It was hard to tell what exactly Hwoarang was feeling at any given moment as he perused the extensive library of journal entries in Jin's laptop. Initially, he was smirking; he had found the key to the inner workings of his rival's mind. Such a treasure would undoubtedly give him an edge over his competition. But as he read, the smirk slowly slipped from his lips and from his psyche as well.

"I'm lonely…"

"No one here gives a damn about me. Nobody cares."

The exact moment Hwoarang began to relate…

"I don't want to give up … I can't."

"I lost the most important person in my life, and now I have no one."

… He began to care. Hwoarang couldn't bear to read anymore. The diary told him all he needed to know and more. He wasn't used to dealing with other people's emotions, and didn't quite know how to handle it. For a long time, Hwoarang sat on the edge of the bed; hands resting on top of the laptop perched on his knees.

His eyes lidded shut as he went into meditative breathing. The only way he could deal with emotion was to push it away. With the tournament coming up, Hwoarang could only focus on one thing: fighting. Not the things he had in common with Jin Kazama. He began to slip into clarity, until his mind's eye flashed a brief, although vivid image of fangs, black snake-like markings, glowing red eyes…

Hwoarang gasped, jerking back into awareness. Vertigo hit him like a ton of bricks. His eyes snapped open in time to see the computer disappearing off the edge of his knees, landing to the floor with an unhealthy-sounding thud. It was barely audible over the sound of blood pounding in his ears.

"Damnit, Kazama," he growled to himself, grabbing the computer from the floor. Something inside rattled. He shook it. It rattled louder. "Great." Hwoarang threw the laptop back into the drawer. Flustered and frustrated, he put his head in his hands and stared at the floor. Jin had lost his mother; he had lost his mentor, Baek. Jin had no one to turn to during his two years in Brisbane. Hwoarang toiled two years in the Korean army, when the only time people cared about him was if he did something wrong. Hwoarang had his freedom now, but Jin … would he ever be free of the devil?

Hwoarang got to his feet and dipped his head.

"I said I'd stop you, didn't I?" he murmured under his breath. Slowly, he made his way to the door.

"I hate obligation."

It was an empty statement, and he knew it.

"Jin Kazama. Welcome to the Fourth King of the Iron Fist Tournament. The participants are gathering inside. Please, follow me."

Jin shook his head, waving off the proffered help. "No, thank you. I don't need to be ushered around my previous home."

The Mishima estate, one of many, but the most spectacular of the bunch, was a tribute to the glory and success of the Mishima Zaibatsu. From its beginnings under the careful direction of Jinpachi Mishima, it soon flourished in power. Jinpachi's son, Heihachi, followed in his father's footsteps, bringing the Zaibatsu to a pinnacle of world power. The tradition continued under Heihachi's son, Kazuya, who controlled the Zaibatsu from the shadows for a time after his father's 'tragic death'. The power struggle for the now most-powerful empire in the world continued after Heihachi's startling reappearance. Kazuya mysteriously vanished to the public eye, and Heihachi was placed back in the corporate spotlight, where he remained for the past 20 years. The public soon lost interest with Kazuya's whereabouts, but had found renewed interest in Heihachi's grandson, Kazuya's son, Jin. The young man was a promising heir to the Zaibatsu's throne, until he too disappeared completely from the public eye.

Jin pulled his hood up over his head. If he could remain unknown throughout the rest of the tournament, it was all the better for him.

He walked though the gardens outside, which hadn't changed much from when he was living within the Estate's confining walls. There were a few plants he recalled planting and caring for himself, much to the dismay of Heihachi. Too much like Jun, he had said.

One entrant was also meandering about the garden, gazing thoughtfully at the flowers. It was a tall, leggy Brazilian girl, with long brown hair and a sparse amount of clothing. Her pants were so shiny it was hard to look at her when she was in the sun. Her glittered bikini top also sparkled, through there much not much to it. She seemed content with smelling the flowers and enjoying every bit of sun she could get.

Jin eyed the cords that dangled from her hips. Although the wrong color, they seemed to be a symbol of rank, ones used in the art of Capoeira. He chuckled to himself and moved inside.

While other people were amazed and absorbed within the vastness of the estate, Jin moved easily through the halls. Other people were worried about getting lost. Jin was watching the shadows, worried about what was lurking within them.

He suddenly whirled when he heard footsteps behind him, throwing up his hands in preparation to push aside any attack coming his way. Another sets of hands were thrown up, but only in mock defense.

"Hey, hey, no harm, no foul," the blonde man smirked, his blue eyes glinting mischievously. "Just looking for the bathroom."

"Three doors down, on the right," Jin mumbled, lowering his hands.

"Hey, thanks. What do you think of the place? Wouldn't you love to have something like this?"

"No," Jin said flatly, turning to resume his walk.

"C'mon, I didn't do anything to you," the blonde persisted, walking to Jin's side. Jin shot him a sidelong glare. The man shrugged it off and held out his hand, which was swathed in bandages. "I'm Steve Fox. I want to be rich and famous and surrounded by women."

His attitude was contagious. Jin mustered a small smile. "Jin Kazama." He shook Steve's hand, and found his grip to be like iron. It was firm and unrelenting, yet not painful. The strength in his arm was surprising.

"So, why're you hiding under that hood?" Steve chuckled, looping his thumbs into the straps of his suspenders that were dangling at his hips. "I bet my scars look worse than yours, if that's the case."

"No, no scar," Jin chuckled. He began avidly searching over Steve's frame for this aforementioned scar, but his silent question was quickly answered. Steve pulled up the short sleeve of his Hawaiian shirt and displayed the disfiguring scar that trailed up the entirety of his left arm. Jin blanched.

"Pretty, isn't it? But hey, doesn't hinder me at all," he jabbed at the air, and Jin was surprised at the speed of Steve's fake attacks. This guy was just full of surprises.

"Where did you get that?"

Steve unrolled his shirt again, straightening out the collar with a few flicks of his thumbs. "Don't know. But I'm not as bad off as this other guy skulking around here is. Got a nasty scar on his face, neck, probably more, but he was wearing a suit and sunglasses. I was curious, checked him out a bit … you're not going to believe this, but he had this creepy red eye…"

"Interesting," Jin had already taken a liking to Steve. He was outgoing and obviously laid back. Who else would wear a Hawaiian shirt in Japan, much less a fighting tournament? Shaking his head, Jin slowly pulled back the hood of his jacket.

Steve was busy eyeing the young Capoeirista who had walked in from the gardens. "And he had this totally goofy hairstyle, all slicked back into this…" he turned back to Jin and ceased all verbal communication. Jin lifted his eyebrows. "Flattop? Was it Paul Phoenix?"

Steve shook his head, blinking at Jin strangely. "No, a cowlick. Just like yours."