CHAPTER 7
She had always been a generous girl, and her heart went out to Jin.
Hearing about his – his changes, for lack of a better word – was awful. She pitied him, and what he went through, and he let her, because she was the only person that he'd allow to pity him.
'It happens when – when I'm angry,' he admitted, almost sheepishly. 'Not just angry, but,' he paused, searching for the right word, 'apoplectic. When there's hurt and madness, and I'm blinded by it all – it – it just takes over.'
'You know the solution, don't you?' she asked. 'Count to ten. Find your inner peace. Don't let yourself become so enraged.'
He nodded, then sighed. 'It's not always possible, with my life.' And then, in a voice significantly lower, 'with my family.'
She had nothing to say to that, and it was not in her nature to deny the truth, so she did what she always did: provide a happier distraction.
'I've learnt some new moves,' she said. 'D'you want to spar?'
He laughed and shook his head. 'I'd kill you,' he teased.
'Probably,' she agreed easily. 'But I'd at least give you a black eye.'
They hadn't quite made their way to the gym when a messenger hurried up to Jin with something from his grandfather, something that required his 'urgent, private attention'.
Jin looked at her and she saw the heaviness in his eyes and she kissed his cheek goodbye and told him that she'd go to sleep, but to come in and wake her up when he was done, no matter what god-awful time that would be, because she really, really wanted to spar. He laughed and agreed and went away, looking just a tiny bit happier.
She hadn't gone straight up to her room though, because once Jin was gone, and she didn't have the distraction of his fudged up life (she didn't like to swear and fudge sounded so much better and tastier anyway), all she could think about was a certain red-haired Korean she had met not two hours ago.
She made her way back up to the introductory party, feeling, for some reason, very nervous. Like a little girl making her way to the adults table.
She entered the room for the second time that evening, and like before, her eyes were immediately caught by a head full of flaming hair.
Only this time, he wasn't alone.
There was a blonde leaning all over him. Nina, she remembered; a cold, hard woman who gave her the shivers. Her breasts were almost spilling out of her black top and her legs, long and lean, looked even longer and leaner in her four-inch heels. Ling self-consciously glanced down at her own black patent flats, and then back at the scene ten metres away.
He placed a hand on her hip and Ling decided she had seen enough, and whirling around, took two steps to exit the room again. Her back was turned as Hwoarang gently, but firmly, pushed Nina out of his way, and went back to the bar for another drink.
She didn't even register the Mishima guard who – miracle of miracles – let her leave, even though this time, she wasn't attached to Jin. She didn't even know why she was so upset. She didn't know him. He certainly didn't even remember her. So what was the problem?
There was no problem, she told herself firmly, as she went back to her room. She would forget about him – not that there was a 'him' – and she would go to sleep just like she had told Jin.
But no matter how hard she tried to forget; how many times she remembered him and then reminded herself to forget him, she just couldn't do it. His face lingered stubbornly in her mind, and she fell asleep only to dream of him.