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There were still a few grains of rice clinging to the skin around Sugimoto's mouth when he suddenly leapt at the first lieutenant. The taste of plain onigiri lingered on his tongue as he reached for the older man with flexed hands thrown upward like an animal's claws.
For a man like Sugimoto, the thread of patience had always been a short one.
Even under the alliance, the pounding under his skull had not stopped since he'd come to in a hospital bed. Rage swarmed his veins, unending flurries of anger sparking adrenaline in his veins, preventing him from the restful recovery that his cannibalistic surgeon had recommended.
Asirpa had been kidnapped by a pair of low-life scum, he would definitely kill them on sight when he caught up. He'd been shot in the fucking head, and his skull was still aching despite the numbing agents they'd pumped into his system. His hairline felt wet like something was threatening to pool out of those bandages, keeping his gray matter in place. He was in the belly of the 7th division with no choice but to play nice with those bloodthirsty bastards. AND their twisted master was sitting right in front of him, smug and cheerful, stroking the same skins that Sugimoto had diligently peeled from the bodies of Abashiri convicts, unflinching, never forgetting the final shine that faded from their eyes.
For some reason, the sight of Tsurumi wearing that skin over his body (just like the rumors said) pushed Sugimoto over the edge.
It was like a taunt. Like he was saying— Look, here it is~ You wanted this, once. Didn't you? So take a look. I'm not afraid to show it to you because you can't have it, and you will never have it. So take a peek now because it's as close as you will ever get. I've won the game, and you've lost everything you cared about.
Sugimoto sprang from the mattress and dug his paws into Lieutenant Tsurumi, jerking him around and immediately fisting the collar of that human skin he wore like some perverse uniform.
As Sugimoto ripped it apart with his fists, it made a noise like tearing fabric.
It took him a moment to realize that beneath the leather, he'd also fisted the lieutenant's white, standard-issue shirt. He could handle two seams at once, and without pause for thought, Sugimoto tore both layers in a matter of seconds, baring Tsurumi's chest to the room and revealing a second layer of skin.
— For one insane second, Sugimoto wondered how long it would take him to tear that skin in half. If he could rip the flesh of Henmi, Nihei, Anehata, and so many others hot off their bodies, then why not Tsurumi, too? Find out firsthand if the self-proclaimed Shinigami still had a beating heart squirming under his barren ribcage.
He was about to yank the sleeves right off the lieutenant's shoulders, raising his hands to do it, when fresh pressure cuffed hard around his forearms. Tsurumi's hands gripped Sugimoto back with a paralleled lack of mercy, efficiently interrupting his violent rampage.
Sugimoto's face was creased with wild rage as he gnashed his teeth like a dog that had taken one too many beatings. He pressed against the lieutenant, whose grimace of stern effort spread wide across his bony facial structure. They strained against each other's might, though Sugimoto could feel the slightest advantage, having forced himself upon his adversary when his back had been turned. For this split second, Sugimoto had the upper hand, crowding Tsurumi back against the same table where he'd been admiring his macabre treasure map just a moment ago.
It was a drawn-out battle of attrition that Sugimoto felt sure he could win if he just persevered. The lieutenant's hands were clamped so tight around his wrists that Sugimoto felt his bones shifting. Of course, they both knew that would not be enough to deter him.
" Sugimoto ," Tsurumi hissed, physical strain pressing obviously through his voice but also cold anger.
The same colorless emotion penetrated through his evil eyes.
Despite the dangerous edge, Sugimoto was disgusted to spot the slow drip of pearly liquid under Tsurumi's head plate. Leaking spinal fluid, as he'd explained once before, though never spoken out loud, was another sick implication. Sugimoto was certain it signified something depraved whenever that wetness surfaced and seeped from the cover strapped around Tsurumi's head.
However, the sudden warmth spreading under his own bandages sent a new shudder through Sugimoto, compromising his control. The wetness was building by his forehead, caking the thick mane along his hairline, and before he could even account for the sensation, it dribbled from the edge of his face to splatter down upon the lieutenant's cheek.
He felt hot under his skin as the lieutenant's bare grimace morphed into a perverted smile.
A flash of movement interrupted Sugimoto's growing self-loathing, followed by a blunt, nauseating pain as Tsurumi shoved his knee between Sugimoto's legs with unapologetic force. Even Sugimoto the Immortal could not quite grit and bear the pain of getting kneed viciously in the balls.
His face screwed up, flinching in pain and blinking clear fluid from his eyes as it leaked out of his latest scar. It was enough to interrupt the brute force he bore down upon Tsurumi. The master strategist did not waste a second as he shoved Sugimoto backward, then unholstered his pistol to use it unceremoniously as a bludgeon against the back of the veteran's head.
The combination was enough to knock Sugimoto down, first to his knees with a solid thump, then down flat against his face, cheek pressed against the floorboards. It was a victory only because he was still recovering from the severe injuries of his previous battle. Sugimoto's eyes crossed as his vision slowly blotted out, and his heavy lids slipped shut, leaving Tsurumi to straighten out the room in the wake of this little fit.
In the safety of solitude, Tsurumi tutted in soft disappointment while examining the ripped seam of his wardrobe, far more concerned with the skin than his shirt. At least the shortsighted mongrel had not damaged the intricate inked pattern that had been painstakingly stabbed into the leather. Tsurumi schooled his expression before staring down at the aforementioned mongrel.
Sugimoto the Immortal was a fascinating specimen despite his rash emotions. He was truly a demon with a proper lust for brutality, a philosophy that Tsurumi could respect.
Snagging his hands under Sugimoto's armpits, he hoisted the limp mass of muscle and scar tissue from the floor and back into his sick bed, carefully arranging his blankets in a comfortable cover before striding back to his desk.
Gathering the coveted skins, Tsurumi concluded that it would not be prudent to continue flashing a red flag before a bull's molten eyes.