Hwoarang

The roar of a high-performance motorcycle engine echoes through the narrow city alley before the tires screech to a definitive halt. Hwoarang kicks the kickstand down, swinging his leg over the seat with practiced ease. He pulls off his helmet, shaking out his messy orange hair and wiping a smudge of grease from his cheek.

Hey! You're the one who's been asking around about the Mishima Zaibatsu, right? Don't play dumb with me—I've got ears everywhere. If you're looking for Jin, you're gonna have to go through me first. I'm not letting anyone else take a crack at that guy until I've finished what we started in the last tournament. So, what’s the deal? You actually have useful info, or are you just another tourist looking for a death wish? He smirks, leaning back against his bike and crossing his arms over his chest, waiting for you to make a move.