CHAPTER 4: THE LARUSSO TEST
POV: Ivyn Mikaelson
The LaRusso house rises out of Encino Hills like something from a different reality. Not the modest ranch homes of Reseda where I live, but actual wealth—the kind earned through decades of work rather than inherited. Two stories. Manicured lawn. Garage that probably holds three cars. The kind of place that says we made it without having to say anything at all.
Sam walks up the driveway like she belongs here. Because she does. Born into stability I've never known in either life.
"Don't be nervous," she says, glancing back at me. "They're going to love you."
"They're going to interrogate you," I correct internally. "And you need to pass."
Daniel LaRusso stands in the doorway with arms crossed and eyes that have seen through forty years of bullshit. I recognize him immediately—not from the show, but from the way he holds himself. Defensive stance disguised as casual. Weight slightly forward. Assessing every detail before I'm close enough to speak.
This is the test. Everything I've built depends on not failing it.
"Dad, this is Ivyn. Ivyn, my dad."
"Mr. LaRusso." I extend my hand. Firm grip, eye contact, not too aggressive.
His handshake is a examination. Pressure, duration, the way I hold myself. When he releases, something in his expression says I passed round one.
"Call me Daniel." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Interesting name. Where's it from?"
"Made it up, actually. Foster care thing—wanted something that felt mine."
Truth. The original Ivyn Mikaelson did that. I'm just wearing his choices.
Amanda LaRusso appears behind her husband, and the energy shifts immediately. Where Daniel is calculation, she's genuine warmth. She ushers us inside with offers of snacks and drinks, asking about classes and teachers, the kind of questions that don't feel like interrogation.
But Daniel follows us into the kitchen, and his questions are laser-focused.
"Where are you from originally?"
"New Jersey. Moved to California when I was nine."
"Parents?"
"Dead. Car accident."
I deliver it matter-of-fact, the way someone who's told this story a hundred times would. Because the original Ivyn did tell it a hundred times, and his memories echo through me like ghosts.
"I'm sorry," Amanda says, and means it.
Daniel just nods. "College plans?"
"Community college first, then transfer. Cheaper that way."
"Smart." He leans against the counter. "What makes you interested in my daughter?"
Sam makes a sound somewhere between embarrassment and protest. "Dad—"
"It's okay." I meet Daniel's eyes. "She treats ideas like they matter. That's rare. Most people just perform intelligence. Sam actually cares about understanding things."
Something flickers in Daniel's expression. Not quite approval, but the hostility dials back a fraction.
"Alright, Dad, we're going to study now." Sam grabs her backpack and starts toward the stairs.
"Door stays open," Daniel calls after us.
"I know!"
Amanda touches her husband's arm as we leave. I hear her whisper: "He's a good kid, Daniel. Let them study."
"That's what I'm worried about," he responds, quieter.
Sam's room is exactly what I expected. Books everywhere—philosophy, literature, some poetry I don't recognize. Posters for bands I've heard of and some I haven't. Desk with organized notes. Everything neat but lived-in, the room of someone who actually uses their space.
"Sorry about the interrogation," she says, dropping her backpack on the bed. "He does this to everyone."
"It's fine. He's protective. That's not a bad thing."
We spread out textbooks and actually study. Calculus. Integration problems that make my brain hurt even with adult knowledge. Sam works through them methodically, showing her work in neat columns, occasionally asking me to check her answers.
Twenty minutes in, Amanda knocks and brings us lemonade and cookies. "Daniel wanted to show you something," she says to me. "Give you the tour."
"This is it," I think. "The real test."
I follow Daniel through the house. He points out features—hardwood floors, remodeled kitchen, family photos on walls. But it's all preamble to where we're actually going.
The living room. And the trophy case.
It sits against the wall like a shrine. 1984 All Valley Karate Tournament Championship. First place. Daniel LaRusso. The trophy gleams under display lighting, and I can't look away.
Because I know what it cost. The tournament. The training. Miyagi-sensei who's dead now. Kreese trying to kill Daniel in the parking lot afterward. The moment that defined everything—the kick that changed Daniel's life and set Johnny Lawrence on a path to decades of failure.
And all the consequences that rippled forward from that one moment. This whole story, crystallized in metal and marble.
"That kick changed everything," I whisper.
I didn't mean to say it aloud.
Daniel's voice behind me is sharp. "What did you say?"
I turn, scrambling for recovery. "The All Valley championship. Sam mentioned you won. That must have changed your life—validation, respect, proving yourself to everyone who doubted you."
He studies me for too long. I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes, trying to figure out how much I know and how I know it.
"It did change everything," he says finally. "But not always in ways I expected. Winning solved some problems. Created others. Opened doors. Closed different ones. You understand that?"
"No," I want to say. "I understand more than you can imagine. I know about Kreese coming back. About Cobra Kai reopening. About your daughter dating a Cobra Kai student and the war that follows. I know everything and it's destroying me."
Instead: "I think every major choice is like that. Solutions that create new problems. That's just life."
Daniel nods slowly. "Old head on young shoulders. Where'd you learn to think like that?"
"Foster care. Group homes. You grow up fast when you have to."
It's the truth. Just not my truth.
He reaches out and touches the glass case. "Mr. Miyagi—my sensei, he passed a few years ago—he used to say that karate is for defense only. That the best fight is one you don't have. I didn't always understand what he meant." His eyes find mine. "Do you know anything about martial arts?"
"Everything," I think. "I know exactly what's coming and why I need to learn."
"Not really. Why?"
"Because I can see it in how you carry yourself. Awareness. Balance. Like you're ready for something even though you're just standing here."
My heart rate spikes. "He knows. He can tell. I'm moving too carefully, too controlled for someone who hasn't trained."
"Survival instinct," I say. "Growing up in group homes, you learn to stay alert. Different kind of readiness."
He accepts this. Or pretends to. "Sam really is upstairs, right?"
"Studying. Integration problems."
"Good." He starts back toward the stairs. "And Ivyn? Whatever you're running from in your past—and I can tell you're running from something—don't let it catch up to her."
It's not a threat. Not quite. But it's not trust either.
"I won't, sir."
"Daniel."
"I won't, Daniel."
Back in Sam's room, we actually do study for another hour. But halfway through, she closes her textbook and fixes me with that direct gaze.
"Okay, real talk. You're either the most emotionally mature eighteen-year-old I've ever met, or you're hiding something. Which is it?"
The question freezes me. Because she's right. Both are true. I'm twenty-three mentally and eighteen physically. And I'm hiding everything—transmigration, system, foreknowledge, the fact that I know exactly how our relationship develops and where it goes wrong.
"Can't it be both?"
"That's not an answer."
I take a breath. Choose risk over safety.
"I grew up fast because I had to. That leaves scars but also gives perspective. The hiding part isn't about deception—it's about protection. Some pain you don't share until you trust someone completely."
Sam absorbs this. Her empathy is reading my sincerity, even if she doesn't know the full truth.
"I want to know you. The real you. Not the careful version you show everyone else."
"You can't," I want to say. "The real me is a twenty-three-year-old college dropout who died in a crosswalk and woke up in a TV show. You can't know that."
Instead: "Then ask me anything, and I'll answer honestly. But fair warning—honest doesn't always mean comfortable."
She does. For the next two hours, Sam asks questions and I answer them. About foster care—the original Ivyn's memories providing material. About feeling lonely. About books I love and why. About what I want from life.
And I ask her questions too. About her father's overprotection. About feeling like she's supposed to want what everyone expects. About the weight of being Daniel LaRusso's daughter in a place that remembers his story.
By the time Amanda calls us for dinner, something fundamental has shifted. We're not just classmates anymore. Not just study partners.
We're friends. Real friends. And the guilt of lying to her sits in my chest like lead.
Dinner is surprisingly normal. Anthony ignores me with teenage indifference. Amanda asks about college plans. Daniel watches me with slightly less hostility. Sam keeps catching my eye and smiling.
After, Daniel insists on driving me home despite my protests. The twenty-minute car ride is loaded silence interrupted by sporadic questions. He's still gathering intelligence, still trying to figure me out.
When we pull up to my apartment complex—clearly not Encino, clearly struggling—Daniel's expression doesn't change. No judgment. No pity. Just observation.
"You're not what I expected," he says. "Sam's had friends who wanted to date her for status. For rebellion against me. For a dozen shallow reasons. You actually see her."
"She deserves to be seen."
"Yeah." He nods slowly. "She does. Call me Daniel. And Ivyn? Whatever you're running from—don't let it catch up to her. She's been through enough."
"I'll do my best."
"Your best better be good enough."
I watch the expensive car disappear into the night and feel the weight of promises I'm not sure I can keep.
[RELATIONSHIP MILESTONE: SAM LARUSSO]
[Status: Close Friend (Romantic Interest Potential)]
[REPUTATION (LARUSSO FAMILY):]
[Daniel LaRusso: -10 → 0 (Neutral/Watchful)]
[Amanda LaRusso: +15 (Likes You)]
[NEW QUEST: EARN DANIEL LARUSSO'S TRUST]
[Progress: 0/100]
[Difficulty: EXTREME]
[Note: He suspects you're hiding something. Tread carefully.]
I laugh. It comes out exhausted and slightly hysterical.
"Extreme. Of course it's extreme. Nothing about this is easy."
My apartment feels smaller after the LaRusso house. Colder. More isolated. But it's mine, and I've worked for every small improvement.
I complete my Daily Quest with mechanical efficiency. Fifty pushups. Fifty squats. Two-mile run. Stretching until muscles scream. The System logs everything.
[DAILY QUEST COMPLETE]
[STRENGTH (UPPER): 14 → 15]
[ENDURANCE (CARDIO): 18 → 19]
[EMPATHY: 56 → 64 (+8 from vulnerable sharing)]
[CHARISMA: 48 → 51 (+3 from navigating parental scrutiny)]
Progress. Always progress. But tonight it feels hollow.
Because I lied to Sam. Not with words, but with omissions. And I'll keep lying because the truth would destroy everything.
I fall asleep thinking about trophy cases and the weight they carry. About Daniel's warning and whether I can actually protect Sam from the danger I represent. About the fact that in two months, I'll start training at Cobra Kai, and all these careful foundations might crumble.
The System has no wisdom to offer. Just numbers and quests and the cold logic of progression.
Sometimes that's all there is.
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