A one-shot set near the beginning of Kenshin's time as a hitokiri.

I wake suddenly at the sound of something falling in the street. Someone outside my window curses. Their voice - it's impossible to tell male or female from here - trembles slightly. I hold my breath and peer through one of the holes in the paper window.

Outside, a short figure - red hair on a blue kimono - is standing over a pile of miscellaneous refuse in the alley. The persons wavers indecisively, apparently in a hurry, but seemingly afraid to leave a mess. A sword hangs at their side, leading me to decide this person is probably male. He turns, displaying a thin, vivid scar on one cheek. The front of his hakama is spotted red, I assume it's blood. I duck, hoping the swordsman didn't see my eye through the window paper. I know enough of war to guess that he is an assasin, and will not take kindly to my having seen him - knowing where he was at a given time.

A minute, two, pass, and there is movement in the alley. I look out through the hole again. The young swordsman is walking away, slowly, his head lowered as if in sadness. I feel that I have caught him in a vulnerable moment, a mood never seen by whomever's blood stains his clothes. And I wonder who he is, and if he's involved in the war, and if all he wants is to go back to whatever family he has in all the carnage that is Japan and eat and sleep and work and die happy one day. I wonder if he will live to see the end of this war.