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A few days pass after his seventeenth birthday, and nothing really changes. The dojo still smells of sweat and disinfectant, the mornings are still filled with endless drills, the afternoons with classes. Robby still wakes up on the hard floor, folds his sleeping bag, and fuels himself on coffee and protein bars. Routine. Predictable. Empty.
The only difference is Silver.
What started as a one-off has turned into a pattern. Almost every evening, once the other students have left and the dojo is quiet again, Silver asks him to stay. A private session. Just him and Robby.
They’re brutal. Silver doesn’t hold back. He doesn’t let Robby breathe, doesn’t give him a second to catch his balance before pressing the attack again. He says it’s about conditioning, about preparing Robby to dominate at the All Valley, but Robby can’t shake the suspicion that it’s something else.
Ever since that night at the upscale restaurant, when Robby refused Silver’s offer of a room, the man’s intensity has sharpened. Every strike lands just a little harder than it needs to. Every correction carries a bite. There’s no proof, no words spoken outright, but Robby feels it all the same.
It’s retaliation.
He picks himself up off the mat for the third time in five minutes, lungs burning, ribs aching. Silver watches him calmly, not a drop of sweat on him, like the whole thing is effortless.
“Again,” Silver says. Smooth. Controlled. Inevitable.
And Robby obeys. Because what else can he do?
Silver circles him slowly, calm and deliberate, like a predator sizing up prey. Robby wipes the sweat from his eyes with the back of his arm, forcing his legs to hold steady even as they tremble. His sleeveless shirt sticks to his skin, damp and heavy.
The next exchange comes fast. Silver feints high, sweeps low, and Robby hits the mat before he even registers the movement. Pain shoots through his hip and shoulder as he lands. He bites back a groan.
“Up,” Silver says, voice even. Not angry. Not mocking. Just absolute.
Robby pushes to his feet, chest heaving. He knows better than to stall.
Silver steps forward, faster than Robby can react. A fist glances off his ribs, not full force but hard enough to rattle him. The breath leaves his lungs in a sharp gasp.
“Pain is part of the process,” Silver says, almost conversational. “It teaches you. It sharpens you.”
Robby swings back, desperate to land a hit. His fist connects with Silver’s arm, but it barely slows him. Silver’s counterpunch drives into Robby’s stomach, knocking the air out of him and sending him stumbling as his knees threaten to give out.
He steadies himself, gasping for breath, and Silver lets the faintest smile slip. Not encouragement. Not approval. Something colder.
“You’ve got fight in you,” Silver murmurs. “That’s good. That’s what I want. But fight without control is useless. Anger without discipline is just wasted energy.”
Another rush —Silver’s foot sweeps his leg, and Robby crashes down again. His palms sting against the mat, and this time a grunt escapes before he can stop it.
“Again,” Silver says.
Robby forces himself up, every muscle screaming. He wants to spit out that this isn’t training, it’s punishment. But the words stay trapped in his throat.
Because deep down, he knows Silver would only smile and tell him it’s both.
Robby charges again, legs heavy as lead, fists sluggish but determined. He throws a right hook, more willpower than technique, and Silver slips past it with effortless grace. A sharp strike to the chest knocks Robby back, and his balance finally gives out.
He hits the mat hard and stays there, wheezing. His arms refuse to push him up this time. His body just won’t listen. Every muscle screams, his lungs burn, and the edges of his vision pulse with black.
For a moment, there’s only the sound of his own ragged breathing.
Silver looms above him, calm as ever, not even winded. His shadow falls across Robby like a weight.
“That’s enough for tonight,” Silver says finally, his voice smooth, unbothered. “Your body’s reached its limit. That’s how we know we’ve made progress.”
Robby squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing the bitter taste of failure. He hates that he couldn’t outlast him, hates how powerless he feels lying flat on the floor.
Silver crouches beside him, lowering his voice. "Remember this feeling, Robby. This exhaustion. This pain. Champions don’t run from it. They embrace it. And they rise above it.”
Robby doesn’t answer. He can’t. His chest heaves, sweat pooling beneath him, every nerve in his body screaming for rest.
Silver straightens, smooth and composed. “Clean yourself up. Get some rest. Tomorrow, we go harder.”
Robby stays where he is, too drained to move, the words echoing in his head like a sentence.
Harder.
Always harder.
The shower sputters to life, the same weak stream of lukewarm water as always. Robby braces his hands against the wall, head bowed, letting the water run down his face. His whole body aches —ribs tender, shoulders bruised, legs trembling even now. Every breath feels shallow, scraped raw.
He presses his forehead against the tile, jaw clenched. Part of him wants to scream, to slam a fist into the wall, to walk away and never come back. But another part —the part Silver keeps feeding— whispers that this is what it takes. That this is the price of becoming champion.
That if he can survive this, he can survive anything.
The water slides down his chest, stinging against the fresh bruises. He tries to steady his breathing, but all he can hear are Silver’s words echoing in his skull. Champions don’t run from pain. They embrace it.
Robby lets out a shaky breath. He’s seventeen, exhausted, and alone in a freezing shower. And for the first time, he’s not sure if he’s getting stronger… or just breaking.
He steps out of the shower and dries off quickly, pulling on clean clothes with slow, heavy movements. His body feels like lead. He heads for the back room, ready to collapse into the sleeping bag. He’s not even hungry enough for a protein bar —just tired. Bone-deep tired.
But as the minutes drag on and his muscles begin to cool, the pain sharpens. Every bruise throbs, every joint screams, and he realizes he’s not going to sleep tonight.
He pushes himself up and makes his way to Kreese’s office door. He knows there’s a first aid kit inside —he’s seen it before. For a moment, he hesitates, then grips the handle and tries it. Locked. Of course it is.
Robby exhales, a long, frustrated sigh. For a second he leans his forehead against the door, eyes closed. Then he pulls back, slipping into his sweatshirt. He grabs his wallet, his phone, and the dojo keys.
A minute later, he’s outside in the cool night air. The neon sign buzzes faintly overhead as he shoves his hands into his pockets and crosses to the small grocery store next door. Nestor’s place. The lights inside are harsh and fluorescent, humming faintly against the silence of the street.
The bell above the door jingles as he walks in. Nestor looks up from behind the counter, one eyebrow arched.
“Caray, chico. You look like you’ve been sparring with a train.”
Robby doesn’t answer. He heads straight for the shelves, finds the medicine section, and picks up a bottle of ibuprofen. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabs a small pack of acetaminophen too. He carries both to the counter, dropping them down without a word.
Nestor rings them up, glancing briefly at Robby before announcing the total. Robby pulls out the crumpled bills from his wallet, counts quickly, and feels his stomach drop. Not enough.
He sets the acetaminophen aside, jaw tight. “Just this one.”
Nestor shrugs lightly, slipping the ibuprofen into a small paper bag. “Suit yourself.”
Robby takes the bag and turns to leave. He’s halfway to the door when Nestor calls out.
“Hey.”
Robby glances back. Nestor is holding up the acetaminophen pack, expression unreadable, tone almost offhand. “You forgot this.”
Before Robby can protest, Nestor tosses it across the counter. Robby catches it clumsily.
“Consider it a special,” Nestor says with a wry smile. “Two for one, tonight only.”
Robby stares at him for a beat, unsure what to say. Finally he just mutters, “Thanks,” and slips the pack into his pocket.
“Try not to need it all at once,” Nestor adds, voice casual but eyes sharp.
Robby pushes out the door, the bell jingling behind him, the cold night wrapping around his sore body as he heads back to the dojo.
Morning comes too soon, but Robby wakes with the pain dulled to something bearable. The medicine did its job. His muscles still ache, his ribs still sting, but at least he can move without wincing at every breath.
When he checks his phone, a new message lights up the screen. From his mom.
> Tomorrow. I’m getting out tomorrow. Love you <3
For the first time in months, a real smile spreads across his face, wide and unguarded. He stares at the words again and again, letting them sink in until his chest feels lighter, warmer, alive.
Not in a week. Not in a few days. Tomorrow.
The day passes in the same routine as always —training, cleaning, classes— but Robby carries himself differently. There’s a spring in his step, a steadiness in his eyes. Even the endless drills feel easier with that promise burning in the back of his mind.
Kenny notices first. “You’re in a good mood,” he says between sets, grinning.
Tory narrows her eyes but smirks. “Yeah. What’s with you?”
Robby leans closer, his voice low but steady. “My mom’s getting out. Tomorrow.”
Their faces light up, genuine. Tory claps him on the shoulder; Kenny breaks into a grin so wide it nearly splits his face. For once, the weight pressing down on Robby doesn’t feel so heavy.
By mid-afternoon, Silver arrives, his presence as sharp and commanding as ever. The rest of the day’s training runs its course, the students finally filing out, sweaty and drained. Kreese leaves with them, a curt nod his only farewell.
Then it’s just Robby and Silver.
As expected, Silver tells him to stay. Robby doesn’t hesitate this time; it’s become routine, another piece of his life at Cobra Kai. But tonight, something feels different.
Robby’s in better spirits than he’s been in months. Silver, though, is not. His smile is tighter, his movements sharper, his patience thinner. There’s an edge to him Robby hasn’t seen before, and it coils through the room like smoke. His strikes come faster tonight. Harder. There’s no measured rhythm, no sense of testing or guiding. Every movement is sharp, punishing, relentless.
Robby hits the mat again and again, each fall jolting through his bones. His arms ache from blocking, his legs from trying to stay upright. Silver doesn’t give him space to breathe, doesn’t give him the chance to recover.
“Up!,” Silver snaps, not even bothering with his usual calm tone.
Robby forces himself to his feet, chest heaving, sweat dripping into his eyes. He lunges forward, trying to push back, but Silver cuts him down with a swift kick to the side. Pain flares hot in his ribs and he staggers, nearly collapsing.
Silver doesn’t wait. He’s already on him again, fists and feet like steel. Every blow is precise, brutal, leaving no room for Robby to think. It’s not training anymore —it’s a beating with purpose.
And in the blur of pain, a thought creeps in.
Did he find out?
Silver has connections, resources, people who dig into everything. If he knows his mom is getting out tomorrow… then tonight is his last chance to keep Robby fully under his thumb. To remind him who’s in control. To wring every ounce of vulnerability out of him before he’s no longer alone.
Robby grits his teeth, refusing to give Silver the satisfaction of breaking. His body screams in protest, but he keeps pushing, keeps dragging himself upright after every fall.
Silver’s face is unreadable, but his strikes only grow harsher, as if trying to carve the fight out of him entirely.
When Robby manages to rise once more, his legs are trembling, vision blurred with sweat. He knows he’s finished, that his body has nothing left to give. But he squares his shoulders anyway, jaw tight, bracing for one more strike. He’ll take it. He has to.
Silver’s fist comes fast —only it doesn’t land where Robby expects.
The punch slams into his face, exploding across his temple. White-hot pain radiates through the left side of his skull, the world tilting violently as his knees buckle.
He hits the mat hard, dazed, the room spinning. For a moment, he doesn’t even register the sound of his own breathing —just the throbbing ache spreading across his face, deep and merciless.
He doesn’t get up this time. He can’t.
Silver stands over him, calm and collected, not even winded. His expression is unreadable, eyes cool and detached, as though the strike was just another correction, another step in the lesson.
“That’s enough for tonight,” he says, voice even, almost bored.
Silver leaves without another word, his footsteps echoing across the mat until the door shuts behind him. He doesn’t look back.
Robby stays where he fell, flat on his back, the dojo ceiling spinning above him. His chest rises and falls in shallow gasps, the throbbing in his face drowning out everything else. Minutes pass before the fog in his head starts to lift.
Groaning, he pushes himself upright, one hand pressed to his temple. When he pulls it away, his fingers are slick with blood.
In the bathroom mirror, the truth stares back at him: his left eyebrow split open, the skin swollen and raw, blood trickling steadily down the side of his face. He exhales through his nose, steadying himself.
Moving on autopilot, he strips off, steps into the shower, and lets the lukewarm water wash the sweat and blood down the drain. He scrubs quickly, changes into clean clothes. But when he looks back into the mirror, the cut is still seeping. Not enough to need stitches —probably— but too much to ignore.
He needs something to close it. A bandage. Gauze. Anything.
But the first-aid kit is still locked in Kreese’s office.
With a tired sigh, Robby pulls on his hoodie, grabs his wallet and phone, and heads for the door. The lock clicks behind him as he steps out into the cold night air, the neon sign buzzing faintly overhead.
His mind is already on Nestor’s store. He turns down the sidewalk, steps heavy, every part of him aching.
But he barely makes it a few feet before stopping short.
Someone is standing right in front of the dojo.
Amanda LaRusso.
Robby freezes, his mind scrambling to make sense of it. Mrs. LaRusso? Here? At this hour?
Her eyes lock onto him, widening instantly. Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my God, Robby. What happened to you?”
Robby just stares back at her, blood still trickling from his split brow, too dazed and exhausted to form an elaborate answer.
“Training,” he mutters, his voice flat.
Amanda frowns, clearly unconvinced. She opens her mouth to say something, but Robby cuts her off, his tone sharp. “What are you doing here, Mrs. LaRusso?”
For a moment, she hesitates. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes before she finally answers. “I spoke to your mom this afternoon.”
Robby’s pulse kicks up instantly, his breath catching in his chest.
Amanda goes on, carefully. “Shannon told me she’s getting out tomorrow. And she asked me how you were doing… with Johnny.”
Robby doesn’t answer. His silence hangs between them, heavy and stubborn.
Amanda studies him, then asks quietly, “So you let your mom believe all this time that you were with Johnny?”
Again, Robby says nothing. His jaw works, but no words come out.
Amanda exhales, glancing at the closed door of the dojo. Her voice carries a note of frustration now. “We thought you’d at least moved in with a friend.”
What friend, Robby thinks bitterly.
When she looks back at him, her eyes land on the cut above his brow, the blood still dripping down his temple. Her expression softens with concern. “You should get that cleaned up.”
Robby finally speaks, his tone clipped. “That’s where I was going.”
Amanda doesn’t give him the chance to argue. “I’ll come with you,” she says firmly, already matching his pace as he heads down the sidewalk.
Robby doesn’t answer. He just shoves his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket, jaw tight, as if her presence alone is already too much.
When they push open the door to Nestor’s store, the bell jingles overhead. Nestor looks up from the counter, his eyes flicking from Robby’s split brow to Amanda at his side. Concern flashes across his face, tempered by a visible relief at seeing the boy with an adult.
Robby doesn’t linger. He heads straight to the aisle with the first-aid supplies, Amanda trailing close behind. He grabs a box of regular bandages off the shelf, tossing it into his hand like it’s already settled.
“Not those,” Amanda says, leaning in. “Get the butterfly strips. They’ll hold the cut together better.”
Robby rolls his eyes, but after a beat, he swaps the boxes, sliding the special bandages into his grip.
At the counter, he sets them down quickly, already pulling out the crumpled bills from his wallet. Amanda steps forward at the same time.
“I’ll get it,” she says.
“No,” Robby mutters, sharp but quiet.
Then he sees the price on the screen. His hand stalls. Not enough.
Before he can say anything, Amanda smoothly slips her card across the counter. Nestor takes it without comment, his eyes flicking to Robby with something between sympathy and resignation.
The receipt prints. Amanda tucks the card back into her wallet.
Robby grabs the bag, mutters a curt, “Thanks,” and pushes out the door without looking at her.
Amanda sighs and hurries after him, the bell jingling behind them.
The night air hits them as the door swings shut behind. Robby walks fast, the plastic bag crinkling in his hand, his hood pulled low. He doesn’t slow down.
“Robby, wait,” Amanda calls, her heels clicking on the pavement as she catches up.
He keeps his eyes on the sidewalk, jaw tight. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“It was a box of bandages,” she says, a little breathless but steady. “You don’t need to act like I bought you a car."
Robby exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “…You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters.
“I’m here because I care,” Amanda says simply.
They stop outside the dojo door. The street falls quiet around them, only the distant hum of traffic breaking the silence.
"I can take care of myself." Robby replies curtly.
“I know you think that." Amanda's voice softens, less sharp this time. "And I know you’ve had to. But you don’t have to do everything alone, Robby.”
That makes him glance at her, just for a second. Her expression is calm, steady, but there’s something raw in her eyes —worry she can’t quite hide.
"At least let me help with that cut,” she says, nodding toward his brow.
Robby shakes his head immediately. “It’s fine. I can do it myself.”
“You’ve made that clear,” Amanda replies evenly, no bite in her tone. “But I’m not walking away while blood is still running down your face.”
Robby clenches his jaw, shifting the bag in his hand. “I said it’s not necessary.”
Amanda folds her arms. “Then I’ll stand right here until you change your mind. Your choice, Robby.”
Her voice isn’t sharp, but there’s a weight behind it, steady and immovable. For all his protests, Robby knows she means it. She won’t leave until she’s sure the wound is taken care of.
The silence stretches, broken only by the distant buzz of the neon sign behind them.
Robby exhales sharply through his nose, glancing away. The longer Amanda stands there, arms crossed, the more he realizes she’s not bluffing.
Finally, Robby gives in.
"...Fine."
Amanda gestures toward the dojo door. “Let’s go inside. It’ll be easier.”
“No,” Robby says quickly, sharper than he means to. He softens his tone a little but keeps his ground. “If you’re gonna do it, it’s out here.”
Amanda blinks, surprised. “Out here? On the sidewalk?”
Robby nods once, jaw set. No way he’s letting Amanda LaRusso see the thin sleeping bag rolled up in the corner of the back room. Not tonight. Not ever.
Amanda exhales, resigned. “Fine. Hand me the bag.”
Robby passes her the small paper bag with the bandages. She studies him for a second, then points to the curb. “Sit.”
He lowers himself onto the edge of the sidewalk, shoulders tense. Amanda crouches in front of him, pulling a small packet of wipes from her purse.
Robby stiffens as she tears one open and leans closer. The cool touch against his brow makes him flinch, the sting sharp where the skin splits. Amanda doesn’t comment, just works carefully, dabbing away the blood, cleaning the cut with practiced, patient movements.
Robby keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead, staring into the dark horizon beyond the streetlights. He doesn’t look at her. Can’t.
The closeness makes him uneasy. The gentleness even more so. He’s not used to being handled like this —with care, with… something that feels uncomfortably close to kindness.
Amanda works in silence for a moment, her fingers steady as she smooths the first strip over the cut. Then her voice lowers, softer than before. “We miss you, you know. At Miyagi-Do. At our house.”
Robby exhales sharply through his nose, a dry, almost bitter sound. “Sure.”
Amanda presses the second strip into place, her eyes softening as they flick up at him briefly. “I mean it. I’m sorry for what happened. Daniel’s sorry too. But you have to understand, Robby… we couldn’t let you keep running. Not when it was only going to ruin your life. As hard as it was, you had to face it. And God, I just wish you’d let us be there for you through juvie —that you had answered the calls, the messages, that you had let us visit. No one should ever have to go through that alone.”
The words settle like a weight in Robby’s chest, heavy and unshakable.
Amanda leans a little closer, her voice gentler now. “Robby, this... messy karate war between Kreese and Silver, and Johnny and Daniel... none of it is your doing. You should never have been pulled into it, on either side —and you sure as hell shouldn’t have been hurt by it. Not by anybody."
Robby’s throat tightens, and for a moment he can’t trust himself to speak. Finally, he swallows hard and mutters, “You done yet?”
Amanda’s hand pauses as she smooths the last strip over his brow. She looks at him then, her expression heavy with sadness. “…Yeah. All done.”
Robby pushes himself up from the curb, still avoiding her eyes. “Thanks,” he says under his breath.
Amanda doesn’t follow him. She just watches as he turns away, her arms folded tight against the night air.
Robby slips back into the dojo, shutting the door firmly behind him and turning the lock with a click. The silence inside swallows him whole.
He doesn’t stop in the main room. He heads straight for the back, stripping off his hoodie and jeans, and changing into an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants he keeps for sleeping.
Once changed, he lowers himself into the thin sleeping bag, pulling it up over his shoulders. His body aches, his brow throbs under the strips Amanda placed, but what gnaws at him more is the question he refuses to let take root.
What the hell was Amanda LaRusso doing here?
Robby clenches his jaw, shutting his eyes tight. He doesn’t want to think about her. Doesn’t want to think about Daniel LaRusso. Or Sam. Or those short, stupidly happy weeks he spent under their roof, when —for one fleeting moment— he felt like he might actually belong.
But Amanda’s words keep echoing in his head, whether he wants them to or not.
"And you sure as hell shouldn’t have been hurt by it. Not by anybody."
Well... it's too late for that.
He pulls the sleeping bag tighter around himself, as if the thin fabric could shut everything out, and tells himself it’s going to be fine. Tomorrow his real family —his mom— will be back. That thought is enough to cling to, even through the haze of doubt and the sharp ache from Silver’s beating. Holding onto it like a lifeline, Robby lets his eyes drift shut, slipping into a restless, uneasy sleep.