the kind of freedom that came only when rules were broken and the world didn't know yet.

They stopped just before the clearing, panting quietly, crouching behind a row of trees. Ahead of them, the dojo sat like a secret, its light from the torches glowing faintly, the faint hum of voices drifting out into the night.

Daeun turned to him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining with triumph. "See?" she whispered, breathless and wild. "Told you we could do it."

Jihyun shook his head, half-annoyed, half-amused, and wiped the sweat from his brow. "This is insane," he muttered.

Daeun just grinned. "Yeah," she whispered. "But it's gonna be worth it."

They crouched low behind a thicket of bushes, peeking through the dense tangle of branches. The dojo wasn't what Jihyun had imagined — not a sleek gym with mirrored walls or the neatly lined mats he'd seen on television. This was something rougher, older, as if time had cracked it open and left it exposed to the elements.

The practice area was a wide, uneven stretch of pavement mixed with dirt, weeds poking stubbornly through the cracks. Stone steps, chipped and sunken, framed the edges, and in the moonlight, the place looked like the broken remains of a temple pulled straight from their history books. The stones gleamed faintly under the thin autumn mist that clung to the ground, giving everything a ghostly shimmer. It felt ancient, sacred in a strange way. A place where things happened — things that shouldn't be seen by outsiders.

There were no mats to cushion the blows, no water bottles waiting on the sidelines. Only the sound of bare feet slapping against stone, and grunts of pain carried on the wind. The students moved like soldiers, swift and brutal, each strike sharp as a whip crack.

And at the center of it all were two white men, both out of place in the shadowed forest, their pale faces stark under the soft light from a flickering flood lamp. One was tall and rangy, with thinning hair tied back in a greasy ponytail, while the other was thick and stocky, his face a permanent sneer. They barked orders in loud, clipped English, their voices jarring against the quiet of the night.

It was strange to see them here, in a space that seemed so quintessentially Korean.

Daeun crouched beside Jihyun, her dark eyes locked on the scene before them, completely transfixed. She was motionless except for the slight movement of her fingers, which twitched restlessly against her knees as if she could feel the impact of every kick, every punch, deep in her bones.

Jihyun wasn't watching with the same fascination. He stared at the fighters — mostly teenagers, all wiry muscle and quick reflexes — and felt something heavy knot in his stomach. The students were ruthless, without hesitation or mercy, their fists colliding with sharp, deliberate force. One boy slammed another into the ground with a dull thud, the kind of sound that made Jihyun wince. The fallen boy groaned, clutching his ribs, but no one moved to help him. Instead, the others circled closer, urging him to get up, their faces unreadable, masks of quiet intensity.

There was no kindness here — only expectation.

If you fell, you got back up. Or you didn't.

Jihyun shifted uncomfortably, the sharp smell of damp dirt and sweat filling his nostrils. His heart pounded in his chest, the sight of the violence too much, too real. The two white men barked louder, one of them slapping a young girl on the shoulder so hard she staggered. No one flinched. The girl squared her stance and struck again, her fist driving into her opponent's ribs with a sound like breaking wood.

Jihyun clenched his jaw, horrified, but his sister was still watching, her lips slightly parted, her eyes alight with something fierce, something hungry.

He stole a glance at her, feeling the strangeness of the moment settle over him. This was the Daeun he knew — the one who never listened, who chased thrills with reckless abandon. But this wasn't just her usual rebellion. There was something deeper here, something he didn't fully understand. Daeun didn't just want this — she needed it. The way her gaze followed the fighters, the way she tensed and shifted with every movement, told him more than words ever could. She belonged to this place, somehow.

Jihyun's throat tightened, and for a moment, the weight of everything — the sneaking out, the risks, their mother's warnings — pressed down on him. He wanted to grab Daeun by the arm, drag her back home, and bolt the window shut behind them. He wanted to tell her this was insane, that there was nothing good waiting for them here.

But he didn't.

Because even as his heart hammered with fear, some quiet part of him knew the truth: he couldn't pull her away from this. Not really.

He furrowed his brow, glancing down at the dirt beneath his hands, his mind pulling back to the memory of their mother's harsh voice, her relentless warnings. No fighting. No training. No martial arts. Nothing. As if the mere act of practicing it could summon death itself.

Jihyun had always taken her words at face value, accepting them the way a child accepts bedtime rules — arbitrary, but absolute. Do this and you'll die. Touch that and you'll disappear. Their mother's fear had wrapped around them like a second skin, her grief a silent, oppressive presence in every room.

But now, crouched beside his twin sister, watching the fighters throw punches that echoed into the cold night air, he felt something shift inside him — an ache, sharp and sudden, like stepping on a loose stone. He thought of his father, Euntaek, collapsing on the mat all those years ago, and his mother's eyes as she told them the story, her voice tight with the memory of watching him die.

Jihyun swallowed hard, his gaze flickering back to Daeun. If only their mother could see this — could see how Daeun's eyes lit up like stars, how alive she looked in this moment.

If only their mother could understand that Daeun wasn't chasing danger — she was chasing herself, trying to find the part of her that had always felt just out of reach. If only she could see how much this meant to her daughter.

He let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of the realization settle over him like a heavy coat. Their mother had never really told them the whole story — only the ending, the part where their father died. But here, in the dark forest, surrounded by sharp breaths and the slap of bare feet against stone, Jihyun could sense there was more. Maybe it wasn't just grief that kept their mother's fear alive. Maybe it was anger too. Anger that Euntaek had loved something so much he was willing to die for it.

And maybe, just maybe, their mother was terrified that Daeun had inherited that same dangerous love.

Jihyun clenched his fists, the rough dirt cold against his palms. The air around him felt too thin, like he couldn't breathe properly. He wanted to ask Daeun why this mattered so much — why she couldn't let it go, couldn't just live quietly like he did. But he already knew the answer.

They were twins. He had always known.

The practice continued, brutal and relentless. A boy was thrown hard onto the pavement, his breath knocked out in a single, sharp gasp. Daeun leaned forward slightly, her whole body tense, as if she was itching to jump into the fight herself.

Jihyun bit his lip, a bitter taste filling his mouth. He wondered what would happen if their mother ever found out — if she could ever forgive Daeun for wanting this. Or if, like with their father, some things were too dangerous to be forgiven.

The fighters kept moving, like waves crashing endlessly against a shore. And Jihyun knew, deep down, that this wouldn't be the last night Daeun came here.

He knew, because he'd be right there beside her.

THE LIGHTS BURNED BRIGHT, AN ENDLESS glow that made everything under it seem unreal — like they weren't in Barcelona at all but in some hazy dreamscape. The mat beneath Daeun's feet was smooth and stiff, worn from hundreds of fighters stepping into its space with every ounce of will they could muster.

It was oddly quiet despite the crowd gathered around the top edges of the ring. Thousands of spectators leaned in, a collective breath held as they waited for the first sign of movement. But Daeun — no, Sensei Kim — stood still, her arms folded across her chest, eyes fixed on the girl standing across from her.

Jieun.

The girl's stance was steady, her feet planted like roots pressing into the earth beneath the mat, her chin tilted slightly up, a flicker of defiance in her posture. She wore the plain white gi of Miyagi-Do, the sleeves rolled neatly above her elbows. A belt wrapped snugly around her waist — a marker of skill and discipline. Not a prodigy, but competent. Precise.

Daeun could see traces of herself in her — the same determined curve of the mouth, the way her eyebrows pulled together just before a fight, the stubborn tilt of her head that dared the world to come at her and try to break her.

It was uncanny, and it twisted something sharp inside Daeun, a familiar ache that she hadn't let surface in years.

Jieun probably didn't know it yet, but she stood before the woman who was her aunt. Daeun had given hints, not so subtle, "we are cut from the same cloth."

She met Daeun's eyes now with a cold, careful precision, like a stranger staring down an enemy, not knowing that blood still tethered them beneath the surface.

And for Daeun, every movement of the girl across from her was a reminder. She could feel the past unfurling inside her, one memory at a time, like an old, brittle scroll being pried open. It was impossible to ignore. It all came rushing back — the late nights sneaking off to the forest dojo, the thrill and terror of those first fights, the way her heart raced every time she felt the impact of her fists against flesh.

But the memories that stung the most weren't from those long-gone nights beneath the forest canopy.

They were of Jihyun.

Jihyun, who had always tried to obey their mother's rules, who had carried the burden of her fear even when Daeun couldn't — or wouldn't. Jihyun, who had tried so desperately to pull her back from the edge, only to lose his own life in a way that made the whole thing feel like some bitter, cosmic joke. Not on the mat. Not in a tournament. But in the randomness of life, as if to remind her that danger couldn't be contained within rules or boundaries. It seeped into everything, no matter how much you tried to stop it.

She had learned that lesson the hard way.

After her mother found to about their nightly escapades, everything unraveled. Their mother severed the last thread connecting them, disowning Daeun with a cold, message: "You are no longer my daughter." And the Kang name, heavy with tradition and shame, no longer belonged to her.

She let it go like a weight sinking to the bottom of a river. Kim suited her better anyway — short, sharp, clean.

And so Daeun had become Sensei Kim, resurrecting Cobra Kai from the ashes, dragging it into the present with the kind of relentless force that could only come from someone who had nothing left to lose. Cobra Kai became her home, her family, her war. And she trained her students with the same brutal efficiency she had once admired from the shadows — no mercy, no hesitation, no room for weakness.

And now, here stood Jieun. The daughter of the brother she had failed to protect, dressed in the colors of Miyagi-Do — the enemy.

Daeun's jaw tightened, but she kept her expression neutral, unreadable, the way she always did. She couldn't let the crowd, the judges, or Jieun see anything other than the cold, calculated focus of a fighter. But inside, the memories churned, dragging her back to a time when everything was simpler and infinitely more complicated.

She remembered crouching beside Jihyun in the forest, his breath shallow and nervous beside her, while her heart thudded with excitement. She remembered the way he had always been the cautious one, always second-guessing, always holding back. And yet, in the end, he had followed her. Every time. Even when it went against every instinct he had, he followed. Because that was what it meant to be twins.

Daeun exhaled slowly, her gaze unwavering as she studied Jieun. She wondered if the girl knew — really knew — what it meant to fight. If she understood that it wasn't just about winning or losing, but about survival. About becoming the kind of person who could endure the worst life threw at you and still stand back up.

But Jieun's expression remained impassive, giving away nothing. If the hints Daeun had left behind had stirred anything in her, it was buried too deep to see.

The referee stepped forward, motioning for the fighters to prepare. The moment was coming — the one where everything would collide. Past and present, Cobra Kai and Miyagi-Do, aunt and niece. And Daeun felt the tension coil tighter, a knot pulling taut inside her chest.

She wondered, briefly, what Jihyun would think if he could see them now — his daughter standing on one side of the mat, and his twin sister on the other. Would he hate her for bringing them to this point? Would he understand why she had done what she did? Or would he simply look at her with the same quiet disappointment he had carried all those years, the unspoken plea always lingering in his eyes: Why can't you just stop?

But it was too late for those questions now.

Daeun shifted her weight, the familiar tension settling into her muscles. The mat beneath her felt solid, grounding her in the present even as her thoughts drifted back to the past.

The resemblance was undeniable. It hit Daeun in waves as she stood across the mat, sizing up Jieun not just as an opponent but as something more complicated, more personal.

The sharp line of her jaw, the slope of her nose, even the slight narrowing of her eyes when she concentrated — it was like staring into fragments of a broken mirror, one that reflected pieces of Jihyun and pieces of herself in ways that were both familiar and unsettling.

The ghost of her brother lived in the curve of Jieun's shoulders, in the subtle shift of weight in her stance.

But the rest — the intensity simmering just beneath the girl's skin, the defiance tucked behind her measured gaze — that belonged to Daeun. There was no mistaking it. She knew that fire because it was hers.

The sight of it made something twist in her chest, sharp and bittersweet, like the edge of a knife gliding against soft fabric. Jieun had Jihyun's gentleness in her bones, but she also had Daeun's hunger — an insatiable desire for something more, for something that the world had told them they weren't allowed to have.

And in that moment, standing across from her niece on the tournament floor, Daeun saw the tangled threads of the past knotting together, binding them in ways neither could fully comprehend.

Her mother, Jimin, must have noticed it too.

The thought hit her suddenly, a cold realization that spread through her like ice water seeping into the cracks of an old, splintering wall.

What had it been like for her mother, fleeing the wreckage of one child only to watch the other produce a daughter who looked exactly like the one she had disowned?

The irony of it was almost poetic. Jieun had her eyes, her cheekbones, even the same stubborn mouth that Daeun knew how to press into a tight, unreadable line whenever things didn't go her way. It must have been torture for their mother, Daeun thought — seeing the face she tried to erase from her life reappear like a ghost, this time carried by the child of her beloved son.

Daeun's lips curled into a smile, slow and deliberate.

She wondered if her mother's heart had twisted in quiet agony every time she looked at Jieun, every time she was forced to confront the past she had tried to bury. Was it a small, daily ache? A throb just behind the ribs, where the weight of regret tends to settle? Did she pretend not to notice the resemblance, or did it haunt her in ways that made sleep impossible?

Daeun hoped it haunted her. She hoped it gnawed at her with every breath, like karma working its way through the bloodline, as patient and inevitable as winter creeping over the mountains.

And the best part — the part that made Daeun's smile stretch just a little wider — was that her mother could do nothing to stop it.

Jieun existed, a living reminder that Daeun hadn't been erased as neatly as their mother had hoped. She had come back through the cracks, through the next generation, carrying the parts of Daeun that Jimin had tried to forget. And now, here they were, on opposite sides of the mat, preparing for a fight that could never be contained within the limits of the tournament rules.

Jieun stood steady, hands at her sides. Daeun could see the flicker of nerves behind her niece's calm exterior — a slight tremor in the fingers, the way her shoulders tensed ever so slightly. But there was no fear, only focus.

She would fight, just like Daeun had fought, because that was what they did.

It was in their bones, no matter how much Jimin had tried to stamp it out.

And Daeun was excited.

The thrill of it buzzed under her skin, familiar and electric. She wanted to see how Jieun would move, how she would adapt under pressure. Would she falter? Would she rise to the challenge? There was something deliciously satisfying about watching the daughter of her twin brother — the obedient one, the cautious one — step into the world of combat that had once been forbidden to them.

Jieun was defying the same rules Jihyun had tried so hard to follow, and that, more than anything, made Daeun feel like she had already won.

This fight wasn't just about points or titles. It was about legacy. About who they were, and who they had refused to become.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

SURPRISE!!!!

i was having cobra kai withdrawals so i came up with a filler chapter hehe

im so freaking excited for november 15. like im literally shaking with excitement .

this me fr

anyways, i hope u guys enjoyed this chapter !! i say filler but its really part of the plot.

especially because i dropped the bomb that they're related and din't really touch on it again, at least not really. i did have jimin speak a bit about it, disowning and everything. but i really wanted to go more in depth.

might have the next chapter be another 'filler' but have it in the korea plot line. like idk maybe daeun has a conversation with kreese and kwon hears it???

and then kwon is like 'omg who is this jieun girl' or 'theres someone out there better than ME??? aint no way lemme find her' or maybe a lil 'oh i can't wait for this tournament to see who im really up against' and he's like obsessed w her just bc daeun spoke highly of her

wink wink

WINK WINK

idk how part 2 is gonna go but i'll definitely have kwon like trying to convince her to switch sides. and it might even work because of tory.

jk i won't do that

but i like the suspense.

but also from the trailer for part 2 there might be some tension within relationships so like i feel like i kinda have to ????? like robby glaring at kwon for talking to tory and idk if this is true but there was like rumors or miguel and sam breaking up because there was a pic or whatever of sam and axel training?? so rumors say miggy is in like with zara?????

idk but i dig it bc i luv zara already

❤︎ zara ❤︎

much love,