The young Korean had passed out from exhaustion, waking only at the sound of a banging coming from his door. He opened his eyes, feeling the dried tears on his cheeks instantly and felt the void, the emptiness return to his heart. Yet, despite that, he dragged himself to his feet and stumbled towards the door.

"Yeah?" He said in just above a whisper as he slid the door open and was greeted by a large man in a suit. He raised an eyebrow, wondering why the hell someone who looked like a member of the M.I.B. was at his doorstep.

"Police?" He questioned the man, who shook his head and gave Hwoarang a white envelope.

"Give this to Baek Doo San. It is an invitation to The King Of The Iron First Tournament 3." Hwoarang tried hard to push back his tears, but his eyes were already producing them.

"Baek is dead," he choked out, realising that the man produced no reaction. "I am his pupil," he said quietly, to which the man shrugged.

"Then you should take his place."

And without another word, he was gone.

Hwoarang took a long drag of the cigarette as he opened the envelope, taking out the contents with his free hand. He folded out the letter, which he found contained an airline ticket to Mexico National Airport and a short letter, written in very bad Korean, but it seemed clear anyway.

'You are invited to the Tekken Iron Fist 3 Tournament. Please Arrive at the Mexico Airport with your belonging and you shall be taken care of.'

Taken care of.

Hwoarang didn't quite trust the sound of that, but he couldn't help a small smile stretching his lips either. Baek had spoken of this so often, and with every word, Hwoarang wanted the experience for himself. He decided to take the only thing he really needed, his Tae kwon do gee.

When Hwoarang boarded the plane, he rested his head against the soft pillow of the seat. No matter how hard he tried, his thoughts kept returning to Baek. But now, he didn't push them away. He wanted to think of Baek, and to remember Baek's touches, his hands, his eyes. He wouldn't allow himself to weep anymore. He remembered something Baek had told him once, when he was holding him, and kissing his lips after one of their first few nights together.

'If anything ever happens to me-'

'It won't.' He interrupted with such arrogance of a teen, to which Baek merely chuckled, not quite releasing a sound, a mere movement of his shoulders.

'Optimistic aren't we? But seriously, Hwoarang, if it does. I don't want you to spend the rest of your life regretting one thing or another, continue this,' Hwoarang interrupted him with a gentle laugh as he rose to his elbows.

'Sleeping with your corpse?' A soft smile hovered over Baek's lips.

'This person you are now, continue being him. You're a wonderful fighter, Hwoarang, don't waste that on some idiot, especially if the idiot is me.'

"Don't waste it," Hwoarang repeated, as if the words were spoken by Baek himself.

The person who popped into his mind appeared there quicker than lightening. And his distinguishing features didn't make Hwoarang doubt the identity of that person for a moment. Dark, thick eyebrows, nervous yet confident eyes. The only man he was every unable to beat.

"Kazama Jin," Hwoarang whispered faintly, allowing his index finger to travel down the middle of the window on the place. He created a separation as the steam had built up on it. "He'll be there," he whispered again, this time drawing a cross from the other side, now making four squares.

Hwoarang's eyebrows suddenly knotted at the thought of reality. But of course Kazama had to be there. If Hwoarang's own reputation was as the best martial artist in Korea, then Kazama had to be one of the best in Japan. Unless the Japanese were supermen, which Hwoarang truly doubted. Plus, 'the test,' other than a fighting tournament, what could the old man of been preparing him for? And he had that look. That bad-ass, look-at-me-wrong-and-ill-shove-a-fist-up-your-ass-look, a look which deserved a place at such a tournament. Hwoarang smirked, maybe the old man would be there.

His smirk faded as quickly as it had invaded his lips.

And maybe he'd know about Baek.

Someone there would. That was for sure.

The plane journey had been too long and too uncomfortable. Despite twisting his body in a variety of positions, and even clearing his mind of all thought, Hwoarang did not sleep for a minute. Fortunately, Hwoarang did not have suitcases to wait for as he gratefully exited the plane. All his belonging were happily squashed inside his backpack, which hung loosely from one arm as the red head attempted to stretch his legs as he walked, without making too much of a scene. The Korean martial artist released a stressed yawn, only realising that he hadn't used his hand to cover his mouth after the yawn had stretched his lips.

It also wasn't long before Hwoarang had given up trying to read the English directions, telling him where to go. What he did understand, which wasn't a lot, was blurred by his tired eyes, and the rest just didn't make sense. So he took the easiest and childish option, and followed the glowing arrows.

Fortunately, the arrows lead him outside. Unfortunately, the bodies of the sweaty and irritated tourists kept bumping into him. To Hwoarang's surprise, outside of the airport, there were stood several of the men resembling the one who had come to his door step, all holding up white signs with names on. His eyes scanned a few.

Nina Williams. Paul Phoenix. King. No Kazama. But he just had to be there. Or at least Hwoarang thought so.

Hesitantly, he approached the man who held the small piece of paper bearing his name.

"Are you Hwoarang?" He said in a smooth, deep voice.

"Yeah, I am." He attempted his best English. "How did you know I was coming instead of Baek?" The other man went silent. The Korean sighed, knowing that verbal English was a lot more difficult than what he'd read. Plus he'd only practised ti with Baek. It must of sounded something like 'Hoov diad yuh kno i vas koomin inteead uf Baek?' It took the other man a few moments for it to clear it in his head.

"You said Baek was dead. So we got the next best Taekwon-Do artist. Now follow me." The red head decided to avoid any further conversation and obediently followed the large man's steps, practising and mouthing the pronunciation of the words carefully to himself. They stopped outside a row of black limousines, to which Hwoarang's sleepy eyes suddenly widened. He had only ever seen a limo once, nevermind rode in one. So when the door was opened for him, and the large man pointed for him to get inside, Hwoarang found himself getting excited.

His hands ran over the expensive leathers of the seats and he smiled, having never realised that a car could be so big. He excitedly peered out of the window as the images became blurred and passed quickly. Only then did he actually realise that it was him, Hwoarang, in Mexico, and going into the Tekken Tournament. He grinned, then laughed, and collapsed on the seats.

"Sir, we're here," Hwoarang opened his eyes and looked at the face above him. The hat and worried expression told him it was the limousine driver, and his position on the seat told him that he'd fallen asleep. He was surprised, the last he remembered was showing extreme joy at his current position, and now, he was asleep.

"OK," he said faintly, taking his bag from the floor and crawling from the taxi. "Can I ask you something?" Ah, this guy was a little better at understanding his own language.

"Yes?"

"Do you know if there's a Jin Kazama present?" The friendly face of the other man frowned, going into obvious thought.

"Kazama, now I knew someone by that name. But a Jun rather than a Jin. Maybe it's her son. If her and Kazuya did have a son, maybe he'll be here." The man laughed, to which Hwoarang laughed to. Or pretended to, anyway, all that happened was that a lot of names were thrown at him and a 'maybe'. Hwoarang hated maybes.

He looked around him at the crumbling ground. What a good place to hold a tournament, he thought with a smirk, turning completely round until his body faced a very large building. It looked new, perfect. Like one of those office buildings, just covered in glass. It looked like it had just been transported to this hell hole from an industrial heaven. He noticed several more limousines parked outside it, and a young woman getting out of one, smacking away the hands of the limo driver when he tried to open the door for her. She didn't hesitate about stepping through the large glass doors, and it didn't look like anyone was coming to get him, so Hwoarang decided to casually follow her. The automatic doors provided an easy entrance, and a very happy receptionist greeted him with great enthusiasm and an almost genuine smile.

"Welcome to the Mishima Co-operation Hotel. You are here for the Tournament, am I correct to believe?" Hwoarang nodded and ran a hand through his hair, not quite expecting such enthusiasm from a hotel owner. "Yeah, my name is Hwoarang." The man nodded and grinned again, clicking away on his lap top computer and then pressing a key into Hwoarang's hand before he could react any further.

"You are on the second floor and your gym can be found through your bathroom."

"My gym? I have my own gym?" Hwoarang was sure he misunderstood. What idiot gave him his own gym?

"Yes, it's to stop any disagreements between the participants." The receptionist smiled at Hwoarang's obvious surprise.

"Well, uh, cool. Thanks!" Hwoarang decided to take the stairs rather than the lift, he never trusted lifts he wasn't used to. It was a paranoia thing. He got it from Baek. The Korean attempted to look at the different participants (he'd managed to work out which ones were actually participants from their gee's or muscles) and found himself impressed... and nervous.

But he wasn't there to win, he told himself as he opened the door, he was there for Baek. And to beat Kazama.

The red head's jaw almost literally hit the ground as he stepped in the room. His little backpack fell to the floor as he looked around in amazement. The hall was bigger than his apartment! He stepped into the living room carefully, mouthing a gentle 'fuck,' as he collapsed on the rich leather couch. Everything in the room seemed to cost over a hundred dollars, while in his and Baek's flat, there was barely anything worth that. But they had something which was worth a lot more.

Friendship, trust and love. He knew that he could never find anybody that could make him feel so... wonderful, so complete. But this was for Baek. Hwoarang jumped to his feet and walked through the bathroom (amazed at the white marble) and into the gym, shaking his head in amazement before bursting out into hysterical laughter. He raised his arms in a 'yes!' motion and was quick to change into his gee, and for the first time since Baek's death, began their usual routine.