Chapter Text
The coarse fragments of gravel crunch beneath the soles of his shoes with each languid step, the light touch of the wind ghosts along the highs of his cheeks – and the sentiment that drips from that gust of air... It’s nothing short of a welcoming gesture that never fails to smooth the knit that sits between his eyebrows. Though he’s quite pressed for time, it’s not difficult to get lost like this. Lost in the beauty that the scenery that enshrouds his being proves to be considerate enough to place at his fingertips.
As the surge of the night pours in, it’s as if a cloak is draped over the dismayed skies above. The sight of the full moon, the pertinent reflection of that overwhelming need for fulfilment, frowning constellations that seem to call to the dire circumstances that unfold, akin to the freeing of an aggravated trapped spirit.
Exorcism, be damned; this now-liberated spirit leaves her mark on the land beneath her feet.
On this heavenly body, where the concept of ‘day’ fails to attest to its meagre existence. The unfulfilled promise of sunlight bears no meaning, no weight at all, really.
There’s something sinister that brews amongst the questionably rich foliage, amongst well-constructed territories, amongst the off-putting culture and demented way of life. Still, there’s a sense of untapped elegance here, amongst the darkness, amongst the morally corrupt and unpleasant – one that he longs to extract with nothing more than a flick of his finger.
Here, he stands with a rather lukewarm expression, as the insentient symbiote encircles his forearm and lunges toward his prey, sighing in relief as it breaches the human’s skin, swift in the way that it robs their pitiful body of the refined vitality that it once had. Like clockwork, the body struggles to withstand the weight of his actions, of how he prefers to extract his nourishment, burgeoning hideously as a pained groan leaves their lips, limbs twitching as they slowly transmute into the walking dead.
Gojo Satoru has grown quite fond of calling this holistic transmogrification ‘the dawn of a new day.’
Dawn ... it’s spiteful, a somewhat bitter intonation of what this land will never be able to attain.
Prefers to consider himself a beacon of truth, allowing pathetic humans to be something far greater than they can ever hope to be: the mere product of his enrichment, the chance to live on as an immortal being rather than being killed mercilessly.
Mindless, as the undead tend to be –
But still immortal, nonetheless.
Though he knows that it won’t last long. His clean-up crew that resides within this central region will take matters into their own hands, after all.
Shoving his fists beyond the pockets of his slacks, he closes his eyes as he feels a familiar sensation rippling throughout the stretch of his body, one that marks the onset of his spatial displacement. Squeezes with an intensity that fails to sway his receptors, that poses no threat to his senses. At the crux of this impression, he vanishes from behind the security of the rich foliage, leaving behind a tendril of blue-tinged smoke that disperses swiftly into the nighttime air.
Sighing, he rolls his shoulders as he lands, stepping beyond the threshold of his friend’s estate, his lips pressing into a thin line as he walks into the foyer. He catches sight of Shoko sitting in a high-back armchair, with her right leg thrown over the wooden arm, a cigarette perched between her lips as she uses a hand to hold onto the ponytail of the human that kneels between her thighs. And it seems as if the tepid reality of getting caught is what did it for her, taking a slow drag of the nicotine that eases into her lungs as she rolls her hips against the tongue that works against her clit, grunting lowly as her pleasure hits its peak, her inner walls fluttering as her climax washes over her.
Shoko exhales, her eyes locked on the trained mouth that proves to be efficient in the way that it works her through it, her hips jolting weakly when she tightens her grip on the human’s hair, urging her to continue her ministrations.
Impassive, Satoru slowly walks up to the pair, his gaze transfixed on the single digit that has been branded onto the skin of the human that hums as she dutifully licks along Shoko’s folds, knees digging into the tiles below. Without much thought, free of any sense of apprehension, he kicks Lucky Number Seven to the side – and the sheer force behind his attack sends her flying at a considerable speed across the notable expanse of the room, until she crashes into the wall, instantly killed by the impact.
Shoko doesn’t say anything at first, opts to pull another drag from her cigarette instead, taking a delight in the tingles that trickle towards the tips of her fingers as her body relishes the vestiges of her orgasm, her eyes finding their way to the human that now lay lifeless as her blood spreads along the grout of the tiles. Her gaze finds Satoru, who stands two feet away from where she sits, seemingly unperturbed by the indecent display, by her nakedness. She speaks, then, her voice levelled and even. “Oh, you’re here.”
Satoru rolls his eyes.
“How irritating. ‘Oh, you’re here?’” he scoffs, and the mocking intonation sears past a pair of eardrums. He takes a step back to allow her some room as she stands to her feet, watches as she reaches for the oversized shirt that sits on the end table nearby. Satoru tilts his chin forward, reaching within the pocket of his unfastened blazer to withdraw the now... neutralised critter that he holds by the wing membrane, devoid of any sense of consideration or care. “Doesn’t seem like you’re excited to see me. Which is rich because you sent your bat with such a sweet little message.”
Shoko looks at the unmoving body of the animal, and she slowly shakes her head. Her voice is coloured with disbelief when she asks, “You killed the bat?”
Satoru blinks at her, furrows his eyebrows slightly as he tries to process the purpose of the question, his expression blank. “Did you care for it?”
“No, but–”
“Then why does it matter if I killed the messenger or not?”
At the challenge that divulges towards an unsettling attestation of his character, there’s a stretch of silence that follows; one that has the hair on the nape of Shoko’s neck standing on end.
She lets out a sigh that leaks with exasperation, that leaks along the lifted edges of indiscernible cracks; she pulls the shirt over her head and feeds her arms through the sleeves. “Whatever, man. Do whatever you want.”
Satoru’s lips curve into a snarky, lopsided grin, tongue peeking along the tip of his fang.
“Was definitely planning on it. Hm, there you go,” he says, a faint glow that blooms within the irises of his eyes, adding a touch of further significance to the hue as he summons an unscathed messenger, grinning as the bat moves to rest onto the wooden arm of the chair. “Brand new. Consider me a Samaritan.”
Shoko hums as she pushes her feet into her sandals, yawning softly as she reaches beneath the hem of her shirt to scratch at her stomach.
Satoru throws an arm over her shoulder, leaning in close as he speaks. “But back to the main event, darling: Come see me. Those were your words, and they made me smile a little. I was starting to think that you missed me or something.”
Shoko’s expression twists into a snarl when Satoru nudges her forward with a subtle drive of his elbow. “God, cut the bullshit. Wanted to show you something.”
As they walk along the stretch of the foyer, Satoru seems to latch onto Shoko’s shallow irritation, vaguely recognising that the emotion that fuels his retaliation is rather misguided, misdirected. Yet, he allows it to unfold, allows it to spread malignancy like a virus. “Well, get to it, then. You’ve been doing nothing but fucking around since I walked in here. Surely the matter can’t be that pressing.”
Shoko falters, her teeth grinding into the filter of the cigarette, the sting of tobacco staining the surface of her tongue. As they amble towards a pair of steel doors, they fail to deliver any acknowledgement to the footman who has taken the liberty of removing the corpse near the exit of the foyer. “Hm, it isn’t pressing at all. You’re more than free to leave if you want. Didn’t even expect you to drop everything as soon as you read the message and fucking sprint here. As you would have seen, I was in the middle of something.”
Satoru frowns. “In the middle of something? You had a bitch eating your pussy.”
Shoko takes a slow drag from her cigarette, the embers coming to life as she inhales deeply, and groans as the nicotine does nothing to placate her frustration. “Yeah, that counts as being in the middle of something, jackass. And she would’ve still been eating my pussy, had you not dropped everything and showed up at my damn doorstep acting like you own the place.”
“...Did you care for that piece of shit corpse?”
“Care? Please don’t be ridiculous. That’s not the fucking point that I’m trying to make, Satoru.”
As they now stand in front of those fated steel doors, Satoru moves behind her, pulling her into his embrace as he rests his chin on her shoulder. And Shoko knows all too well that the strange physical affection usually rears its ugly head when he’s about to say something heinous. Almost as if the purpose is to cushion the blow, that motherfucker.
“How could I not drop everything? I received such a romantic and heartwarming invite from my dear friend. I’d like to make something clear, though,” he begins, the sincerity of his words is guided along the lobe of her ear, ghastly and foreboding. “I don’t care about your dead pet over there, and I don’t care about your need to cum, Shoko. Ride these bitches faces on someone else’s time and show me whatever it is that you’re so proud of, yeah? Unless you’re looking for an audience to watch you let a loser get you off? Is that what you’re offering?”
Can’t say that Shoko’s surprised.
Because she isn’t, truly.
She sighs tiredly, running a hand through her hair. “You’re fucking insufferable.”
He straightens his posture and gently nudges her forward, fishing into the pocket of his slacks for the pack of cigarettes that his body seems to have a penchant for. He brings one to his lips, holds it between his teeth as the red light of the door’s keypad flickers within his peripheral vision, “That’s nothing new. But before you start rambling about semantics that I’ll never be assed enough to even attempt to understand, give me a light.”
“Mhm, sure,” Shoko mutters, giving him a once-over before she leans in close enough to press the end of her cigarette against Satoru’s, puffing lightly until the end of his catches alight.
“Thanks,” he hums, holding the smoke within his lungs for a moment before he exhales soundlessly. “Alright, start talking.”
Shoko gestures towards the steel doors. “The lab.”
“What about it?”
She holds her hand out, her palm outstretched. “Come with?”
Without hesitation, he reaches for the warm gesture, questions bubbling in his throat as he watches her quickly input the security code onto the keypad, chewing on the inside of his cheek as the device chimes loudly and they’re granted access to the laboratory.
Satoru’s jaw drops as they step beyond those steel doors and into the beatitude of this place of research. He looks around – his eyes darting to the somewhat-endless row of metal pods, to the chemical equipment and tools that are housed near the centre of the room.
“Fuck, you’ve done a lot since the last time I was in here,” Satoru breathes, lips pulling over his teeth in a wide grin. “I wouldn’t have even believed this was the same place. Good job, darling! It looks great, all high-tech and expensive – like you actually know what you’re doing. Now talk to me; explain what’s going on here to someone who knows essentially nothing.”
Shoko lets the response swell on the surface of her tongue, ponders what she would like to touch on first before she speaks again. “Mm, well. Where do I even begin? For starters, they’re pods.”
But this delay proves to be too much for Satoru, and he finds himself sighing despite himself. “Strike while the iron’s hot, princess. My attention span is drifting.”
Truthfully, this leaves a questionable taste that brews at the back of her throat, and she swallows thickly, slowly turning to face him entirely.
“Even for your treasured best friend?” she asks, leaning forward to press the tip of her cigarette against the one that hangs from Satoru’s parted lips, puffing shallowly as she clings to her vice. “How terrible, Satoru. Truly. That patience of yours could really use some work.”
His patience?
Satoru arches an eyebrow at that. “Hm. Do you need me to be better?”
“I do, actually,” Shoko insists, her expression calm and collected. “Can’t really tell if you’re interested or not if this is how you’re behaving.”
“I’m interested, I’m interested, I promise,” Satoru tries, holding his hands up defensively. “I’m just really excited to see what you created. Kind of feels like you’re drawing it out even though I came rushing here to see you.”
Shoko stares at him for a moment, unblinking.
“Okay, that’s fair,” she says slowly, grinding her teeth into each syllable as she sits into one of the armchairs nearby, “but how about you tone down that hostility now that we’re addressing this? Because I don’t appreciate it.”
Satoru tilts his head, closing the clipped distance between them. “Would a kiss make you feel better?”
She seems to ponder this briefly. “Yeah. But not from you, though.”
“Too bad. That’s what you’re getting,” he snorts, and he reaches for her wrist before he leans forward to press a chaste kiss against the back of her hand. Satoru barely registers the two humans that weakly crawl around the laboratory, on their hands and knees, nails digging into the flooring below.
One of the humans makes eye contact with Shoko, her jaw slackening as she begins to feel the touch of dread, of discomfort, interweaving through the vital spots of her body, nestling itself into every vein, every artery, in every muscle fibre that group together to flex beneath the surface of her skin.
She rushes over to where Shoko sits, frantic as she settles between her legs, spreading them gently, mumbling something unintelligible as she monitors Shoko’s indifference, leaning close enough where the warmth of her breath spreads over her possessor’s folds.
And the human almost manages to do what she considers to be her due diligence –
That is, until Satoru grabs her by the collar of her dress shirt and slams her across the room, careful to avoid any of his dear friend’s most precious and valued equipment.
A gust of consideration that merely serves to sweeten the reprehensible.
“Shoko,” he says, through gritted teeth, his gaze flickering to the fatally wounded human who fails to show any sign of movement against the flooring, “I thought that I said on someone else’s time?”
Shoko shrugs, non-committal, “Sorry, man, that’s how they get whenever they’re idle.”
Satoru rolls his eyes and lets out a sound of utter disbelief. “Maybe you should train them to have personalities outside of being walking clit suckers.”
Shoko sighs, standing to her feet and walking over to one of the pods. “Then they’d have no value otherwise.”
She watches closely as Satoru’s gaze flickers from pod to pod, transfixed on the bubbling fluid that's housed on the inside. “Addressing the elephant in the room, I’ve expanded. Last time you stepped foot in here, I might have had... what, maybe four or five fully-functioning pods?”
Pulled from his reverie, Satoru hums in acknowledgement. Though he sports an off-handed inflection like a second skin. “I think so, yeah. I remember one wasn’t operational at the time.”
“Exactly. But look around you; now, I have so much more,” she croons, pride blooming beautifully along her features, “Seventy pods per lab, all operational and currently occupied.”
“Occupied?” Satoru lilts, squinting as his gaze falls on the metal pods that seem to call out to him with promises of a rather eventful future. “Occupied with what, exactly?”
“Food,” Shoko says, simply. “Catch.”
She throws two vials into his waiting hand – one that has been kissed with the untold promise of daytime, and one that bears the weight of what’s appalling.
“I’ve figured out a way to breed humans in these pods, essentially,” she begins. “Sparing you too much of the boring details, my team has the role of retrieving reproductive cells from the humans that they have in captivity for the mere means of external fertilisation. Upon fertilisation, I place the zygote in these pods right here, where the remainder of the foetal development happens. The conjuring tricks of infancy, childhood, adolescence and adulthood, or whatever the fuck. All that bullshit happens within these fancy little pods, but, of course, at an expedited rate.”
Satoru whistles, takes a step forward to run his hand along the smooth surface of the pods.
“Look down,” Shoko nearly orders, smiling when Satoru obliges easily. “You have a vial in each hand. I’ve conducted many experiments with these useless guinea pigs. Fuck, a load’s worth. I locked myself in this lab for days and days and days – running test after test after test, and I finally figured this shit out. Are you still with me, baby boy?”
Satoru clicks his tongue, trails his thumb along the vials that rest against his palm, “I’m all ears, darling. But before you tell me the good news, how long does it take for the zygote to reach the mid-adulthood stage?”
“A week,” Shoko replies, tapping against the window that allows the humans to be seen once they’re stored within the security of the pod. “The fluid that they’re submerged in is filled with what’s needed to speed-run their growth, so to speak. Seven full days of waiting, then dinner is served. Consider me the greatest chef to grace this shithole of a planet.”
Definitely impressive, Satoru thinks.
Shoko has always been one to bring forth good results. Results that easily catapult him into a staggering sea of profit.
“Hm, okay. Stunning work, but sell the product to me. How will this differ from regular ole humans picked up off the street?” he taps at his chin, slowly pacing back and forth. “I can snatch up a few humans standing near the road, about a block away. No need to wait seven days for that.”
“I’ve figured out how to make their blood even more delicious to consume, but I’ll inevitably leave that up for you to decide if there’s a difference or not,” she hums, pulling back the lever that opens the door of one of the pods. “So, as it pertains to the good news, in your left hand is a vial of distress and in your right is a vial of joy.”
“Huh. Distress and joy?” Satoru tilts his head, furrowing his eyebrows. “You’re losing me a little.”
“Keep up, babes. Regular treatment of the fluid with either of these two vials can either make or break the taste of these undesirables,” she states, pulling the unconscious body of a human that has been treated with the contents of the distress vial. She offers a wave of her hand, a mere brush of encouragement. “Go on, try it.”
Satoru gives her a sceptical look, wariness settling on the lips that press into a harsh line before he holds an arm out, the symbiote beginning to lift from the surface of his skin.
“Use your fangs,” Shoko chastises quickly. “No zombies in the lab.”
Satoru exhales audibly. “You people and your rules.”
He leans in, lips hovering over the neck before he bites down, gagging as his stomach wretches painfully. Grimacing, he shoves the body to the side, inhaling deeply as he struggles to regain his composure.
Shoko stares at him in amusement. “Terrible, right?”
Satoru holds onto his hips, regulates the pace of his heartbeat, “That’s fucking disgusting.”
Shoko moves toward another pod before she unlocks it swiftly. “That’s how the taste ends up when the fluid’s been treated with distress. Kind of like how the texture of meat changes unfavourably in slaughterhouses when the animals are stressed out or by drawn-out killings.”
“Okay, yeah. I’m following now. The trauma or whatever.”
“Exactly. Now try this one,” she says, retrieving the body from the fluid that was treated with the vial of joy. And Satoru simply wants to get this over with, opts to meet Shoko halfway, reaching out for the body and immediately sinking his teeth into its neck. Shoko stands there expectantly, “How is it?”
Satoru’s knees buckle.
He groans lowly at the impeccable flavour, the smoothness of the blood that spreads along the surface of his tongue, enriching every atom that bears the weight of the make up of his entire being.
“Wait,” he grunts, and his hands quiver slightly. “Shoko –”
Shoko snickers lowly. “It’s good, right?”
“Fuck,” Satoru breathes when he pulls away to fill his lungs with much-needed air, “Holy fuck. That’s quite the fucking difference. Shit, yeah. Okay. I’m sold. Those other dickheads don’t compare to this.”
“I know. So,” she croons, holding a printed operational plan between her fingertips. “Ready to talk business?”
⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆
Over the past six months, it has proven to be a very lucrative business that has expanded several times over, one that was built on a strikingly solid foundation. A foundation that has been levelled off by meticulous and intense research, by trial and error, by fact-finding, and by the completion of tedious groundwork.
Exploration, the need to make certain of what is in demand, and what public society would be interested in seeing come to pass, plays a rather pivotal role amongst these high-risk waters. Satoru, who oversees the marketing, the distribution and the selling of the product, can’t help the proud smile that blooms onto his features as he observes the overall ruination of their lacklustre competitors. A deliciously stunning fall from grace.
Cocksure losers who cannot light a candle to what he and Shoko have created for themselves, with a few familial and helping hands who have decided to dedicate their lives to the upholding of the operation’s now-favourable reputation.
Ah, those losers. Those failed businessmen have given themselves no room for growth or monumental development. Who have drowned in the calming seas of complacency. What was once a feasible business operation – the capturing and distributing of humans for consumption – has staggered to an unforeseen halt, profit-wise.
Alas, it boded well at first. But after the successful start-up of the business that Satoru and Shoko poured their energy into, the start-up of something that has never been done before, that stands unchallenged in the centre of the market, the performance fell flat.
Seems as if the public prefers the taste of something a little more... organic.
The fruit of rigorous labour is far sweeter on the tongue, after all.
As Sukuna stands beneath the pavilion that sits near the outside of one of the laboratories, he draws in a languid breath before he exhales soundlessly through gritted teeth. Suddenly, he feels a foreboding presence, one that feels familiar yet unwelcoming, and he turns his head – coming in contact with an eye of such a great size, unsettling in the way that holds the same height as he does. The eye is held open by six metal prongs, with one end attached to his eyelid itself and the other end attached to the weakened skin that’s pulled taut surrounding it.
Unblinking, of course, the eye speaks. “Sukuna.”
Sukuna arches an eyebrow, groaning inwardly because this eye’s sudden appearance can only mean one thing. “Vladmyr? Man, what the hell does he want now?”
Vladmyr shifts slightly as a thin trail of blood begins to trickle from his eyelid. “Master would like for you to activate the barrier around Madam Ieri’s laboratories. He suspects that his actions are being monitored.”
Sukuna hums, leaning against the wooden post of the pavilion as he folds his arms over his chest. “Hm? Sure, but... monitored? By who?”
“He isn’t entirely sure. The miscreants do not pose much of a threat, either. This is merely a safety precaution in direct relation to his assets.”
“Understood. But tell him that he owes me for all this effort that I’m exerting,” Sukuna mutters, outstretching his hand to guide a translucent curtain near the skies above, allowing it to be draped over the laboratory that is the closest to the pavilion, effectively concealing the building from the sight of any onlookers. “Feels like I’m wasting most of it.”
Vladmyr bears no expression, but Sukuna can tell that he doesn’t appreciate the comment by the bitter surge of his energy that cloaks over his being threateningly. “I will do no such thing, you ingrate.”
What a hard-ass.
Should have blinded him while I had the chance, Sukuna thinks morbidly.
“Whatever,” he barks out, flexing his hand after adjusting the effectiveness of the barrier. “Always so overprotective of Satoru like he’s gonna bend over for you or something. Look at you, you lame ass bitch.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
A puff of light blue smoke appears as Satoru steps onto the pavilion, materialising from the crisp night air. At the burn of Vladmyr’s tension that still hangs in the space between them, he tilts his head, his gaze darting between Sukuna and the eye that flinches at the weight of his presence. “Hm? What are you two talking about?”
Vladmyr moves back several metres, the metal prongs cracking slightly. “Master! ”
“Hey, you,” Sukuna snickers, reaches for the three blood bags that Satoru push against his chest, placing them on the surface of the end table nearby. Extracted from the distributed merchandise, a mere reward for his continued hard work. “I’m not done erecting all of what you asked for, but these barriers are sucking me dry, man. What the fuck.”
Satoru stares at him, guise unreadable, as his feeding symbiote encircles the stretch of his forearm and lifts from his skin, slithering through the wind that rushes from Sukuna’s lungs at the sight of it. Satoru’s voice is clipped when he speaks again. “Better the barriers than me, yeah?”
Sukuna shakes his head, grimacing as it begins to trail along Satoru’s biceps mindlessly. “Put that shit away. Fuck, that never fails to freak me out. So gross-looking.”
Satoru rolls his eyes, his expression impassive. “Shut it. It wasn’t gross when you begged me to plug it up your ass some months ago.”
At that, Vladmyr turns to look at Sukuna.
Sukuna avoids his gaze.
“Here you fucking go. Always bringing this bullshit up,” he spits after a moment’s reflection, utterly embarrassed, and Satoru takes note of the light flush that begins to colour his cheeks. “Fuck you.”
All bark, no bite.
Nothing new there.
Satoru sighs, rubbing the nape of his neck. “Fuck me? That’s over and done with. Or did you forget? Mr. Put Your Feeder Inside Me?”
Sukuna splutters indignantly, the recollection – memories of that brief moment of depravity comes rushing in and nearly knocks him off-balance. “It was eight months ago, and I was... I was fucking drunk, you piece of –”
Satoru nods dutifully, humming to himself. “How cute of you to keep track of how much time has passed since you wanted your ass played with by the man you essentially work for. But, whatever. For your benefit, I’m changing the topic.”
And Vladmyr is still staring at Sukuna, silent as he processes the interaction. Or rather... his reaction to it.
“You’re unbelievably irritating,” Sukuna groans, rubbing at his temples. “Seriously.”
“Right, so. Any issues lately?” Satoru lilts, pressing the wrinkle out of Sukuna’s dress shirt, glancing at Vladmyr, who now turns to look at him, listening attentively. “Let me rephrase. Is there anything that Shoko and I should be concerned about?”
Sukuna takes a step forward. “No. The labs are fine, last time that I checked.”
When the gust of wind claws at their skins, they turn as they all feel the presence of two people and Sukuna, immediately, hops onto the offensive, craning his ears as he latches onto the distant sound of footsteps – languid, unhurried, as if they’re unfamiliar with these grounds in particular. As if there’s no promise of danger afoot, lying in wait.
Led astray, these poor fools.
A small child giggles softly, holding onto his mother’s hand as he points towards the laboratories that have yet to be concealed by Sukuna’s barrier. “ Whoa, mommy, mommy! What are those huge-looking buildings?”
And the mother feels the touch of malevolence that stains his presence, then turns her head to look in his direction with widened eyes. Blinks as breathtakingly blue irises seem to burn beyond her retinas, a sense of recognition blooming haughtily onto her features as she swallows thickly. “I... I-I’m not sure, honey, b-but le–”
The sound of two bullets firing cuts through the stillness of the air, and Satoru looks at Sukuna, who’s holding two .44 magnum calibre titanium gold pistols in both hands, with smoke leaking from the muzzle and dispersed by the chill of the wind that now howls in applause, in mockery.
“Ah,” is all he says, stunned as he looks at the bodies that have dropped onto the ground below. “Sukuna, you just killed them.”
"Uh–” Sukuna blinks, placing the firearms in the holsters fastened to his hip. “Reflex. Sorry.”
“You know what? Nah, you’re just doing your job, considering what’s at stake here. At least it was painless. Silver lining, maybe?” Satoru asks, trapped in the nauseating maze of his justification, and he outstretches his hand, beckoning for Sukuna’s undivided attention now that there’s a mess to clean up. “Come on, let’s see who they are. Can’t make out their identities from this distance.”
Sukuna reaches for the hand that guides him from the pavilion and onto the lonely streets, until they’re now standing above the corpses that fail to bleed onto the gravel below as Satoru’s energy that’s been embedded into each bullet continues to feed on what’s left of their physicality.
Satoru squints briefly, placing his hands on his hips as his eyes widen slightly, throwing his head back and laughing heartily as he realises who has just died by their hands. “Holy fuck, Sukuna. This is rich. This is real fucking rich.”
Sukuna doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.
Or what he’s getting at.
“What,” he says, sounding slightly brittle. “You know them or something?”
Satoru arches an eyebrow, shifting the weight on his feet from one leg to another. “You don’t?”
Sukuna sticks his tongue out. “Never saw them a day in my damn life.”
So much for the Chief of Surveillance and Defence.
Satoru smiles as he rests a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “I keep tabs on those who are adamant about keeping my name in their mouths. She’s Guino’s wife. Guino ... the leader of the Gobana gang. And I guess that’s his kid.”
“Guino?” Sukuna sniffs, rolling his shoulders. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“That’s the man who kept complaining about our business. Keep up, babes. The same one who kept yelling about me fucking up his profit or whatever. Like I give a fuck about any of that.”
Sukuna’s jaw slackens as he recalls the slew of posts that had dragged Satoru’s name through the damn mud a few months prior. “Ah... that guy...”
Satoru turns his attention to the corpses that lie at his feet. “I don’t know how the hell she got over here, though? His turf is central?”
At the silence that follows, Satoru looks up at the indecipherable expression on Sukuna’s face, the tension that sits unprettily between the inner corners of his eyebrows. The slight frown that tugs at his lips.
He blinks, questions rising like bile at the back of his throat. “What’s wrong?”
Sukuna sighs deeply, his gaze transfixed on the entry point of the bullet on the woman’s skull. “I just – I don’t know. Don’t wanna cause any problems for you.”
Satoru smiles sweetly, reaches out to give his hand a comforting squeeze. “It’s fine, Sukuna. She saw the labs, and she saw us standing here. I’m on her husband’s radar, so she knows what I look like. I’m certain she would’ve talked and, inadvertently, fucked us over. Or put us in a tight spot, at the very least. You did well. You did the right thing.”
Sukuna’s shoulders slump by a mere fraction, but Satoru catches the movement. “Really?”
“Mhm,” Satoru grins, making the effort to sound reassuring. “I’m not upset. In fact, I’m rather pleased by the turn of events. Miserable motherfucker. Hope the grief fucking kills him.”
The praise itself stems from a questionable place, but it seems to be enough to help Sukuna regain his peace of mind – and he straightens his posture, his lips pursing into a thin line. “Great. Now he’s really gonna have a bone to pick with you.”
How rich, indeed.
Satoru snickers at the thought. “Mmm, sure. He will... if he knows that we did this. Who’s to say that he’ll find out?”
Sukuna stares at him, expressionless.
“With that being said,” Satoru purrs, turning to look at the eye that’s close enough to brush against his shoulder, reaching out to wipe away the blood that trickles from the broken skin that’s pulled by the metal prong. “My darling Vladmyr.”
The eye shifts, basking in the fleeting affection. “ Yes, Master ?”
“See to it that these stragglers are not found anywhere near this place. I suggest that you dump the bodies in the river near his turf. A little surprise wouldn’t hurt,” Satoru offers a controlled smile. “I doubt that it matters, but to be on the safe side, ensure that Sukuna’s energy and my energy are stripped from both stragglers before doing so. Understood?”
“Yes, Master,” Vladmyr says. “I will handle the matter swiftly.”
Sukuna and Satoru watch as Vladmyr moves forward, blue light pouring from his pupil, enshrouding the bodies of the deceased in warmth before they disappear in a cloud of smoke.
“Well, now that that’s over with,” Satoru starts, pushing his forefinger against Sukuna’s chest. “You–”
Sukuna rolls his eyes. “Ugh.”
“Get those barriers up. And quickly.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆
The underground fight scene is not known to everyone, but it’s known to a great deal of those who have decided to inhabit these lands. Located thirty-five metres beneath the surface, this weekly event has garnered the attention of those who have a penchant for betting, for those who enjoy the rush of the athleticism and palatable competition, for those who enjoy sports that are often difficult to predict the outcome of, for those who enjoy watching others succumb to their shattered pride, for those who enjoy some partial participation of the art behind each drive of a fist.
In the octagon stand two of the fight scene’s best fighters – Geto Suguru and Enmi Gornes, both of who have gained a considerable amount of traction for their footwork, for their strategy, for their skills that have propelled them near the top of the fight scene ladder, leaving their mark for years to come.
As Suguru adjusts the wrap on his hands, the commentators begin to fan the flames of anticipation, instigating the hungry, cheering crowd. “Geto Suguru’s stepping into the octagon now. How do you think this is gonna go?”
The other commentator sighs into the microphone, genuinely at a loss for words. “Shit, Geto Suguru... well, as we all know, he’s never been defeated. Ever. Quite the force to be reckoned with. But, based on previous fights, Enmi seems to hold himself well. Fight style’s kind of unpredictable. Sharp. Strong on offence. Good on defence, too. Got quite a bit of wins under his belt, you know? Might be able to stand his ground – do a great deal of damage.”
“Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Yeah, man. It’s truly hard to say.”
As both opponents move to stand in front of each other, the referee speaks, haughty and authoritative. “Let’s have a clean fight, gentlemen. Listen to my instructions at all times. You must defend yourselves at all times. I will enforce the agreed-upon rules of this competition, but you are responsible for your safety. You can touch gloves if you want. Back to your corners.”
The audience cheers as Suguru and Enmi slowly move towards either side of the octagon, muscles flexing beneath their skins as they prepare for the impending start of the match.
Utahime gasps as she glances at the screen that televises the ongoing fight of the night, one that bodes well in Suguru’s favour, and she rushes over to her seated companions, struggling to hold a great deal of blood bags against her chest.
When she hastily drops the bags onto the surface of the table, Yuki gives her a once-over, a scowl brewing on her features.
“What are all those blood bags for?” she lilts, holding her chin in the palm of her hand, unblinking as the commentators begin to screech with excitement. “We fed earlier.”
Utahime nearly gags at the implication.
“These aren’t for you, you freak,” she hisses, though she flushes at Yuki’s hand that creeps toward her inner thighs. “These are for when Suguru wins his fight, duh.”
Yuki doesn’t particularly care that Utahime seeks her out frequently for physical and emotional intimacy, whilst her apparent infatuation with Suguru clings to her like a second skin. To be frank, it’s a spit to the face, yet Yuki stands there with her mouth open, tongue held out to catch it – because Utahime is a stunning girl and has proven over and over to be a damn amazing lay;
But, boy, is she a fucking idiot sometimes.
Yuki sighs tiredly, shifts her chair back to allow them a bit more room as she watches the way Utahime climbs onto her lap, her miniskirt pulling taut over her skin. “Please tell me that you... are aware of the fact that he doesn’t consume human blood... right?”
Utahime freezes, her eyes widening. “Wh– what? You’re fucking kidding.”
“No, the guy doesn’t feed on humans, Utahime,” Takuma mutters from across the parsons dining table, fingertips drumming against the wooden surface. “Everybody knows that.”
“Everybody except me, what the fuck?” she yells, eyes flickering towards the television screen. “What should I get him then? A badger? Would that work? I don’t have much time! They’re on the final round!”
Takuma sinks further in his seat, shrugging, non-committal. “Figure it out yourself and spare the rest of us the noise, holy shit. Your voice is extremely grating.”
Utahime sighs deeply, doesn’t react to the chin that digs into her shoulder, to the lips that press against her neck fleetingly, but she does react to the hand that moves between her legs – shudders as she holds onto Yuki’s wrist beneath the table and spreads her thighs, granting access to the playful fingers that press against the crotch of her underwear.
“Aw, poor baby. You’re disappointed, aren’t you? My stupid, stupid girl,” Yuki laughs breathily against the shell of her ear and the insult, tinged with vehemence, burns unforgivingly. “You can’t do anything right, can’t you? Want me to eat this pussy later? It’ll make you feel so much better. Make you forget all about how useless you can be.”
Utahime turns to look at Yuki over her shoulder. “You promise? Better make it worth it since that mouth of yours is all you’re damn good for, asshole.”
Yuki smiles then, tense and controlled as Utahime reaches down to pull the fabric of her underwear to the side and guides Yuki’s finger to her clit. “Oh, it’ll be worth it, alright. Miserable bitch.”
Kento groans in utter dismay at the interaction from where he sits at the table, rolling his eyes. “I’m just impatiently waiting for these two to acknowledge that they actually have feelings for each other so they can stop hounding the rest of us with this ‘hateful’ bullshit. You guys aren’t fucking fooling anyone, not even yourselves.”
Takuma ignores the pair altogether, blinking as he looks down at the screen of his phone. “Huh.”
Kento arches an eyebrow. “What?”
“There’s a bounty that’s been posted...”
“A new one?”
Takuma swallows as he taps at his phone screen. “Yeah. Was added a couple of minutes ago.”
New bounties are added just about every week, so Kento doesn’t think much of it.
“Hm,” he doesn’t have much to say to that, lets the idea sit on his psyche for a few seconds before he takes a sip from his blood bag. “Who’re they trying to get rid of?”
Takuma furrows his eyebrows, pinching the screen to zoom into the photograph of the person of interest on the new bounty entry. “Someone by the name of.... Gojo Satoru? Ever heard of him?”
Kento frowns as he tries to recall why that name sounds eerily familiar, the narrative spread by word of mouth sitting on the tip of his tongue – and his expression softens as he’s able to think back to what Choso had mentioned to him a few weeks ago.
“Ah, him. Vaguely. Heard a couple of stories in passing, you know? The same ones that have been floating around recently. Says that he’s the supposed reason for the rise in zombified humans roaming around lately. I don’t know the details, but it’s something about his messy feeding habits,” Kento explains, moving close enough to where he’s able to lean over to look at Takuma’s phone screen. “Not that the zombified humans pose a threat to us or anything... they’re just a bitch to clean up.”
Takuma gives him a once-over. “Gonna take the job?”
“Not damn me,” Kento huffs. “I’ve got enough problems, as it is.”
Masamichi walks up to the table, then overhears the conversation that unfolds over the distant roar of the audience nearby. “You’re looking at the bounty?”
Takuma rests his phone down. “Mhm. We were.”
Masamichi sits in the vacant seat next to Kento. “I think I’ll have a couple of my men go after him. Feed them the information that I know about Gojo Satoru. That’s quite the delicious price tag that Guino placed on his head. Fuck, I’d be set for life, you hear me? How hard can it be anyway? He’s just one vampire.”
Set for life?
Takuma and Kento give each other a knowing glance.
One of the commentators screams into the microphone, his excitement reverberating throughout the fight scene, over the animated audience, as Suguru’s opponent lay unconscious at his wrapped feet. “And the winner of today’s fight is: Geto Suguru!”
⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆
One week later, the air around Satoru’s estate is crisp, suffocating indescribably. Perhaps, it’s the intermingling of his energy, the delicious and hefty weight of his transgressions that has acridity unfurling against his insatiable palate with every inhale through his parted lips. Satoru stands near the barren road as the wind begins to increase the force behind its endless dance, a slight push of encouragement that somehow digs into the small of his back.
Though unfazed, Satoru places a hand on his hip at the appearance of a member of his kind that emerges from the thick foliage nearby, and the trespasser's intentions are etched into that cynical expression that he wears with apparent pride.
Atsuya disregards the slight glow to Satoru’s irises, a subtleness that seems to strike within the darkness that continually spreads over the land, as well as the six eyes that now hover around his head with grace and finesse. “Fuck, Masamichi was spot-on with the intel. So this is your little hideout.”
Satoru’s stance is rather relaxed, uncaring, as Atsuya takes a step closer, testing the waters. “...And you are?”
“My name isn’t important, you idiot,” Atsuya proffers a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ve come for your head, Satoru.”
Satoru frowns at the insolence, but his displeasure is quickly washed away by the sight of his lips curling over his teeth in an amused grin. “My, oh my. Satoru? I’m gonna be honest, champ. It’s a little daunting for you to call out to me as if we’re friends or something. Weren’t you taught a thing or two about honourifics? Manners, maybe?”
Atsuya takes another step closer, unaware of the fact that one of Satoru’s eyes is now fixated on the centre of his forehead, the iris glowing brightly. “Honourifics won’t be needed since you’re already knocking on Death’s Door, kid.”
Satoru’s grin widens at the images, at the information that flickers against the forefront of his mind, dialogues that float along the edge of his stream of consciousness. Memories, experiences, and interactions all unfold like flowers that bloom during the first eventful day of spring, and Satoru opts to keep his head held high, opts to keep his expression impassive.
How interesting, he thinks, swallowing down the amused chuckle that threatens to spill from his lips.
The wind drags across his skin as he looks up at the constellations above, as he takes in the vastness of the world around him. The current of air wraps around his throat, encircles his torso with questionable intensity, brought to life by the vestiges of his bloodlust. Nature is unkind today, but who is this touch of unkindness directed towards?
Whose fate, whose existence shall come to a bitter end?
Satoru’s gaze shifts toward the moon, hums as an off-putting truth is fed through the pupil of one of the five blue irises that continue to hover around his head. Troubled beginnings give way to an uneventful middle. Then, a tortured end.
A pitiful conclusion to a life that held no substance or meaning. A meagre existence, really.
An imminent end to it all.
The stars seem to smile down at him, then, bringing forth news that has strength clawing through his muscles – this fate, this end is not destined to be his. Not for centuries to come, that is. His smile grows, as heavenly bodies are never wrong. Though the company of an unequal leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.
“Hm, I see. Well, you’ve got balls, I’ll give you that,” Satoru looks at him then, the eye on his Atsuya’s forehead glowing considerably as it continues to rummage through his memories without his knowledge. “Humour me before I knock on this Door that you speak of. I sure hope you’ve done your research before coming here, Kusakabe Atsuya.”
Atusya falters visibly, blinking in confusion, barely registering that Satoru has moved from where he once stood. “Huh? How do you know my –”
A blood-curdling scream rips from Atusya’s throat as Satoru plants a foot against his chest for leverage before he reaches for his left hand, using pure strength alone to rip his arm off entirely, grinning as blood seems to leap from the severed limb to land onto his cheek.
“Look alive, sweetheart,” Satoru sings, carelessly tossing the arm to the side. “No need to fret over the specifics.”
When Satoru kicks him against the sturdy tree trunk several feet away, Kusakabe groans in pain as his tailbone cracks, unable to keep up with his speed when he feels himself being launched into the air as Satoru connects a harsh blow that shatters the bone in his right leg. He keels over once he hits the ground, bile easing past his lips and onto the gravel below. “S-Stop, pl–”
Atsuya tries to dodge an incoming attack, only to fail miserably, and lets out a noise of frustration as he feels himself being lifted by the strands of his hair, like some fucking plaything on display. Satoru’s heel connects with his skull, sending him flying until he crashes into the wall nearby.
He’s fast. He’s too fucking fast for me to–
His panic-struck grievance is cut short by the feeling of his body being dragged to where Satoru stands, and he’s being held up in its entirety by the symbiote that lifts from Satoru’s sides, the one that rises from his forearm weaving forward to ease past the skin of Atusya’s chest, a mere fraction away from where his heart resides.
“Fuck, you feel that? I could drive this right through your heart if I really wanted to. End your pathetic existence in a fucking instant,” Satoru giggles, watches as Atusya’s body crumbles to the ground when the symbiote disappears. “Luckily for you, I guess I’ve got a knack for playing with my food.”
At the sound of Atsuya whimpering in pain against the gravel, Satoru arches an eyebrow.
“Oh, come on,” he groans, with a roll of his eyes. Watches as he writhes pathetically near the toe tip of his sneakers. “Thought you said you’ve come for my head? Don’t tell me you got me all hot and bothered for fucking nothing.”
Satoru rests his sole against Atsuya’s spine. “Fight back, honey. You really want the money, right?”
Atsuya hisses in pain as Satoru kicks at his broken leg. “I-”
Satoru hums, slowly moves to sit on the gravel, inches away from where Atsuya’s body lies. He combs his fingers through his hair. “How about this. If you show me that you’re desperate enough, I’ll stay still. Let you get a damn good shot on me.”
Atsuya looks up, hopeful. And he doesn’t shy away from the hand that sits atop his head. “Really?”
Anything for a way out.
Satoru smiles sweetly. “Yeah, really.”
The taste of danger doesn’t seem to leave, and Atsuya feels his eyes welling with tears despite himself. “Sp-spare me, please.”
It’s a decent start, but Satoru believes that he’s worth far more than that.
“You can do better than that, pup,” he chastises, his lips tugging into a frown. “I’m not a fan of being bored, and you’re leaning towards that territory right now. Make your performance a bit more believable.”
“Just – Mr. Gojo, Sir. Please don’t kill me. I’ll d-do anything. Fuck, I’ll be your servant, I swear. If you – if you just give me another chance... another chance to right my wrongs. Anything you want,” Atsuya chokes out, leaning forward to trail his tongue along the toe box and outsole of Satoru’s sneaker.
How pathetic.
Satoru smiles at the sincerity.
Atsuya moves forward until he’s close enough to coax Satoru’s legs apart, reaching out to slowly rub along the stretch of his inner thigh.
“Even sexual favours?” Satoru laughs, placing the heel of his sneaker onto Atusya’s face, unmoving. “But what makes you think that I’m interested?”
Atusya swallows thickly, rubbing circles against the seam of Satoru’s slacks. “There’s been rumours of... of your preference. Word spreads like wildfire where I’m from. And I’m... I’m willing to, you know... To dedicating my life to making you feel good... if you just... If you just spare my life. I... I meant it when I said anything.”
Atsuya now holds onto the zipper of his slacks. I can do it with one hand. I–
“How cute,” Satoru croons, brushing Atsuya’s hand away and standing to his feet, dusting the dirt that seems to cling to the material of his clothing. “But I’m afraid that you won’t be able to get it up, my dear.”
“Huh? O-oh...” Atsuya blinks. “Why?”
“I’m not attracted to disappointment, Atsuya,” he says, simply. “But I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll spare you since you gave it your best shot. How does that sound?”
Atsuya sucks in a harsh intake of breath. “Really?”
Satoru drives his fist into Atsuya’s skull before he’s lifted again by the symbiotes that protrude from the side of his body. “Just kidding.”
Satoru snickers as Atsuya’s eye follows the movement of the symbiote that lifts from his collarbone, weaving until it’s able to wriggle into his skin.
“While you’re still alive and kicking, let me explain what these babies are. Get a good look at them while you still can,” Satoru grins, his expression a little crazed and unsettling. “I use these whenever I’m feeding, whenever I need to fight, whenever I feel the need to prove a point. Which category do you think that you fall under?”
“P-prove a –”
“Mhm, prove a point. Good job,” Satoru praises softly, pushing the symbiote near his heart as the six eyes now begin to rotate counterclockwise behind his head. “When used on humans to feed, they become the undead. Zombified, people would call them. Something about the small properties of my blood entering their bloodstream when it goes beyond their skin just... makes their bodies go haywire or whatever. Dunno what it is exactly, never cared enough to find out. Not that any of that bullshit even matters. But when used, on fellow vampires –”
Atsuya feels his stomach drop as the six eyes begin to glow, fear settling deep within his bones. “Argh, spare me, please. Please, Mr. Gojo, Sir! I’ve m-made a mistake! I have a wife! I have ki–”
“I get to suck and suck and suck,” Satoru giggles as a garbled groan of pain cuts through the air, as he drains the vitality from Atsuya’s body to replenish and nourish his own through the symbiote. As this fanciful absorption unfolds, Atsuya’s body becomes withered. “Until there’s nothing left for me to take. Isn’t that right, Atsuya?”
At the silence, Satoru’s eyes no longer glow, disgust bleeding onto his expression as he takes in the sight of Atsuya’s body that has mostly wasted away, his skin beginning to crumble like ash at his feet – though, Satoru is always meticulous in his consumption, keeping most of his face intact.
Hm. Dead, already? What a complete waste of time.
The eyes that float around his head amalgamate as per the unspoken directive, and at the foreboding presence, Satoru outstretches his hand, summoning a bat that sits dutifully on his palm.
“Master,” a voice calls out, and a sizeable box appears in a cloud of smoke. “I’ve taken the liberty of providing a box.”
Satoru smiles, reaching for the box and inspecting the edges of it. “That’s so like you, Vladmyr. Always so competent. It’s like you always know exactly what I’m thinking.”
“It proves to be rather difficult not to know, Master .”
“Well, there’s no denying that.”
Vladmyr shifts slightly. “Shall I search for the miscreants in your stead?”
Satoru shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I’ve already received enough information in relation to their whereabouts. You should rest, Vladmyr. You’ve done well as always, my dear.”
⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆
The underground fight scene is even livelier than the previous week.
Mildly intoxicated, the commentator drawls into the microphone. “Today is the final match of the tournament. This tournament alone has bred some of the hottest matches in Fight Scene history! Who will reign victorious? Geto Suguru or Yreya Boras?”
Masamichi has his attention turned to the television screen to watch the fight when a bat flies above the heads of those who are occupied with sports betting, holding onto the box for seconds far too long before it drops the exchange gift onto the surface of the dining table that Masamichi is sitting at.
Startled, Masamichi yelps as he flinches, blinking in confusion as he looks at the message that’s written on the top of the box.
“Huh?” Masamichi squints, leaning forward as he reads: “’ Return to sender’ ?”
“What the hell is this?” he huffs, lifting the cover of the box, the colour draining from his face as he looks at the upper body that has been delivered to him. It takes him some seconds to shift his attention from the darkened and withered skin to the familiar face that seems to stare at him, lifeless. “W-wait... wait a minute. Wait a fucking minute –”
“Shit,” Takuma breathes, nearly gagging as he leans over Masamichi’s shoulder. “Isn’t this the guy who took the job? Kusakabe-something?”
Masamichi swallows thickly, his voice coming out hoarse. “Yeah, that’s... that’s Atsuya.”
Takuma stands there in disbelief. “What the fuck did this Gojo guy do to him?”
Kento peers inside the box, his jaw slackening at the gruesome sight.
“Looks like Gojo Satoru absorbed every last drop of his life force somehow. Wrung him dry,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “There’s no coming back from that. Atsuya’s gone for good, I fear.”
Masamichi pushes the box to the side, holding onto his temple. “These regular men just won’t cut it. Fuck, I hate to say it, but I underestimated him; We’re dealing with a fucking monster here. So we need to use a monster of our own, and I know just the guy for the job.”
⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆
After Geto Suguru reigns victorious, he finds himself sitting in Masamichi’s office that’s tucked away near the southern side of the fight scene venue – away from the hustle and bustle of excited fans, of journalists who leap at the first closest opportunity to cover a good story. He slowly sips on an animal blood bag to regain strength for his weary muscles.
“Interested in making some money?” Masamichi starts, holding his chin in his hand as he pushes his cellphone across the desk, showing the bounty entry. “A fucking shit ton of it?”
Suguru arches an eyebrow, leaning back into the seating so that what’s indicated on the bounty entry itself is out of his line of sight. “Shouldn’t you be saying congrats first?”
Ugh.
“Congratulations on your six-thousandth win, Suguru,” Masamichi groans, as he's unable to see the point of the pleasantries. “It was well-deserved.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Now. As I was saying,” Masamichi casts Suguru a knowing look, gesturing to the cellphone. “I got a high singing deal on the line with the Guino. A handsome reward if you get the job done. Are you interested? Could really put your top-notch skills to good use, man.”
Suguru grimaces at the words, rubbing at the tattoo that sits on his right chest, a design that spreads along the entire stretch of his right arm.
“Top-notch skills? No need to dick-ride, you’re a little too old for that shit. As for my interest? It depends,” he leans forward then, brushing the lengthy strands of his hair away from his face before he clasps his wrapped hands together. “I take it that this is about contract killing?”
“You figured me out. It sure is,” Masamichi laughs. “Wouldn’t be your first job of this nature. You’ve certainly got the experience. How about it?”
Suguru hums thoughtfully. “How much are we talking?”
“Look at the bounty entry.”
“Answer my question.”
Masamichi sighs, pursing his lips. “Three million, five-hundred. And that’s after I take out my small cut.”
Three point five million isn’t bad at all.
He ponders the reward before he speaks again. “And who’s the lucky person?”
“Gojo Satoru.”
“Gojo Satoru? Huh, I’ve never heard about him before,” Suguru shrugs, not that it matters, anyway. “For a penny this pretty, he had to really piss someone off.”
“What?” Masamichi gapes, looking at Suguru incredulously. “You’ve seriously never heard of him? Really?”
Suguru stares at him, expressionless. “No?”
Masamichi slides the box near the middle of his desk, removing the top and tilting it so that Suguru is able to see the absolute horror that lies within. “Listen, he... the fucker brought one of my men in a damn box. And the ‘return to sender’ message? He’s fucking sick. A fucking sick piece of shit.”
Suguru's expression doesn’t change.
“I genuinely don’t care about what he did to your men,” he says, undisturbed by the morbid display. “The bounty. Stay on topic before I ultimately lose interest.”
Masamichi sighs tiredly.
“Right. Guino said that he was gonna have him taken down... didn’t think that this is what he meant,” he mutters dryly. “Either way, the bounty is up and active.”
Suguru tilts his head. “And who’s Guino?”
“A long-term acquaintance,” Masamichi replies, a sense of finality staining his inflection. “Are you taking the job or not?”
“Yeah, I’ll take it,” Suguru scoffs. “So... what do you know about Guino?”
Masamichi stares at him for a moment, confused eyes boring into a pair of uncaring ones.
“Why do you need to know anything about him?” he asks, tilting his head. “Gojo Satoru is the dude that you’re going after.”
“Consider it to be... insurance if shit goes left for me,” Suguru imparts easily, though he's annoyed that he has to explain himself. “For contract killings, I have my terms and conditions, and this happens to be one of them. So, honour it or find someone else to do the dirty work for you.”
Jesus fucking – god, I hate this kid.
Masamichi grits his teeth, balling his fist as Suguru smiles at him sweetly. “Guino’s turf is in the central part of this region. He and the leader of the Ouider gang usually buck heads every other day. Last time I checked, his hideout was somewhere near the Yena River. Not too sure on the direction, though, but it’s definitely somewhere by the river. I’m sure of that, at least.”
Suguru hums, tapping his chin. “What else do you know?”
Masamichi removes his sunglasses, tossing them onto the armchair nearby. “Honestly, he hasn’t been right in the head lately since his wife and kid passed. Found their bodies floating down that same river. And he has no idea who did it, though he suspects the Ouider gang had a huge part to play in it. He’s just looking for and gathering proof rather than acting on suspicions.”
Suguru glances at the half-eaten human corpse several feet away that hasn't been disposed of.
Well, he's not surprised. Masamichi has always been disgusting.
Masamichi continues to speak. “All while dealing with his failing feeder business because Gojo Satoru keeps stealing his once-faithful clients. Then, of course, the damn undead that have been causing a commotion these days. He’s behind that, too.”
Suguru slowly stands to his feet, stretching his limbs. “Seems as if Gojo Satoru has created quite the name for himself.”
“Yeah, and not a good one.”
“Like I said, I’ll take it, so,” he stifles a yawn behind the back of his hand. “I’ll start searching around tomorrow morning. Start asking around, if I have to.”
Masamichi runs a hand through his hair, barely able to contain the way that his anticipation bubbles within his chest. “I’ve heard about that scythe of yours. It shows what your victim cherished most after you’ve killed them. Can’t wait to see what that fucker cares about.”
Suguru ignores the comment, outstretching his hand. “Give me the box.”
Masamichi furrows his eyebrows. “What for?”
“I need to track his energy.”