Hatred is a type of devotion. Love is similar to hatred in that same respect. One is a drive to make someone blissfully happy, while the other is a drive to make the other person miserable. To have the capacity to love, or to hate, is what makes a person human.

This is what I would like to believe. I would like to believe that I, too, am only human. But if I feel hate without love, am I human anymore? Every single day I can feel the darkness growing in my soul, whispering sweet words of promise into my brain. Promises of power, and a reminder of who I truly am. Awakened, it seeks nothing but my soul. This 'it', this devil, it will never leave. I am a shell for it to command. All I have left is fleeting willpower and some vague semblance of humanity to keep it at bay. Two years I had run from the devil. Two years it reminded me how it had saved my life. Twenty-one years it has been waiting in my body.

Am I a disease? Some malignant virus only bent on destruction? Or simply an unfortunate soul plagued by two generations of festering evil?

It feels the desire within me to destroy. I can hear it laughing. Sometimes, I laugh with it.

Soon, I leave Australia to face what I fear most: myself. Will I be able to destroy my cursed Mishima bloodline, or will I cower under the blanket of morality like a child afraid of the dark?

I'm looking into the darkness, and I am not afraid. I can see through the darkness, while my father and grandfather are smothered by it. They live within their shrouds of evil and hated just like the demons they are.

Why can I see through it? Am I the only being strong enough to rein in the temptation of power? If that is true, so be it. My grandfather is a devil in his mind; he will die. My father is a devil in his soul; he too will die.

It's laughing again.

The boy had talent. He had drive and focus. But if all his efforts to learn traditional karate were for materialistic gain, then he had taught him nothing. The aged sensei watched as Jin Kazama moved around the main room of the dojo, taking in each sight as if he would never see them again. A backpack was slung over one shoulder of the Japanese youth, and a suitcase hung limply from his fingertips. He was leaving to challenge Heihachi Mishima for the title of King of the Iron Fist Tournament. The prize just happened to be the entire Mishima Empire, known throughout the world as a force of unification. It was as tempting as the apple was to Eve.

It saddened him to watch Jin pass his gaze across the floorboards, where his sweat had fallen, or to the broken punching bag hanging from the ceiling, where he bloodied many a knuckle in his tireless efforts to unlearn his old style of martial art in lieu of traditional karate. He had broken that bag in his efforts.

He had never talked about his old school art. In all honesty, Jin never talked much at all. But he was the best student that ever graced the halls of the dojo. The only words that graced his lips in public were shouts that focused his chi and numbers in flawless Japanese as he counted away each punch or focused kick. In private, they had exchanged few words. But each word left no room for misunderstanding.

There was a story behind the young man that he would never learn.

Jin approached the sensei, and they bowed to each other in mutual respect. As they straightened, Jin lowered the hood of his jacket and nodded, long black bangs helping to hide his features, as the shadows seemed to darken around his face.

"Thank you, sensei," Jin bowed deeply.

"Be well, Jin Kazama. You will be missed."

With that, Jin was gone, out the front doors of the dojo without another word. The sensei stood there for a long moment in muted silence. Even the hardened youth couldn't hide the crack of pain that pierced through his shadowed eyes as he left. Was it something he said?

Hwoarang didn't enjoy doing anything that someone else ordered him to, but in the Korean military, he had no choice. True, he loved his country, but there was so much more to life!

He was currently immersed in a brief moment of relaxation, stretched out on a cot with his fingers laced behind his head. Other young men of the base mingled back and forth around the small bunker, reading letters, perusing dirty magazines, laughing and chattering to each other in Korean. Hwoarang never got any letters from anyone. His old street gang had been less than thrilled to hear that their Blood Talon was leaving to become some military brat, and leadership had fallen to the second-in-command without a word. Like wolves, their loyalties were to the strong.

He rolled over on his cot and stared at the wall next to him. There was nothing to this life besides surviving one mission after another. His superiors respected him for the way he handled the missions thrown at him, and his talent at Tae Kwon Do, but he was arrogant and self-important, and that brought Hwoarang his share of time cleaning the barracks' toilets. Even then, nothing seemed to quench the flame-haired Korean's attitude.

Growling to himself, he rolled over on his other side to watch his allies mill about like ants. Could he even call half of them his friends? The majority of them were intimidated by Hwoarang's in-your-face attitude. They probably only got along with him because they were scared of him. That thought both brought him pleasure and pain. He just wasn't accepted like he was with his gang. They accepted him through thick and thin. Even through the fight with Jin Kazama.

Kazama. The mere thought of that goody-two-shoes Japanese boy brought a sneer to Hwoarang's lips. They had fought one day, and it ended up turning out to be a draw. A draw! The Blood Talon doesn't draw; he wins. Well, that day was a day to remember, and it still burned in his memory like the fires of hell. He both respected and hated Jin for matching his abilities. Even two years later, he had yet to forget the humiliation of bleeding on the ground alongside his old rival.

Hwoarang was snapped out of his reverie by exclamations of surprise. Most of the bunker's occupants gathered in the center of the room. Was there a fight? Immediately, he got to his feet and strode over to the commotion. He was easily one of the tallest of the men in the room, and his spiked red hair was a beacon telling others to move out of the way. And move they did, until Hwoarang was near the center of attention. Most of the young men's eyes were on him for some odd reason and all their interested glances sent a shiver down his spine.

"What?" he grunted. Finally, he was where most of the attention was focused. One younger rail of a boy clung to a magazine like it was a lifeline. He peered up at Hwoarang with wide-eyed full of awe and fear. There was all of this excitement, over a stupid magazine? There had better be something interesting he was holding, or else Hwoarang was going to be pissed.

"Let me see that," he simply held out his hand and let the boy place the rolled-up reading material into his awaiting palm. Unrolling it, it wasn't even a dirty magazine. Disappointment was slowly creeping up onto him. Nothing could be this interesting unless it had something to do with women.

His name was being whispered through the crowd. Hwoarang looked up with mild annoyance as he ceased flipping through the pages of the magazine.

"Ok, what the hell, guys? What on earth is in this…"

"Page 42, sir," the wide-eyed new kid spoke up. Hwoarang lifted an eyebrow and skimmed to the aforementioned page. What he saw on that page, he couldn't have prepared himself for. He thought his heart would cease beating in his chest. For a moment, he had to remember how to breathe again.

"Another Iron Fist Tournament…?" Hwoarang whispered, reading the Han'gul on the page as fast as his brain could process. "The entire Mishima Financial Empire to the winner?"

His blood pounded in his ears. He almost didn't feel the grasp of someone's hand on his arm, shaking him back into reality.

"You were in the last one, Hwoarang! You should get out of here and join again!"

"Join again?" his words seemed like they were coming from someone else's mouth. The Mishima Financial Empire, at his command? Maybe even better, the thrill of hand-to-hand combat? Beating the snot out of some 70ish year old man and the rest of the challengers?

And there was no doubt in his mind. Jin Kazama would be there.

"I'll see you there, you bastard!" he whispered to himself with a muted smirk.

Triumphantly, Hwoarang held the magazine over his head and let out a shout of glee. The entire barrack cheered with him. Outside, a few patrolling officers wondered what the hell was going on…

Jin watched as the clouds rolled by the window of the airplane. Being inside a flying hunk of steel was not his idea of freedom and safety. It took a good amount of internal debate to set foot on the plane in the first place. His other choice was to invoke the devil within and fly to his destination, but it didn't seem wise wasting all that energy trying to cross over the ocean.

The plane trip was making him nervous, and visibly so. The passengers sitting next to Jin shuffled about in their seats almost as much as the handsome Japanese man did, but opted to take advantage of the plane's alcoholic beverages being served to soothe their rattled nerves. Soon, they didn't care how much Jin squirmed in his seat, or how many times he crossed or uncrossed his legs in a minute. They were lost to an alcohol-induced stupor, and fell still.

Jin was glad the other passengers in his aisle decided to have a little drink. That way, he could pull out his laptop without fear of nosy people glancing over his shoulder, or asking what he was up to. He flipped down the tray in front of him and clicked his computer on. The laptop was a small luxury Jin afforded himself during his time in Brisbane. He couldn't dip into his grandfather's plentiful resources anymore. Jin knew his days of training and luxury would soon come to an end, he just didn't realize how violent of an end it would end up being.

Very little resided on his plain navy blue desktop: an icon for an Internet surfing program, his C drive icon, and a word program titled "Journal". Jin double-clicked on the word program.

His eyes grew dark as he looked over his last entry. There was so much self-pity there, so much loathing about everything that he was, and everything that his family was. It seemed that the only part of Jin that was left was the part that hated what he had become. Was the devil in more control of his body and thoughts than he knew? The words that were typed across the computer screen didn't even seem like they would come from a quiet young man like Jin.

"Do I even know who I am anymore?" he whispered to himself.

Jin couldn't read his last entry anymore. There had to be something-positive hiding within two years of sporadic emotional outbursts on his computer. He began to scroll through the days. Days turned into months. The months passed into a year. How much angst could be held within 128 megabytes of RAM? Too much, obviously.

He noticed how much more concerned he was about other people before, and now he only seemed to write about himself, or his family. There were so many theories about the origins of his father's evil and the psychology of his grandfather as time went on, and less and less concern about anyone else.

In the first half of his first year in Brisbane, many of his entries were directed towards his mother. They read in such a way that it seemed like they were letters unsent.

Mother,

Finally, I can get rid of scribbling notes onto paper in lieu of typing! My thoughts get out so much faster this way. There are plenty of them, I'll tell you that much.

Nobody seems to care about me here. Brisbane is a nice place, but I feel so trapped on an island out in the middle of nowhere. I catch myself every now and again watching the skies, just waiting for the Tekkenshu to come flying in on their helicopters to take me away. I wonder if Heihachi would rather have me imprisoned, or flat-out killed? He didn't seem bothered with having his men shooting me, or 'finishing' the job himself with a bullet to my brain…

I know I won't be able to visit anymore, and I'm sorry. I think I'm hoping that you'll be reading the things I type over my shoulder as I type them.

I'll keep hiding. But I wish I could have protected you like you're doing for me now. I won't thank the devil within me for anything. I thank you for saving my life and carrying me to safety. But how long does it last?

I'm sorry, mother. I shouldn't question you.

It's my birthday in a few days. I'll be twenty. Can you believe that?

Anyway, I have karate soon. I'll never forget what you taught me, but I have to forget everything that grandfather taught me. I know it's the right thing to do. There is evil in his art, and I've sworn to never use it again.

And please, keep an eye on Xiaoyu for me. You know she's like a little sister to me. I can't let her know I'm alive, though. It'd break her heart. She's sporadic enough to do something crazy, like come looking for me, and I know Heihachi would follow. He's probably just waiting for her to try something. She doesn't deserve to go through anything like I went through. So, keep her safe.

I love you.

Jin slowly closed the screen to his laptop with a soft click. Leaning back into his chair, he put his face in his hands and let out a sigh that sounded more like a sob.

Operation: Tekken went off as smooth as planned. Hwoarang knew he could only trust a few select people to help him sneak out of the military base, and even they needed to be … persuaded. He was down a few boxes of cigarettes, a couple dozen magazines, and a plethora of assorted munchies, but in the end he was out, and that's all that mattered. Woe to the young man confronted by an angry officer the next morning! When or if Hwoarang ever decided to come back, he'd be in big trouble.

That's exactly how he liked it. Living on the edge. That was Blood Talon style.

After two years on a military base, being this free was like a slice of heaven. He was high above his homeland, cheek pressed against the window of the airplane as he tried to gaze upon the ground below. Nobody could catch him up here. Hwoarang managed to squeeze out a sly smile before settling himself back into his seat.

Soon enough, he told himself, he would feel the thrill of fighting. The other opponents he didn't know, and frankly didn't care who they were. In his mind, the only opponent worthy of the Blood Talon's skills was Jin Kazama. And this time, there would be no draw.

With thoughts of self-assured victory settling quite nicely into his brain, Hwoarang closed his eyes and let himself drift off into peaceful sleep.

Jin was more than eager to go to the registration site as soon as he got off of the plane, but found himself almost overcome by the sensation of jet lag. Even the devil inside him seemed oddly placid. His feet drug across the carpet of the airport as he slowly made his way to a pay phone. He had to find a hotel, and soon, or else he'd lose the tournament before it even began.

This was Japan, his home. He knew his way around, and dialed a number for a hotel nearby the registration area, setting himself up with a room. Everything seemed to be going smoothly. It was too eerie.

Jin hung up the phone with deliberate slowness, looking over each shoulder in turn. What was going to jump out of the shadows to attack him, now? Which one of these people walking by was a spy, Heihachi's eyes and ears? People walking by wouldn't even meet his gaze. To them, he was just another face in the crowd, in the way of the flow of foot traffic, and therefore ignored unless directed ran into.

Paranoid and dizzy, Jin stumbled his way through the expanse of the airport with his luggage in hand.

Outside, the fresh air helped bring Jin's eyes and brain back into focus. The city was alive with life, hustling and bustling about like ants. Cars and taxis alike vied for position to leave the airport, heading down the turnpike and out of sight. Jin stood there like a statue, marveling at all the life happening around him. Two years purposefully sheltering himself from outside contact, and being back home was culture shock.

A taxi pulled to a stop in front of him. Forgetting to put his luggage into the trunk, he simply pulled it into the back seat with him and shut the door. Thankfully, the cab was empty, except for him and the driver.

"Where to?" the driver asked in Japanese. Even his native tongue sounded odd in Jin's ears after his time in Australia. He managed to mumble out directions to his hotel before sinking into his seat, clutching his duffel bag to his chest like a child would to a stuffed animal.

He must have dozed off, because the driver was turned around in his seat, knocking on the dividing glass between the front and back seats, trying to get Jin's attention. Jin opened his eyes with an almost visibly pained effort, squinting at the driver in a mixture of annoyance and relief.

"We're here, kid. Wake up."

Jin nodded, slipping some yen into the slot of the glass divider. He wondered idly where he got the yen from, but it was the least of his concerns at the moment. When he was a little more conscious, he would run through his events of the day in detail.

The driver nodded, satisfied with the payment, and left Jin on the curb to the hotel, speeding off to join the rest of the traffic. When the cabbie was with the flow of cars, he slipped a cell phone from his pocket and auto-dialed a number.

"Mishima-sama? Jin Kazama is here."

"Excellent," came the voice from the other end of the line, gravelly and rough with age, yet holding a tone that could cow a wild animal into doing stupid pet tricks, "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

The phone disconnected in the driver's ear without another word.

It was late by the time Hwoarang's plane landed, but the Korean youth felt oddly invigorated being back on the island of Japan. He strode with confidence off of the plane, much to the envy of the other passengers on board, who were sluggish and moody from the flight.

He checked his watch. He would have just enough time to register for the tournament before checking into his hotel. Perfect! Hwoarang made haste to grab his luggage from the ring and head outside. Backpack and duffel in hand, he managed to wave down a taxi with some effort.

The taxi driver eyed Hwoarang's flaming, spiky red hair and hawkish features before asking, "Where to?"

Hwoarang slowly gave the driver directions in broken Japanese as he twisted the strap on his duffel bag back and forth with nervous energy.

"You fight?"

"Yeah," he grinned, "I'm here for the Iron Fist Tournament."

The driver had obviously known that, or else he wouldn't have asked if the Korean fought in the first place. The boy seemed so excited to get registered that he didn't bother pointing out the fact that he already knew. He simply nodded and let the conversation slip into silence.

The cab wasn't even parked before Hwoarang shoved fare into the slot and pulled himself out of the car and onto the curb. The driver chuckled and thanked Hwoarang before pulling off into the night.

"Name?"

"Hwoarang."

The receptionist gazed up at the attractive red headed young man standing in front of her. He had to be a good six feet of mostly leg. "Surname?"

"Don't have one."

"…ok," she hesitated, "then I just need you to sit down and fill out these forms."

Hwoarang made himself comfortable in the small office, setting his luggage next to his chair as he took a seat. It was oddly empty. Of course, it was late, and the receptionist looked like she would rather go home and sleep than wait on another stack of forms. Then again, Hwoarang noticed as she handed him a clipboard full of forms and contracts, she kept looking him over as if she was either assessing him for a fight or a date. She wasn't even being shy about it. Her eyes kept locking with his, and she wouldn't leave his gaze. It went from flattering to unnerving.

Hwoarang went to work filling out the paperwork. There was name, age, and martial art, all of the basics. Then term agreements, insurance policies. Prize collection and what it entailed. That was a small novel in itself.

After what seemed like forever, Hwoarang handed back the clipboard with a sigh of relief. The receptionist managed a curt nod and pointed a small digital camera towards him.

"Profile shot. Feel free to not smile."

Before Hwoarang could give her an odd look, the picture was taken.

"Come back tomorrow for your card and instructions."

Thoroughly weirded out by the receptionist's erratic behavior, Hwoarang left feeling much less energetic than he was when he arrived.

"Now, where were we?" a female voice lilted through the room. "Right," the tall, slender figure stepped out from behind a filing cabinet, a small gun with a silencer clenched in her gloved fist, "I think I needed a few forms…"

"N-Name?" the receptionist stammered.

"Williams. Nina Williams."

The morning came all too quickly for Jin. His sleep was filled with nightmares that left his sheets soaked with sweat and his eyelids feeling all too heavy. No matter how much he tossed and turned, or how tightly he drew the blinds to blot out the morning sun, he couldn't fall back asleep for the life of him. Mentally, he was too scared of the dreams, physically, he screamed for just another hour or two of rest.

Nervous energy caused Hwoarang's sleep to be quite restless. He tossed and turned; limbs unconsciously twitching at he thought of driving each focused punch or powerful kick into his opponent's body. He was too excited to fall into and semblance of deep sleep, and when the alarm buzzed off at 9 am that morning, it was like he never slept at all. Groaning, he threw the blankets over his head and enjoyed the warm protection of the bed for as long as he could before he simply got bored.

Trembling, Jin finally pulled himself out of bed, rubbing his hands down his clammy arms and bare chest. His entire body felt hot, but on the outside he was as chill as a winter's morning. All the sweating and unconscious exertion had raised his core body temperature, but cooled him on the outside. The entire sensation was uncomfortable. He had to get something to balance himself out. Wearing nothing but a pair or baggy gray pajama pants, Jin grabbed the complimentary ice bucket from the stand adjacent to his bed and went into the hall for some ice. His mouth was dry and hot; he was probably dehydrated by now.

He watched his feet while he walked, shifting his gaze only slightly to remove the protective sanitary cover from inside the plastic bucket. Ever the conservative child, he wadded up the plastic into a ball and slid it into the pocket of his pants. His mother would be proud.

Jin didn't even have to look to notice he was nearing his destination. The steady hum of the ice machine could be heard from down the hall, if one listened closely enough. The sound of ice forming and dropping into the plastic bin startled him into looking up, just to see if something was wrong.

Everything seemed normal. There was another person at the machine, filling their bucket with ice for the morning. What, don't most people drink coffee or tea anymore? Thirsty and tired, he stood behind the other person with a soft, if not annoyed sigh. The bucket seemed to be filling with agonizing slowness. Jin began drumming his fingers on his own container in sheer boredom. The bucket was almost entirely full, and still this person was filling it to the brim! Jin got the feeling whoever this was in front of him was deliberately trying to piss him off. He curled his upper lip into a sneer and bored a hole into the back of the person's skull with his gaze. This tall, red headed freak better hurry, any day now…

Hwoarang smirked to himself as he purposefully filled his ice bucket to the overflowing point and beyond. Whoever was behind him was in a hurry to go nowhere. Sometimes, a person had to learn a little patience! Besides, what was the person going to do? Kill him for filling up his ice too slowly? The second Dan black belt in Tae Kwon Do was hardly intimidated.

Finally, the bucket was filled with enough ice it spilled as he slid it from the machine. Hwoarang couldn't help but smirk slightly as he turned around, ready to say something along the lines of, "I'm gonna make a snowman," or something else equally inane. The words slipped from his lips as he gazed at his archrival, Jin Kazama. The ice fell from his grip and landed on the floor with a thud, scattering crystal cubes everywhere.

Jin blinked as the tall young man turned around and promptly dropped his ice on his foot. He hissed in pain, bending over to bat the bucket across the hall with the back of his fist. Was this idiot drunk?

"Too much ice for you to carry?" Jin growled, still not realizing whom he was talking to as he rubbed his foot with his knuckles.

Suddenly, he was pulled back into a vertical position by two rough hands on his bare shoulders, fingernails digging painfully into his flesh. His brain was sluggish to react, and Jin found himself slammed forcefully against the wall opposite the ice machine, trying to find purchase on the floor as his feet slipped and were prodded by hard chunks of ice. He almost lost his balance all together, but whoever was holding him up had him quite firmly pressed against the wall.

Jin blinked into the rage-filled face hovering inches from his own.

"Hwoarang?" it was more of a question than a statement. The Korean looked so different, lacking his golden-red locks in lieu of a short, spiked, red hairstyle that hung unkempt on his head. His features were even more prominent than before, and that was a feat. He had the same eyes though, amber orbs that burned with the same desire to maim as Jin had seen two years before.

"You!" he hissed, fingers curling tighter around Jin's shoulders. "What the hell are you doing here?"

That seemed to be the question of the moment. "I'm here for the tournament, you idiot," Jin returned the sneer with equal viciousness. His hands curled into fists at his sides. It was more of a gesture of restraint than a threat to maim. The devil within him was stirring.

Hwoarang looked about ready to smash his forehead into Jin's nose, when another hotel occupant rounded the corner in search of ice. He snatched his hands back from Jin's shoulders as if the skin was repulsive to his touch. To add to that, he wiped his hands across the flatness of his stomach, across his green tank top, just to emphasize his disgust.

"I should fight you, here and now," Hwoarang leaned forward, so his lips hovered just over Jin's ear. "But I won't. I'll let everyone watch as I humiliate you. We won't draw this time, Kazama. I promise you that."

"You actually say something right for once," Jin replied smoothly, turning his head to meet Hwoarang's burning gaze only inches from his own. He could feel his own breath on his own cheek as it wafted off of the angry Korean's. "I'm going to beat you, because I don't have time for these childish rivalries. I'm going to beat you so badly you'll regret ever meeting me."

"You really think so?" Hwoarang arched a red eyebrow in defiance, "I think you're a cocky little rich boy, and I'm going to put you in your place."

"You don't know what you're getting in to, Korean. I'm warning you. Stay out of my way."

Hwoarang smirked, keeping his amber gaze locked with Jin's. "Listen to Mr. I-Have-An-Agenda. Whatever, Kazama. You're still the angry little Mishima bastard child I fought two years ago."

Suddenly, it was Hwoarang who was pinned up against the wall. The shift of position was so sudden; Hwoarang's head was slammed quite sharply into the paneling behind him. Jin's muscles bunched up in his arms, holding Hwoarang's shirt so tightly the seams began to stretch and pop with every breath the Korean took.

"Fuck you, you piece of street trash…" Jin hissed with such venom, Hwoarang had to look twice just to make sure he was seeing the same person. Then he had to look three times, because his vision was swimming.

Jin grew deathly still, tilting his head as if he was listening to a far off conversation. It wasn't far from the truth. Whoever had seen the escapade in the hallway had ratted on the two arguing men, and security guards were clomping noisily down the hall.

With his hand still gripping Hwoarang's shirt like a lifeline, Jin yanked the struggling young man from the wall and down the hall the few feet it was to his room. The keycard was in and out of the slot before Hwoarang could issue a grunt of protest, and the two rivals disappeared into Jin's room as the guards rounded the corner to the hallway. The door clicked shut silently.

Hwoarang got tangled up around Jin's feet and ended up sprawled across the carpet, slowly getting up with murderous intent in his eye. He trembled with rage from head to toe. Ignoring the spectacle of testosterone, Jin put a finger to his lips and exhaled softly.

"Shh, shut the hell up, there's guards…"

"Why should I care that there are guards!?" Hwoarang replied, though his voice was the same hissed whisper. It was a rhetorical question. They both knew it was too close to tournament time, and who could fight when they're too busy collecting dust in a jail cell? Jin had more important reasons: Heihachi and the Tekkenshu.

Hwoarang's question was answered with a sharp slug to the solar plexus from Jin's bare fist. He fell forward slightly, baring his teeth to his rival in a good impression of a wild animal's snarl. In reply, Hwoarang slammed his fist into the side of Jin's thigh, along a delicate cluster of nerve endings that caught the Japanese boy by surprise. He fell to a knee as his leg went dead under him. They held each other's stare until the threat of the guards passed, making no other moves to maim each other in the process. It was a miracle.

Hwoarang's shifting gaze unnerved Jin. It flicked from his forehead, to his eyes, and back again. Was the devil manifesting itself again? He lifted a hand to his forehead, feeling for the telltale nub of the devil's third eye. He found nothing. But Hwoarang had obviously seen something.

"What the hell?" his voice was a whisper, "What's wrong with you?"

"Kill him…"

Jin clutched his hands to his hair and pulled sharply, trying to use the pain to make the devil inside shut up, but it only seemed to egg it on this time. He pulled harder, but the voice only seemed to grow louder, more insistent.

"Kill, maim, make him hurt, watch him bleed…"

Hwoarang watched the internal struggle with a mixture of fear and fascination. Although he hated Jin for matching his skill, he had a grudging respect for the Japanese youth. Had he gone insane? Cautiously, Hwoarang held out a hand to Jin, unsure of what to do to aid the troubled young man. Rivalries were one thing. Internal conflict was another. Even Hwoarang wasn't low enough to kick a man while he was down.

Black lines swirled and came into view across Jin's forehead. A dull red glow oozed out from between his fingers, making the hair he was gripping a dark crimson. Hwoarang fell backward in shock, crawling away from Jin crab-like until he was a safe distance away.

Or so he thought.

Jin trembled down on his haunches before launching himself at Hwoarang, tackling him with such force the two of them slid feet across the unyielding carpet. Before Hwoarang could yelp in pain from the abrupt case of rug-burn, Jin clamped a taloned hand over his mouth. The Korean's eyes were wide and wild, watching Jin's transformation with pure, cold fear.

Jin glared down at his rival with orbs that burned crimson, mirroring the glow from the crack in his forehead that opened to reveal a glowing mockery of a third eye. Black lines crawled across his forehead and down his nose like small serpents. He opened his mouth in a silent scream, eyes squeezing shut as his shoulders bunched and shook. Hwoarang watched in horror as black wings burst from Jin's back, unfurling to their greatest length, pinions grazing the ceiling. He tried to scream, but Jin's hand held him fast.

This wasn't even Jin he was looking at anymore. This was a devil.

"Hurt him, hurt him, humiliate him…" the words fell from Jin's unmoving lips, eyes opening up once again to peer down at the trembling man under him. Bird-like, he tilted his head at Hwoarang this way and that, digging the claws of his free hand into the vulnerable flesh of his neck. The redhead shut his eyes and whimpered. Never before had he felt so powerless. Never before had he encountered a being of such evil.

Jin's hand slowly peeled off of Hwoarang's mouth. The Korean was too frightened to scream, and it was probably the smartest thing he had ever done.