Author's Notes: Ok I suppose I should have given more of an explanation for my incomplete story, “Stuck In My Ways”. That’s very easy to explain, and I can do it in four words. I AM A GEMINI.

Enjoy the Sequel ;)

Oh, and I decided to give Jin a bit of a bigger part… I change my mind a lot…

**Disclaimer**: I, Chloe, do not, in any way, own anything related to Tekken. Nor do I, in any way, shape, or form, promote drug use, or being unfaithful. In fact, I am completely against people who cheat on their partners.


Chapter 1 - Loveless, Shameless as You

By Chlover

Art. What was the big deal about art? Sculptures, paintings, whatever. Why were these idiots making so much money out of their crap? A three-year-old could toss a hunk of clay together or splatter a bunch of paint on a canvas. People call it talent? People pay tons of money for that crap? What for? Why don’t they do their own art?

At least 150 people crowded inside the museum. A few dramatic looking women crowded around a dark painting, discussing what the artist had been feeling, as if they understood. They wore all black, and they wore no makeup. One of them wore a beret. Drama queens. They didn’t understand darkness. Darkness was not something that was meant to be understood.

Hwoarang trailed lazily behind his girlfriend as she browsed through the art exhibit. It probably could have been worse. She could have taken him to a ballet. At least he was back in Asia. Back with his girlfriend. Back in his straight lifestyle, where the only secrets he had to keep was the pit fights.

It had been a little over a month since he had last seen Kazuya, and he counted on it being longer. A month for his wounds to heal… unknown to anyone else, there were a series of self inflicted wounds on his hands and chest. Of course, he always kept his gloves and shirt on, so he wasn’t worried about anyone seeing the wounds. Whenever Julia would see the ones on his chest, he’d simply tell her that he got into another fight. The lecture was better then what might happen if she knew the truth. She might think him suicidal or some stupid shit like that, and he didn’t need her constantly watching him, afraid he’ll jump off a bridge or something.

They stopped in a crowd of black-wearing depressed yuppies, where some perky scrawny guy was explaining the history of a specific painting. Hwoarang rolled his eyes and found himself scanning the other crowds. If only his old friends were there with him. At least with friends, he’d have someone to help him make fun of those beatniks. His eyes rested on someone wearing a blue jacket with the hood pulled up. It couldn’t be. Their back was turned so he couldn’t tell for sure.

“Shit,” He breathed as the figure turned around. Yep, it was Jin.

Julia looked up at Hwoarang, squeezing his hand, “What’s wrong?” Without even waiting for an answer, she followed his gaze to see Jin, “Oh! Let’s go say hi!”

“What?” Hwoarang asked absently, then looked at her in shock, “Go say Hi? Are you insane? We’re enemies, in case you forgot. I hate him!”

“Don’t be so stubborn. What harm can it do?” Julia pulled her boyfriend over to the other man, and tapped Jin on the shoulder, “Hello Kazama, Jin!”

Jin turned around calmly, hiding his surprise with great discipline. His eyes immediately came to rest on his rival, and his gaze did not move even as he spoke to Julia. “Hello, Julia,” He replied, pushing his hands into his pockets, nervously.

Julia nudged Hwoarang, “Don’t be rude, honey.”

“…You two are,” Jin paused, the corner of his mouth curling in a subtle smirk, “Together?”

“Yes,” She smiled, “Two years.”

Jin’s smirk became more definite, “Two years? Wow. Why didn’t you mention it the other day, Hwoarang?”

“The other day?” Julia looked at Hwoarang.

Hwoarang sneered, “It was a month ago,” He glared at Jin, “I’m going to get something to drink. Want anything, Jules?”

“Uh… Yeah. Water, please.”

“Water?” Hwoarang rolled his eyes, rambling as he walked away, “Who the hell drinks water anymore? Come on, LIVE a little! Fucking conservative tree-hugger.”

Jin quirked a brow, “Does he always talk to you like that?”

She shrugged, “Only when he’s doing me a favour. I think it’s a pride thing.”

“Mm hmm… Excuse me, please,” Jin said as he walked past Julia.

The trek to the snack table, where the drinks were, was difficult. Hwoarang wasn’t exactly experienced at moving through large groups of slow-assed yuppies. Why were they always standing in the middle of the path? There were areas to stand and stare at crap, but they completely ignored those areas.

The snack table didn’t have much variety. There was a bunch of cheese, and punch. Normally these occasions had wine too, but this one was hosted by one of those anti-smoking anti-alcohol anti-movement organizations. Even Hwoarang knew that those incredibly moral people had no place in the art community, but those kind of people seemed to be set on world domination.

“Blood Talon.”

Hwoarang jumped, spinning around on his heel, “Jesus fucking Christ! What the hell do you think you’re doing, sneaking up on me?”

Jin grinned and crossed his arms, “Is there a problem?”

“You’re damn right there’s a problem,” Hwoarang raged, resisting the urge to punch his rival out, “You asshole! What the fuck were you trying to accomplish, bringing up last month? You trying to give me a fucking heart attack?”

The Japanese man cringed as a group of passing people glared at them. He replied, in a calmer, quieter voice then his counterpart’s, “What I wanna know is what you were trying to accomplish when you… Attacked me, last month.”

Hwoarang opened his mouth to say something, but stopped, suddenly deciding against it. He looked away from Jin and shrugged, “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Oh well then maybe Julia will have an answer for me,” Jin smiled and turned to leave.

The Korean cursed to himself and grabbed his rival’s forearm, “Don’t even think about it.” Once Jin quirked an eyebrow, allowing Hwoarang to recall when that had been said before, Hwoarang continued, “Fine, asshole. I’ll talk, but not now.” He grabbed a napkin, “You got a pen?”

Jin pulled out a green fountain pen and scowled as the redhead snatched it out of his hand. “Help yourself,” he offered sarcastically.

“Ok,” Hwoarang scribbled something down in barely readable writing, “Meet me at this address tomorrow at 10 pm. If you’re even a second late, I won’t be there.”

“How do I know you’ll be there in the first place?”

The Korean rolled his eyes, “Look, if you want to talk to me, you’re going to have to compromise a little.”

Alone at last! What a night. If Hwoarang had to look at one more painting, he was certain the cops would have found him a week later, on the top of a billboard, painting random obscenities with the beatniks’ blood, and calling it art. He stopped in his tracks and considered the idea.

It was a bad neighbourhood, not a place he’d like Julia to catch him in, but from what Hwoarang understood, there were some pit fights going on every night. If only he could figure out where… Could it be that bar where men were staggering out, holding bloody noses? Perhaps. There was only one way to find out. But just seeing bloody noses wasn’t promising. Maybe it was just that it was still early in the night yet.

Hwoarang walked into the bar, noting two men by the door. Probably looking out for pigs. Yes! Perfect! A crowd was gathered in the centre of the room. All the tables had been shoved against walls. A man in a big coat approached the Korean and asked in Japanese, “Place a bet?”

“No,” Hwoarang replied in his stiff Japanese, “Get lost,” And pushed his way through the crowd, halfway until he could see what was going on.

A big guy was going against an even bigger guy. One of them looked Egyptian, while the other looked either Greek or Italian. Hwoarang couldn’t tell the difference. They exchanged a few slaps, but were focused mainly on staring the other down. Hwoarang studied their movement, planning his defence strategy for whomever he went up against.

Eventually, the Italian/Greek one flinched, and the Egyptian one attacked with a strange, but fatal technique. The man used less of his weight, going against the trend for men his size. His attacks were based on manipulating balance and speed. Lots of fake outs, and stealthily dodging potential retaliation. Hwoarang was in awe, but he knew it was nothing he couldn’t handle.

Within moments, the Italian/Greek man was reduced to a bloody pulp, being escorted out of the circle by a couple other Italian/Greek looking men. A waitress came into the centre, smiling as if it was a simple game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. “Anyone else dare to challenge our undefeated champion?”

Undefeated? Hwoarang smirked and stepped forward, “Sounds fun.” As he stepped up next to the Egyptian man, who was almost twice his size, he could hear the crowd murmuring and placing their bets. “Hey big daddy,” he winked at the big man, “Spend a little too much time at the buffet?”

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