CHAPTER 2
If there was one thing Hwoarang hated other than Jin Kazama, (and he hated Jin Kazama), it was rich kids.
Hwoarang himself had grown up on the streets. He made his own luck, forged his own life and worked for – okay, well, maybe it wasn't technically working – his own money.
Therefore, it was only natural he should have an adamant dislike of everyone who was born with a silver spoon shoved up their – erm – mouth.
Rich kids, in his experience, got everything.
He grabbed the tabloid magazine from the news stand and started walking away, pausing only slightly to flash his blade at the overweight stall attendant who asked him what the hell he thought he was doing.
He sat down on a street curb, not too far away, and flipped open the magazine. Page six.
And there it was.
New Heir to the Mishima Corporation.
Well. He should have known. Of course Jin Kazama had to be a rich kid. He was the fucking poster boy for everything Hwoarang hated in the world; why shouldn't he be rich? And as the grandson of Heihachi Mishima, the most powerful megalomaniac in the world, he was more than just rich. He was fucking loaded.
Hwoarang hated him more than ever.
He threw the magazine into the gutter and reached into his jacket pocket for a cigarette when a discarded flyer caught his eye.
The King of the Iron Fist Tournament 3.
Hwoarang leaned over and picked it up, quickly reading the details.
He smiled, got up, and threw away his unlit cigarette.
He was going to bring that boy down.