He smirks, controlling the blackened and crazed amusement behind the fractured mask. "Is that truly how Hijikata-san feels?" he asks, giving a light and variable swing of his blade, as if idly deciding what should be done with it ( but his eyes never stray, that crazed and stressed madness under the thin veil of imitation control never wavering it's certainty ).

Maybe it won't change a single thing. But, Hijikata has a far better chance of helping them break this cycle alive than he does dead. If only this cruel little onset of calm meant Souji had even a lick of control of on what he says and what he does— if only this wasn't the prelude to show exactly how fucking off-the-wall batshit of a state he really is in. It's an act over an act, another layer to add to the faces of a cast in a play that are so obvious in hindsight of their true colors.