Stepping back into the lockeroom from the hallway, Hwoarang began to pace back and fourth facross the cherry wood floor. Muttering to himself repeadidly in Korean, he burned in his recent defeat, and disqualification from the tournement.

"Six fucking rounds. What the hell..." He slipped his hand through his newly cut, short, burnt orange hair, his black teeshirt raising slightly, becoming untucked from his baggy camoflauge pants. Round six in the Iron Fist tournement against Bryan Fury had gained for him nothing more than a pounding headache and an extremely sore shoulder. "Goddamned cyber-fucked bastard." He grumbled before taking a step back and slamming his fist through the wall, leaving a clear view straight to the other side. Pulling his hand back softly, he gritted his teeth and a gutteral moan came from him. He hadnt meant to punch so hard.

Julia opened her eyes, startled as she sat on the floor of the womens lockerroom, nursing mental wounds of an early defeat. From where she sat, directly in front of her on the opposite wall, there was now a fist sized hole. She stood, and bent down only a bit, leaning against the wall behind her. Hwoarang bent down as well, only to see a brown haired woman, wearing glasses, starring back at him. Sh wore a black track jacket, faded tight blue jeans, and teal colored flip-flops.

he raised an eyebrow. He was a familliar face from tournements before, but she'd never fought him. From the way he looked, from his body to his apparent temper, she never wanted to. Without a word, he stepped back, grabbed his duffle bag from the bench, and pushed open the door only to bump into a taller, older man. The man had tall blonde, but greying hair, and a five o' clock shadow that had been working since two thirty of last year.

"Watch it kid." The man spoke, in a deep rusted voice, glarring right into Hwoarang's eyes. Hwoarang squeezed his bleeding fist tightly, before making the decision to abort his next bright idea, and walked around him. Quickly turning to his right, he felt a figure colide into his chest after a few feet of travel. Julia dropped her duffle bag and her book, loosing her ballance as well. With a stern face, he glanced down at the brown haired woman for a moment, then, feeling guilty, extended his hand. Unwillingly, she took the offer, and righted herself again. He apologized in Korean, but her brows furrled as she listened to him speak.

"Sorry." He spoke, clearing his throat before hand, perfect english rolling from his tongue. She pushed her reading glasses to the top of her head, little strands of hair falling before her eyes, and then picked up her book.

"It's alright." Struggling with its weight, she heaved the bag upwards, and over her shoulder. Casually, with his own bag in hand, he took hers and lifted both over his right shoulder, avoiding the injured left side.

"Where are you going?" He spoke in Korean again before she had a chance to protest his help. "Fuck." He spoke clearly again, and repeated himself in a langauge she could understand.. "Where are you headed to?"

"Mishima Towers hotel down the road. I'll be fine, its a short walk."

"If you consider a thirty minute walk with a forty pound bag short, then be my guest sweetheart." He smirked and flashed a cocky smile. "Besides, I dont think you'd make it before sunset." She scoffed, streached to her tip toes, and snatched the bag from him. In the dark hallway, she failed to realize the colors of the two bags. Throwing the army green bag over her shoulder insted of the navy blue, she took off in the opposite direction down the hall. Hwoarang smiled, shook his head, and kept about his way.

Outside, the sky sat ablaze with pink and yellow, with traces of day blue seeping between the mix of color. He inhaled softly, looking down across the busy street, taxi's and expensive cars streaming by in what seemed to be a never ending trail of gasoline fumes and tire marks. An old woman walked past him, starring at his appearance. A military degenerate, and although he no longer had to serve an organization which he hated, he carried it with him, whether he meant to or not. He tucked his dog tags into his shirt and walked towards the curb, his black combat boots sliding across the clean white concrete.

Throwing his bag into the trunk of the red taxi with an image of a sunset on the side of it, he looked back at the arena, shook his head, and got into the vehicle.