The humidity was climbing again. Climbing like the bulging dark clouds that hung low over the city. Everything was hot and sticky with building anticipation. Hwoarang hoped the storm would break soon. He sat on a step in a doorway and counted through a wad of banknotes. He needed to make another ₩5000 if he wanted to make the price of his metro ticket here and back as well as enough to buy food for this evening and tomorrow morning. The humid heat always put people off a fight.
He sighed. It was a more wealthy area of town, with a couple of upmarket clubs and bars a block away. If he stayed late, he could get the drunk crowd. There was always some slightly wasted kid with spare cash looking to prove himself to his mates.
"Yo, Hwoarang."
Hwoarang looked up. A guy not much older than him, with hair dyed blue and quiffed up, and a pair of sunglasses that were all bluster and some cheap knock-off label, broke away from a small group and sauntered over. Ji-hoon was one of the people Hwoarang got on with better. Not that he had trouble getting on with people, just that, they were all here to make cash and pick fights, and there was only so much you could bond with a group who worked together out of necessity and all grated on each other's personalities and bravado.
"Me 'n' the boys are thinkin' of packin' in for the night. This heat's killer and there's gonna be a hell of a storm. You comin'?" Ji-hoon leaned one arm on the wall as he said as much.
"Nah," Hwoarang looked up at him. "Gotta stick it out a few more hours, I'm still short."
Ji-hoon pondered this. "You need a couple of guys with you?" It could be risky working alone, and it was easier to stack the odds of a fight when there were others to play down your strength.
"I got this, you head on. Thanks though." Hwoarang gave him an easy smile. Folks would resent him and be grouchy if they had to fight in the humidity anyway. And he'd owe Ji-hoon a favour. Hwoarang didn't like owing people favours. Ji-hoon nodded. Hwoarang watched as the other boys swung sports bags over their shoulders and chattered loudly as they meandered off, walking five abreast down the street.
The evening set in properly with the glow of city lights and a thick black sky overhead. The volume of everything pressed close with the air, and the riotous laughing of clubs spilling their clients into the streets mingled with the call of late night street-vendors looking to sell sizzling chicken skewers or newly grilled bean-stuffed pastries. Hwoarang drunk in that city smell and leaned back against the wall. He propped his feet up against the other side of the doorway and put his arms behind his head. When the city was near like this, he somehow both loved and hated it. He felt strange things, like a nostalgia for the present, and a bitterness at his circumstances, and at peace with the freedom of his unglamorous lifestyle.
Hwoarang put a set of headphones on and pulled out his MP3 player. He flicked forward until he found a punk track that could kill off the intricacies of the city's stories. He kept one eye cracked open on the street and settled into his drowsy loitering more comfortably. While the shout of the hardcore and the crash of guitars assaulted his tinny headphone speakers, he drifted in and out of a lazy haze. The evening would be a slower pace for a while – the next hour or two would be dead until people started drinking in earnest and hopping clubs. He sunk further until his spine shaped to the doorway and his heels rested half way up the wall and his toes tapped to the music.
Through one half-lidded eye, he saw something strange. Coming down one street was an odd group: soldiers or guards of some kind. He opened his other eye. They had full face helmets that were lit up with red lights. They walked in formation and their boots clacked in time.
Hwoarang fell off the doorstep in his rush to untangle his legs and sit upright. His headphones slipped and hung about his neck, still shouting their brash anger to the air in more distant tones. He peered into the gloom. Beyond the glowing visors of the guards were two figures, walking in the middle of the group. Figures who smelt of cash with this many bodyguards. And trouble, a small voice said in his head. The voice sounded a lot like his master. Well, he wasn't here now, and if Hwoarang could score big off these rich guys, he wouldn't have to sit steaming away in this back alley all evening. He stuffed his headphones into his bag and jumped to his feet.
The entourage was turning down his street. The closer they got, the less certain Hwoarang became. Those guards looked private military. They were wearing full body armour and… were those-… were they carrying guns? Hwoarang froze. He definitely shouldn't approach this group. They were far more trouble than they were worth. His heart beat fast. He could make out the two people in the centre now. One was a powerful looking older man, with enormous shoulders and a physique like a bear. His hair was outrageously styled into two wings of grey hair and he wore a tiger-skin coat with black leather lapels, and a spotless sheer black suit beneath. Hwoarang felt cold and small just looking at him. He had a sudden urge to avert his eyes and avoid any confrontation with the man. In a concession to his pride, he instead allowed his gaze to slide to the young man beside him. He had to be around Hwoarang's age, and seemed to have almost as terrible fashion sense as the old man. He wore some canary yellow and jet black jacket over a shirt, and dark trousers with bright red stripes up the side. Gaudy, out of town, rich businessmen, was Hwoarang's guess. Very rich if they were walking around with a retinue like this in central Busan.
As the squad passed Hwoarang, the young man glanced his way. Their eyes met. Hwoarang's heart skipped a beat. The defiance and antagonism in that look lit his blood on fire. There was something explosive behind those eyes – a quiet strength and self-possessed arrogance, but also a daring that quickened Hwoarang's pulse. Hwoarang had to fight that guy. He had to.
"Hey!" Hwoarang called. The guy threw him one more backward glance, then directed his attention forward. He kept walking. "Yo! Hey! What, you ignorin' me?"
The older man in the tiger coat stopped. All the soldiers came to a halt. Hwoarang swallowed.
The old man turned on the spot. Written into his gaze was such condescension, such insignificance and contempt, that Hwoarang felt like he was being disembowelled. He was used to those throwaway looks that the upper classes threw him, but the look of this guy… There was something in his posture, just in the way he held himself and looked down at him… Hwoarang had never felt so worthless before. It was all he could do to keep his head held high and not curl up in dejection. The young guy next to him stood with his arms folded, stubbornly surveying Hwoarang through the fall of his fringe. Looking at him restored the thrill to Hwoarang's blood and he shelved those feelings of inferiority as best he could.
"I bet you couldn't take me in a fight!" Hwoarang called.
The old man's head tilted, but Hwoarang kept his gaze firmly on the young man next to him. He merely blew his hair out of his eyes and shook his head in bemusement. He turned his back on Hwoarang. Hwoarang's temper simmered like pot on high heat. He was about to shout again, but the old man spoke first.
"What, you're going to turn your back on a challenge?" he said in Japanese. Hwoarang followed his words, though with a little difficulty.
"Huh? What?" the young man said. He was startled out of his stubborn posture and unfolded his arms. He immediately sounded contrite and uncertain. "Grandfather, I don't understand Korean, I-"
"The language of fighting and disrespect is universal! Now, stand up straight and act like a Mishima!"
The look that guy gave his grandfather was familiar to Hwoarang from the dojang. He even felt a faint pang of pity for him. But then the young man turned and scowled at him and Hwoarang made sure to give his best petulant stare back.
"Run off home," the guy said. "You don't know who you're dealing with."
Hwoarang did in fact have an inkling who he was dealing with by now. You had to be born under a rock not to know the name Mishima. It was written on nearly every shipping container that came through the Port of Busan. But if there was one thing larger than the Mishima family's financial empire, it was the size of Hwoarang's pride and the depths of his audacity (sometimes called 'stupidity' by his less forgiving dojang master).
"So why not tell me?" Hwoarang gave a cocky smirk put a hand on his hip. The young man blinked in surprise when Hwoarang addressed him in Japanese. "I guess you're just some rich kid who wouldn't know the first thing about throwing a punch. Ten thousand won says I can lie you out flat on your back within five minutes." Ten thousand was more than he needed, but these people looked like they could afford it.
"Five hundred thousand won says Jin will beat you within two minutes."
Hwoarang's heart jumped into his throat. He couldn't help but glance warily at that old man. There was that look again – incisive, winter cold, so aloof and derogatory that Hwoarang's ears went red and his temper flared. The old man let out a guffawing laugh and slapped his knees. The young man, Jin, glanced at his grandfather.
"Grandfather, don't we have to be at your appointment? You said there was a reservation that-"
"You don't want to fight him, Jin?" The old man's amusement vanished. His eyes snapped to his grandson. The hair on the back of Hwoarang's neck stood up on end.
"Of course I do. Only, I didn't think you'd approve, since you told me earlier that-"
"There's nothing more important than answering a challenge with one's fists!" the old man declared, and Hwoarang was beginning to think the guy was a little crazy. "Everything else can wait!"
Jin bowed to his grandfather and then bowed to Hwoarang. The soldiers moved out of the way so that Hwoarang could approach. Hwoarang was dismayed to find that they closed ranks behind him in a circle. The night air was thick with heat now and sweat rolled down the back of his neck.
Jin shrugged out of his jacket, and then pulled off his shirt too. That was the moment Hwoarang began to suspect this might not be as easy a fight as he'd hoped. The guy was a wall of trained muscle, and the way he easily slid into stance, like he'd been training every day of his life… Hwoarang stared at him.
"So you're Mishima Jin, huh?" Hwoarang said, still looking him over. He raised his guard and stepped to the left. Jin mirrored his movements.
"No. I'm Kazama Jin." And a punch powered itself towards Hwoarang.
Hwoarang snapped his head out of the way and danced back. He couldn't stop a grin from spreading on his face. This is the way it's meant to be. The unbidden thought popped into his head. He didn't have time to analyse it, because everything was in the moment, so he lived it instead.
He let a little distance open up between him and Jin, then lightly kicked with his front leg. When Jin came to block it, Hwoarang spun and brought his back leg swinging through, aiming for Jin's head. Jin pulled his guard high quickly and took the kick on his forearms. He scowled at Hwoarang with his black eyes. Hwoarang gave him a cheeky smirk as he bounced back. It fired Jin into moving.
Jin closed the distance between them with a compact guard, batting away the kicks Hwoarang used to try and keep him distant. Jin got a solid round punch into Hwoarang's ribs whilst he was covering his head. When Hwoarang went to cover low, Jin's second punch went straight to his face. Hwoarang reeled and fell back against the soldiers bordering their ring. He was shoved roughly back into the circle and staggered to keep his balance.
Jin gave him a moment to find his feet. His grandfather growled disapproval from the sidelines, but it didn't seem to phase Jin. Hwoarang's pride was stung though.
"One hit," Hwoarang said, and spat a spot of blood onto the street. "Don't get on your high horse just yet, Mishima-sama."
Jin snarled and seemed to forget his honourable intentions. Hwoarang was ready for him. Jin's footwork was easy to read, like a half a dozen karate styles Hwoarang had fought against. Jin came in for another cross punch and this time Hwoarang sidestepped and caught him clean in the chin with his second-hand trainers. He was drunk on his success and slow returning his foot to the ground though and Jin grabbed his leg. Hwoarang's eyes went wide. He hopped to keep his balance but Jin stepped in, and swept his other leg out. Hwoarang went down onto the floor and hit the street flat on his back. His spine protested, but he dared not pause – a fist was descending towards his face. He rolled out the way and kicked out to keep Jin away. He flipped himself back onto his feet.
Sweat was pouring down the back of his neck now and soaking his tank top. The evening was thick with unspent thunderstorms. Jin seemed to be having trouble with it too, and he pushed his sodden fringe out of his eyes.
Hwoarang circled Jin more warily. His muscles ached and he could feel bruises starting. He should have been faster. His master would not have been impressed to see that kick caught.
Jin was trying to come in close again – he liked that punching distance. Hwoarang didn't intend to give it to him. He chambered his leg and shot a kick out at Jin's head. Jin blocked. But Hwoarang snapped out another and another, battering away at his guard and drawing his leg back each time to avoid a grab. Hwoarang stepped his foot down, shifted his weight to it and brought his back leg through with a powerful front kick straight to Jin's stomach. He heard the breath expel heavily from Jin. Hwoarang pushed his advantage. He struck out with two straight punches to Jin's head that forced him to keep guarding high. Then he raised his knee and kicked upward with his leg, coming through Jin's guard to slam under his chin. Jin's feet left the floor. Hwoarang wasn't done though. He thought of that smarmy rich old man watching and caught Jin with a round house kick as he fell. He followed through by grabbing Jin's arm as he hit the ground, and punching down to finish the fight. Something shifted in Jin's movements. He became like liquid, wrist slipping easily out of Hwoarang's grasp, snaking round to grab Hwoarang's own wrist, and suddenly all Hwoarang's forward momentum was being used against him. He went head over heels as Jin pulled him over onto the floor. Hwoarang crashed to the ground again and winced at the rotation his wrist had gone through.
Hwoarang sat up. He glared at Jin. Jin glared back. They sat on the floor, panting heavily.
"What was that? Some aikido trick?" Hwoarang wiped his hand across his mouth. Jin gave him a small smile. It was startlingly honest compared to his previous expressions. Hwoarang felt his chest clench. Who knew a few kicks could make a guy almost likeable.
"What are you doing on the ground, Jin?! Get up!" Jin's grandfather had pushed into the circle and was standing with arms folded, looking down at them. The softer smile on Jin's face vanished and he got quickly to his feet. He bowed low to his grandfather. Hwoarang felt a twinge of sympathy for him. He stood up more slowly. "Now, show this street trash how a Mishima fights!" the old man boomed.
Hwoarang faintly wondered if this old Mishima would make them fight until they passed out, but then he banished the thought: he wasn't going to be the first one to give in. He'd make that sorry old fool eat his own words. And anyway, that more arrogant expression was back on Jin's face. At the end of the day, these were just rich guys who learned martial arts out of some sense of pride. They didn't hone their skills every day on the street where it mattered. This fight meant eating tomorrow to Hwoarang, nothing else. Okay, maybe it was also a matter of pride for him, but only because he'd never lost before, and because both this guy and his grandfather were annoying as hell.
"Ready?" Jin murmured to him. Hwoarang snapped him a dark look. Jin didn't seem to be being all superior about it though. He was swaying slightly on his feet. His hair was plastered to his head and sweat glistened on his chest.
"Y-… yeah," Hwoarang said, moving his eyes back to Jin's face.
Thunder boomed in the distance and rolled over the city. It resonated in the very ground beneath their feet. The air was tight and heavy. Hwoarang could almost feel it resting on his shoulders. He balled his slippery hands into fists and raised his guard once more. He ignored the sweat seeping down from his brow, stinging his eyes, and dripping off his chin. He blinked. He was in the zone now, attuned even to Jin's breaths. When Jin stepped forward, Hwoarang took a half step back. Hwoarang's gaze followed every hint of his movement: trained to the way Jin's shoulders shifted before he punched, trained on the rise and fall of his chest, to the slight slide of his shoes on the street as he moved his weight, even to the frown that appeared in his brow as he sought for an opening. Jin threw out a jab, then swept with his front leg. Hwoarang kept his weight on his back leg, so the sweep only knocked his shin harmlessly and he easily stepped out of danger.
In the dark heat, their breaths found a pattern and rhythm. Jin's body was more a shape in a shared dance than a distinct entity. Hwoarang threw a punch, but Jin caught it in a crossguard and pulled him in close. Their foreheads crashed together making them both hiss between their teeth. Hwoarang glared at Jin, their noses centimetres apart as he wrestled his grasp. Jin's breath was hot on his face, and his black eyes were piercing in their intensity. For a moment they captivated Hwoarang with their stormy quietude. He was lost somewhere in there, in those dark depths. He could hear Jin's breath, Jin's heart, louder than his own. He could smell him, taste him, everything he breathed was Jin as he fought for control. They scrabbled for grip, fingers sliding off each other's shoulders. Hwoarang tried to shove his weight into Jin and off balance him. Jin's foot slid an inch back on the tarmac, but his fingers gripped harder into Hwoarang's biceps. The world was as close and pressurised as the air around them. Everything was a clatter of spent breath, shared sweat, smeared blood, and hot skin. Hwoarang got one arm free and clipped Jin in the ear with a round punch. Jin reeled from the stinging blow. Hwoarang leapt back.
Exhaustion was hounding through Hwoarang's limbs now, but nothing mattered but the fight.
When Hwoarang came in again, he sprung off his back leg with a head kick. Jin's forearm blocked him and the bruising impact shook through both of them. Hwoarang continued rotating through his kick and brought his next leg in – a back kick that caught Jin in the chest. Then the next kick – Hwoarang was spinning in circles of momentum now – front kick, back kick, front – Jin caught another in his chin. The wild look Jin gave him as he spat blood, set Hwoarang's heart racing faster. Jin's stance changed, anticipating his next kick. Hwoarang read the change and dropped low, suddenly punching Jin in the face. Jin staggered.
"Jin!" Heihachi snapped. It didn't sound like a call of concern. Thunder boomed again and large spots of rain splattered onto the road. Fork lightning cracked open the cityscape beyond the armoured shoulders of the Mishima guards. The red lights of their visors shone as bright flaring lines in the rain. Jin shook his head. A stream of blood slid down his chin. He blinked repeatedly and Hwoarang watched transfixed as he wiped blood off his lip with a thumb.
In the return punch that Jin launched at him, Hwoarang's vision became confused. The fork lightening up above seemed to flash before his eyes, and he could have sworn it came with Jin's arm. That fist powered into him and the uppercut connected with a slam that rocked Hwoarang's world black. Pain splintered through his jaw and he tasted blood and the scorched flavour of electricity. The air seemed to be crackling.
He booted Jin away with a front kick whilst his vision was still swimming fuzzy between channels. Jin kept coming back. Hwoarang kicked him again, but Jin's stances got heavier and more solid. He walked through those more tired kicks, taking them on his thighs and sides whilst his guard shielded his head. Then he brought a fist down in a low block and tried to grab Hwoarang's leg. Hwoarang clouted him in the temple with a back fist for his efforts. They were close now and the exchange of knuckle and blood and hot breath were catching up to them. Their traded blows were coming slower and Hwoarang's chest was heaving as he tried to drag air into his rattled lungs. The heat was making his head spin and his trainers were sliding on the slick tarmac. The red light of the guards' helmets was glaring in his eyes and the sliding lights and rain made Jin's skin glow, casting him ethereal in the concussed confusion.
Another boom of thunder tolled overhead. Hwoarang bent over and put his palms on his knees. He wasn't giving up, he just needed – he just needed a second to catch his breath. Every breath was splintering in his chest like someone had driven a stake through there. He glanced up through the sweat and rain collecting on his eyebrows. Jin was swaying and wiping his forehead, apparently glad enough for the respite that he wasn't even shooting some snarky smirk. Like this, with their guards down and punches spent, there was a kind of unexplainable affinity that only comes from shared, shattered exertion and mutual violence. They watched each other, catching up their breaths and dyeing the puddles that grew on the street red. An exchange of grudging respect had passed between them. Hwoarang knew he wasn't the only one who'd felt that fight like fire in his veins. The ignition that came when they clashed had altered the horizon of Hwoarang's small world. After this, nothing else would be enough. Nothing else would be enough after Kazama Jin.
"Pathetic." Jin's grandfather said. Hwoarang saw Jin look up. He was looking past him with hurt in his eyes. "Come," Mr Mishima said. "This rain is abominable. How can I take you to the restaurant looking like this?" Jin's eyes lowered. He reached for his shirt and jacket, almost overbalancing as he did. He staggered back upright and tottered towards his grandfather.
"Hey, wait! I'm not done" Hwoarang panted. "I'm not finished!" He kind of was finished though. His legs were shaking and he'd murder for a bottle of water. He caught Jin's bicep as he passed, but his grip was weak and Jin's arm was wet with sweat and rain. He slipped away and the guards reformed into two lines around him and Mr Mishima. Jin was limping a little as he tried to keep up with his grandfather.
"Hey!" Hwoarang yelled. He refound his breath and pushed a lank, bloodied clot of hair out of his face. "Hey! Kazama! What about my money?! Rich bastards! Where's my cash?! You said five hundred thousand won!"
Jin paused. He turned and looked at Hwoarang with his charcoal hair all askew and blood on his lip and his eyes bright. He gave a jaunty smile and said:
"You didn't beat me."
Then he shuffled off after his retinue.
Hwoarang's curses were lost to the thunderstorm overheard. It cracked and boomed and let out a downpour of rain so torrential than the streets instantly became a hissing grey haze of silvery veils. Hwoarang sunk to the floor. He bent over his knees. His thin tank top was saturated all the way through and clung to him. He was a mess of blood and dark bruises. He heaved a heavy sigh. Then he flopped back onto the road. He put his tongue out to catch snatches of water. The rain pushed his hair out of his face and ran in rivulets down his cheeks. He savoured the pound of the droplets on his skin. They made him think of Kazama Jin's punches. He'd settle that match some day or die trying. It had felt good. It had made him feel alive.
The storm cracked the sky overhead, igniting buildings in a flash of light and booming thunder a second later. Hwoarang smiled as he lay in the road and the rained poured down.