His only response is to back away, holding one hand to the ruined half of his face. Even though there is blood seeping through his fingers and staining his clothes, it'll be enough to make sure Tsurumaru doesn't see where he ripped the sickening thing out.

"I don't think I need to tell you, do I?"

If the smell of iron isn't enough, the flower certainly would be. It's unnaturally sharp, in the way that it draws attention despite being an inanimate object, every silken curve of its petals painfully distinct against the grass.

"Please, just go. I'll handle this myself."

And because he really, really doesn't want to hurt anyone else. Especially not Tsurumaru, a trusted comrade - and one still untouched by the lingering darkness of death.