#goldonbrainoff

Wells was walking west along King Street on a warm spring night in Toronto, when the theatre lights caught his eye.

Toronto was busy around him, cars rolling past, streetcars humming on the tracks, people drifting between restaurants, bars, and show doors. Wells moved through it all in easy Gold confidence, broad-shouldered and relaxed, dressed in a shiny metallic gold long-sleeve top with a bold black “58” across the chest, fitted blue jeans, and a backward metallic gold cap. A dark chain sat at his neck, and the whole look gave him that effortless mix of jock swagger and polished Gold attitude.

Then he saw the sign outside the Princess of Wales Theatre.

The Karate Kid: The Musical.

Wells stopped.

He tilted his head, reading it again, then gave a low laugh to himself.

“Bro, Broadway really found the Gen X vault and just started emptying it.”

He folded his arms, smirking up at the display.

First Beetlejuice. Then Back to the Future. The Lost Boys. Now The Karate Kid. All those movies people grew up wearing out on VHS, now polished up, lit up, and sold back with choreography.

Not that Wells could judge.

He liked a good spectacle.

He liked discipline dressed up in style.

He liked watching something old get rebuilt into something louder, shinier, stronger.

Still, the thought amused him. Somewhere out there, a whole crowd was probably getting misty-eyed over headbands, crane kicks, and a kid learning discipline from a quiet old master.

Wells shook his head.

“Guess nostalgia still hits hard.”

He started walking again, but the poster stayed with him.

Karate.

Training.

Repetition.

A mentor correcting every movement until the body stopped arguing and simply obeyed.

That part, Wells understood.

Coach Stone didn’t teach karate, but he knew all about stance. Balance. Control. Pressure. He knew how to make Wells slow down when Wells wanted to rush. How to fix his hips, correct his shoulders, adjust his hands, and make him repeat the same motion until it stopped feeling like effort and started feeling like programming.

Wells could almost hear him now.

Lower.

Again.

Hold it.

Again.

Don’t rush the release.

Again.

Wells grinned as he passed the theatre doors.

Maybe the old movie had a point after all. Maybe every real lesson started the same way: simple motion, repeated until it rewrote you.

Wax on.

Wax off.

Gold in.

Doubt out.

Wells looked back at the poster and laughed under his breath.

“Guess some lessons never go out of style. Wax on. Wax off. Repeat until Coach says it’s right.”

Then his grin widened.

“And knowing Coach Stone, he’ll make sure I polish my technique all night.”