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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.
