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They make Johnny stay overnight for "observation."
He'd just as soon sleep it off at home—he can't count the number of times he has before, in that long gray stretch of years that's all blurred together now, like the shit he had to clear out of peoples' drains—but Carmen insists, and even he can admit the ringing in his ears right now isn't quite…normal.
In spite of the collective weight of getting the shit kicked out of him by five ringers on his shoulders, arms, neck—the cheek swollen like a grapefruit—Johnny can't sleep.
It was over. It should have been over. No, it was. Silver's been arrested, if that's not an end…head of the snake, like Chozen says…
It's not the head he's worried about.
Silver being in jail doesn't give him that same sense of security, of finality, that he had three months ago when Robby had shown him that news story on his phone while they were driving to Mexico, the mugshot picture, proof he'd been booked, no bail. That had helped him sleep easy.
Now his eyes feel like they're glued open.
He needs a knock-out—the kind a hot nurse puts in a drip and pumps straight into your veins. Johnny fumbles for the button on the side of the bed. It beeps and lights up like the ones on planes do when you call the stewardess. Thirty seconds later the phone rings—once, twice, before he manages to lift the right arm that feels like a lead weight is wrapped around it and knocks it off the receiver and onto his bed.
He has to pick it up with his left hand because the fingers on his right are still too swollen—it's clumsy, and he winces in pain at the sensation of plastic against the side of his face that still feels like raw steak.
"Hello?" Silence, but he can hear the sound of dead air, so the line's connected. "Look, I just called because I need something to help me sleep—"
"Epson salt bath and a hot cup of Ovaltine. My mother swore by it."
He can feel his heartbeat slow down and then speed up, the adrenaline flooding back—with more force than it had hours earlier, when Silver's goons had stepped out from the doors of his lair and he'd realized the full magnitude of his own stupidity.
"I'd ask how you're feeling, but given the circumstances—"
"—Where the fuck are you?"
He bolts up in bed, shock giving way to an almost instinctual panic. It's all Johnny can do not to run to the window and check outside, in the hall—anywhere. The only thing that keeps him from doing it is the certainty that—if he's watching—it's exactly what he wants Johnny to do.
"Lying low for a bit. Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."
That smug son of a bitch—as if he believed there was an ice cone's chance in hell that Johnny would.
"I heard what happened." No preamble, no pretense that this is anything but a normal fucking conversation. The hesitation, like he doesn't know what to say, like he cares. "Jesus Christ, Johnny. I warned you. Mincemeat."
"It was nothing I couldn't handle." The words seem to stick in his throat, and he has to choke back that age old temptation to defend himself, to prove himself. I took out five of them, no problem. He's not gonna say it, he will not say it. I didn't need your help, I don't need you to protect me. I'm not a kid anymore.
There's a chuckle on the other end of the line that smothers out his chance.
"I know. I'd bet on you any day of the week."
He doesn't know what's the worst thing—that he can hear the old amusement mingled with pride, that he can't even comfort himself that it's a lie, because if there's one thing he's always known, it's when he's actually impressed the man on the other end of this call—or that he said the same thing to Robby.
"I don't give a shit. You, Silver, his goons—you want to kill me—just try. I'll be ready."
He can feel the shift over the phone—the intake of sharp breath.
"Is that what Terry tried to do, Johnny?"
The voice is so soft, so gentle, so—dangerous. 'No more games' voice. Stop toying with your opponent—finish him. He'd rarely been on the receiving end as a kid, because he'd learned better real quick.
You did what the man using that voice told you.
"Like you even—"
"—What—" Now it's forceful. "Did Silver do?"
A white, hot, blinding rage—the reaction is immediate, in his guts and heart, and only he can provoke it. It's like he cleaved onto Johnny's chest and no matter how far away he is, Kreese is still there, not a scar—phantom dead weight.
"Nothing you wouldn't."
Another ominous silence.
"I'm sorry about that, Johnny. I'll take care of it."
"What the hell does that mean?"
He can practically hear the slick turn of the wheel that powers his old teacher's mind, debating how much he should say. What he can gain by saying it, since that's all that honesty is worth to the old bastard.
"Only that Terry's going to pay," he settles on, finally. "And I'm going to make him. Why should you have a problem with that?"
"I don't need you to fight my battles."
"Sure, you don't."
That night comes flooding back, Coors after Coors, all in a desperate attempt to block out the memory of the only thing standing between him and Silver sending him through a cement block in the old dojo being those three little words.
Leave him alone.
He presses the plastic into his ear harder, bites back the hiss of pain.
"If getting at Silver's what you want, maybe you should have stayed where you were."
"Oh, Terry's not going to be inside for long. He's got the best money can buy. Fancy Malibu attorney—that's how guys like him get out of cages."
Larusso's note pops into his head, and what had seemed like the best payback now seemed as smart as sticking your hand in a snake cage.
He has an irrational urge to warn Silver.
"This is…more my style."
"What the hell do you want?"
Kreese huffs a big sigh, and for a moment Johnny thinks this is going to be one of those speeches he acts like he hasn't prepared in advance. But when he speaks, he doesn't even pretend he hasn't been rehearsing this moment.
"To thank you. What you said to me, when I saw you last—and that stunt you pulled with Larusso." His voice darkens on the last word. "You reminded me of what's important. What matters most."
The small part of him that still wants to believe he knows the answer stirs up, and Johnny can't resist taking the bait.
"And what's that?"
"My students. I was ready to give up, Johnny. Throw in the towel. You gave me the strength to do what had to be done. You always have. I realized what's at stake is—too important. For me…and for you."
"I already told you I don't want anything from you."
"This is not about what you want." Of course. It never is. "Or what I want. I've told you before—you will always be my student. And as long as there are lessons you still need to learn, I'm gonna teach them to you."
"What the hell are you planning?"
"I got a few irons in the fire. A few enemies to take care of. Then I'm going to take back what's mine."
"There's—there's no way—"
Johnny knows he's saying it to convince himself more than Kreese, and he's not doing a good job there. He's a fugitive on the run—that mask that he was always able to wear, to fool the world, to fool the students who blindly followed him—Johnny first among them—is well and truly off. He can't take back the dojo…there's no dojo left to take, no students still loyal to it, to him…
And yet….
"Did you think I was going to let you erase Cobra Kai? Erase me?" A pause. "I thought you knew me better than that, Johnny."
Then he realizes. He knows.
It was him. It was his fault. He had rattled the cage so hard that he'd popped the door open without realizing it, and out the snake had slithered.
The king cobra. Cobra Kai. They were one and the same.
"You don't—" He sits up in the bed, shoulders hunched. "Whatever you—just don't."
He always swore that this man was the one person he'd never beg—even Sid he had been willing to ask for money when Miguel was up against the wall, because there was a chance, however slim, of Sid giving him what he asked for.
There were two things from Kreese that he'd always wanted—and the only one he wants now is the one thing this man is categorically incapable of giving.
"You don't have to do this."
Please don't do this. It's what he wants to say, but for all Silver thinks he's got an empty head, he's not that stupid.
"I don't have a choice."
The ringing truth of it—for all this man has lied to him, Johnny has no doubt in his mind that right now, here, he really believes what he's saying.
"Do you remember what I told you, after '81? When you lost to Vidal." Kreese slips back into sensei mode like a snake coiled around a rock. "You couldn't stop beating yourself up about it—even then I knew you were a fighter, that you'd win in the end. I told you that the key to defeating an enemy isn't just knowing your strength or his weakness. You have to know your own limitations, Johnny. What's holding you back. Do you know?"
"You stay the hell away from my family, you hear me?" He spits out the word—there's still blood in this mouth. "You stay away, or I swear to God, I'll kill you."
"You say that, Johnny—but do you really mean it?"
The breath leaves his lungs, he can't breathe.
He's choking.
"I never wanted it to be like this. But you always did have to learn the hard way. You and I—we have to go back to fundamentals." It's a scold and compliment wrapped up in one. This is one long nostalgic trip down memory fucking lane for him. "Tell me—what does the enemy deserve, Mr. Lawrence?"
He could hang up. He could rip the cord right out of the wall.
"No mercy."
His voice is hoarse, it comes out like a strangled whisper, a last gasp, a promise to be kept—that will be kept. By one of them. He's starting to think that Kreese wants it to be him.
"Do you know who your enemy is?"
The lump in his throat grows.
"…Yes."
"Good. Then you know what you have to do."
Oh, yeah. With his own hands, that's what he wants him to say—to do.
That's the only way he thinks this can end.
There's another long sigh, and the voice on the other end no longer belongs to the demon, the teacher, or the criminal…just a tired old man.
"Rest up, kid—you'll need your strength for what's to come. Make sure you ice that bruise on your ear." Another hesitation. "I'll be seeing you. Soon."
The line goes dead.
At some point, Johnny's not sure exactly when, a nurse does come in with a sedative, but by then, he no longer wants it.
Deep sleep is a limitation he can't afford.