A few hours passed before Jin could finally pull himself free of the warm confines of his bed, dreading the process of registering for the fourth Iron Fist tournament. It was two years since he gave anyone more than his first name. Those were the lucky people.
No one was pounding on his door, calling his hotel phone, or slipping him notes in his room service. The process of reassuring himself he was still an unknown in Japan was a slow one, almost as slow as the process of extracting himself from his sheets. Only Hwoarang knew he was here, and that first meeting had been anything but pleasant. Who would he tell, anyway? Who would believe you when you told them you came face to face with a monster?
Jin shook his head and got dressed, pulling on a tight black tank top, followed by a hooded purple jacket embroidered with golden flames, then the pants to match. His penchant for flames had never left him, even after two years of near solitude. They matched his personality: controllable yet dangerous. At the same time, he resented the fiery symbolism. His grandfather's guidance had only succeeded in bringing out the devil within. The devil was no fire; it was a raging inferno. It was 17 years of his mother's nurturing hand that gave him the will he clung to this day. That will was what kept the fire under control.
Where was that control when he accosted Hwoarang? Surely it wasn't just the redhead's biting attitude that made him rage like he did, though it was probably a good catalyst. There was the stress of the tournament, the constant nagging voice in his head telling him to destroy that what gave him life; the Korean just happened to be the unlucky person to receive the brunt end of Jin's anger. Even the gang leader didn't deserve to be attacked in such a way.
Jin chuckled to himself. It was dark and humorless. Hwoarang was still hell bent on resolving their old score; a fight that ended up in a draw. Jin had to give him credit; he was as stubborn as a bull. Two years of holding a grudge was no small task. He wondered idly if there were more reasons for him to enter the tournament besides a good fight. If there weren't a reason, it wouldn't surprise him.
"Name?"
Jin jumped slightly. Had he been musing to himself all the way to the registration site? He found himself in an office with a receptionist, looking ready to file him in with the other entrants, but less than eager to do so.
"Kazama, Jin."
He received the same look from the receptionist that he had gotten from Hwoarang: a slack-jawed, pale-faced, blank stare with no vocal accompaniment. Jin blinked. She stared. Jin blinked in reply to the silence.
"Jin Kazama?"
He hesitated before answering quietly. "Yes."
It felt like his stomach fell to his knees. This could be it. Tekkenshu could come running around the corner with guns blazing at the mere mention of his name. An alarm could go off and Heihachi could come strolling in from the back room with a gun trained on Jin's head. But there was nothing, only another pause of awkward silence before the young woman gestured to an uncluttered chair. "Please, have a seat Jin-san. A picture is required of all the entrants."
If that wasn't the icing on the cake, nothing was. Jin slowly found his legs again, then gracelessly flopped down into the chair. There was no turning back now. His stomach had oozed its way from his toes and was now pinballing around his chest with his heart. Heihachi would have his picture, his registration information, and the knowledge that he was back in Japan.
A flash dazed him momentarily. The picture had been taken. All this thinking was catching him off guard time and time again. He would either have to go mindlessly forward, or let fate have her way with him.
"Thank you, that will be all. Please return later to pick up your photo identification and more information."
"Something isn't right," Jin shook his head at the receptionist, who shifted in her seat uncomfortably. It reminded him of the people on the airplane. "What about all the other paperwork? There's more to this than a simple hello, a picture, and a goodbye."
"All the registration information for one Kazama, Jin has been completed."
Jin's thick eyebrows shot up like fireworks on his brow as his lips parted in silent shock. "What?" was all he could utter at the clueless, naive young woman. She didn't seem to catch his sudden change of facial expressions. Her well-manicured fingers were flipping through piles of manila and paper, eyes glued to her tedious chore. It took her only seconds to find a folder neatly labeled, "Kazama, Jin." She passed it across to Jin, who took it with an unsteady hand.
Everything was signed in a hand that was not his. The pressure of the pen was clearly defined in each stroke, a constant stream of black drawn with a powerful grip. Every letter was too perfect English. It screamed Heihachi Mishima in every arch, line and curve. Why would such a powerful man go out of his way to forge a few documents for his missing grandson?
He was expecting him to come. That was the only rational explanation Jin could think of. The mere thought sent such a cold shiver down his spine the folder nearly slid off of his lap.
"Are you alright?"
"No," Jin replied frankly, gently pushing his registration information back onto the table. It was then when something caught his eye. A sliver of a label attached to yet another folder poked out of the pile of papers, simply begging for Jin's attention. Although only part of the name could be seen, the first five letters was all he needed: K A Z U Y-
He snatched the information from the rest of the pile, flipping it open in his lap before the receptionist could even squeak in protest. When she caught her voice, she said, "You cannot look at the other registrants' information prior to the match!" Her hand reached for the folder.
There was no photo for Kazuya Mishima, although every form was signed, every "I" dotted and every "T" crossed in the same perfect English as Jin's folder. That was all he needed to see. Jin let the angry woman snatch back her precious information, setting in her lap as if she dared Jin to grab it from such a forbidden place. The show of possessiveness made Jin almost chuckle. Almost.
"My apologies," Jin stood and began walking to the door. The strength he still had in his legs surprised him. Jell-O wasn't supposed to have such a strong stride.
He paused. The receptionist looked up at the dark young man as she slowly put Kazuya's folder back onto her table. Her fingers lingered on the vanilla-colored paper, as if that would prevent Jin from taking the folder if he wished to do so. That was the last thing on his mind, now.
He quietly walked back over to the desk. "I forgot something about my application."
The woman gave him a dubious look, but it was his own information after all. "Kazama, Jin" was slid back to its rightful owner. Jin opened the file and plucked a pen from a lily-shaped penholder at the edge of the table.
He scribbled something out, set the pen down, and left.
The receptionist turned the file towards her when the young Japanese man left the office, searching for the blatant mistake. Under the question of "Fighting Style", the previous answer was still barely visible: Mishima Style Fighting Karate. Now all that was left was "Karate".
She frowned and shut the folder. What did it matter, really?
Hwoarang never thought of Jin as predictable or even normal. Two years ago, Jin seemed like a quiet young man with a secret dark side, hidden from the rest of the world behind his grandfather's gilded cage. The type of boy who would be the last one blamed for anything. It was a twisted type of innocence. But that innocent young man fought like a devil, the same thing he was fueled by.
Things were starting to fall into place.
His quiet, reserved nature was all a farce. No one would dare think that Jin Kazama, of all people, held a monster under his skin. Clever, but not clever enough. Hwoarang had seen first hand what Jin Kazama truly was, and to defeat him, he had to study him.
The Korean had followed Jin as he walked through the hotel lobby, being his silent little shadow. Special operations training in the Korean military gave Hwoarang an edge over your average stalker. He knew how to stick to a person's blind side, keeping the target within the line of sight, too close yet too far. Hwoarang was just an unassuming passerby with an agenda, just like everyone else.
There was an alleyway across from the registration site that hid Hwoarang's lithe form quite well. There were no windows to the office, but what goes in must come out, after all. But before he could make himself comfortable, Jin had come strolling right back out, much to the redhead's confusion. He might be superhuman, but even that was fast for filing pamphlets of paperwork.
Jin walked down the street, heading back to the hotel. His hood was up, hiding his face from view. Hwoarang took note of that with idle amusement. Was the great Jin Kazama ashamed of what he truly was? Was the poor little baby going to hide in his hotel room and cry until the tournament began?
Hwoarang's new study had gone from boring back to pathetic. There was nothing to watch here. Only a sulking young man, hiding himself from the curious eyes of the world.
But then Jin stumbled, throwing his hand against an adjacent wall for support. Hwoarang's auburn eyebrow arched as he slowed his pace, watching his rival from across the street and behind him about a half of a block. The Japanese man was hunched over, his free hand pressed over his heart. Was he sick?
Whatever it was cleared within seconds, and Jin continued on down the street on less-than stable legs. Hwoarang noticed that his pace was faster than before, his head lolling down so far it was amazing to think he could even see what was in front of him. His forearm passed across his face then fell back to his side. He was crying.
The psychological burden on Jin's shoulders must have been heavier than Hwoarang thought, and it gave the Korean a slight twinge of guilt. He was here because of the thrill of fighting, while Jin was obviously following some kind of troubling agenda all his own. Was there some kind of tension between him and his powerful grandfather that needed resolution, or was Jin just in it for the prize?
So many questions were running through Hwoarang's brain. He tugged on his hair in sheer frustration. Here he was, trailing Jin for answers, and all he was unearthing were more questions. Pride prevented Hwoarang from asking Jin up front what his issues were. Concern was weakness.
Jin moved into the hotel lobby so fast, Hwoarang had to trot just to keep him in his sights. He seemed to be running from something, but from what? No matter how fast he moved, he simply couldn't escape from himself.
It was then when Hwoarang truly pitied Jin. He was a broken shell of a man, with so many issues he could fill up a magazine stand. At this point, he wouldn't even get past his first match.
Hwoarang slid into the elevator alongside Jin, giving up on shadowing for some straight up answers. The doors slid shut, and they found themselves alone together in a confined space with no blood being drawn.
Jin was staring intently at the floor, reaching up to tap his finger against the button for his floor. He didn't notice Hwoarang's intent gaze fixed on his head, waiting for him to start spilling the beans. The elevator hummed into motion, and the silence hung thick in the air. Jin could have cared less if he was alone in the elevator, or with a throng of people. He simply wanted to be alone, in his room, awaiting his destiny.
Hwoarang's cheeks flushed red in anger. Any more pressure in his head, and he'd have another nosebleed. "Kazama!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the moving metal box.
Jin's reflexes were suddenly hyper-acute. His hands were up in a defensive stance before he even registered who was standing next to him. Swollen, red eyes blinked at the glowering redheaded Korean.
"What … you … Hwoarang?"
"We need to talk."
Jin's hands dropped slightly. "I'm sorry for attacking you," he said flatly.
"Idiot. I don't care about that."
The elevator doors slid open. Jin looked to the hallway beyond. "What? What do you want?"
There was that cold, passionless voice Hwoarang was expecting. It reminded him of himself two years ago: flippant and distant. "Answers."
A soft snort came from the depths of Jin's hood before he stepped into the hallway. Hwoarang followed right behind. "What, Jin? Ashamed I caught you crying?"
He didn't even break stride. "You were following me?"
Hwoarang shrugged. The gesture was lost on Jin. "Know thine enemy. Though I don't know why you're my enemy. You're hardly a threat."
"I'm tired of your taunts," Jin sighted softly, pulling his keycard from his pocket. "If you're trying to care, why don't you try civility?"
The Korean choked on his own voice. The realization slowly dawned on him that he was being quite the asshole. "Fine, Jin, fine. I'm sorry."
"Virgin words?"
"Take your own advice…" Hwoarang growled.
Jin smirked and opened the door to his hotel room. "After you."
Hwoarang had a sudden sinking feeling and hesitated outside the door, glancing at Jin for the briefest of moments. Their eyes met, and neither would release the other from their stares of superiority.
Jin's eyebrow rose, "What?"
"I don't know. I think I feel disappointed," Hwoarang shook his head and entered the hotel room, with a slightly confused Jin following behind.
