The pale morning sun slowly stretches its fingers over Kyoto's rooftops. I stand witness as it casts eerie shadows that dance like ghosts in the narrow alleyways.

Today is a rarity, for my Tenchū is not delivered under the cover of darkness but in the unforgiving light of day.

I approach them, these souls ignorant of the imminent darkness I bring. My movements blur before their eyes, and at that instant, I become the embodiment of death itself.

The first guard falls, his life extinguished in silence, a mask of confusion etched onto his face, frozen for eternity.

The second, the third, and finally the Hatamoto they safeguarded meet the same fate, their lives extinguished in an instant. They were denied even the chance to form a word, not even in the recesses of their minds.

They rest now at my feet, mere remnants of the lives they possessed mere moments ago. Their existence reduced to nothing but a heap of flesh and blood. Still, no pleas for mercy linger in their eyes, for they were true warriors.

To me, however, they held no significance. They were but hindrances obstructing the path to revolution and a new era, mere puppets of the old regime.

I had transformed into an instrument of divine retribution, a mere vessel for their judgment.

Their life's essence splatters on the cobblestones, saturating the path in crimson, as if delineating my way forward. A path befitting the demon that I am.

The steel beneath my fingers thrums with a lethal energy it has just unleashed, humming a chilling melody of death and despair.

The revolution demands sacrifices, and I am more than willing to offer them if it means a better world beyond this river of blood. In the name of the Ishin Shishi, I have become an omen of death, and for the sake of the revolution, I shall trod this road of cold-blooded retribution.

I harbor no resentment, no ill will towards them. They are to me as leaves carried away by the wind, swept into oblivion.

Amidst this blood-drenched alley, I feel an eerie sense of detachment, as always, as though I'm but a spectator to the brutality I've just wrought.

Then, within the heart of this savagery, an enigmatic contrast unfurls. A blue butterfly, its delicate, iridescent wings, dances upon the lifeless forms of men. Fragile and transient, it dances as if taunting the brutality.

As I sheath my blade, for a fleeting moment, I'm seized by a thought, one I dare not entertain further.

Will she know?

Will she detect the scent of death lingering on me? Will I gaze into her eyes and find the abyss staring back at me?

The abyss that harbors no emotions for me, not even a glimmer of curiosity or pity.

Eyes where something, rather than nothingness, flickered on that night a few days past, leaving an indelible mark on my mind.

I silently turn and begin to step away, while Iizuka-san approaches the scene. I steal a glance at him but continue on my way.

The world around me is bathed in light. I find myself thinking that the sun's brilliance is both a blessing and a curse. Its radiant warmth envelops the world, yet casts long, looming shadows beneath.

I wonder if the intense light will expose any trace of blood on me.
Is there blood on my hands now?
Do I smell of blood now?
Will she notice?

I realize that her perception of me is both salvation and damnation, strangely, both equally painful.

As I open the door of Kohagiya and enter quietly, in the bustling busy noon, my eyes seek her out even if hers remain unaware.

I find myself doing that often, I realize. In retrospect, I've been doing this since the day we first crossed paths.

Try as I might to deny it, I'm not as oblivious as I'd prefer to be. I understand the nature of these feelings.

I saunter past her, feigning indifference, steadfastly refusing to cast another glance her way. My thoughts draw a blank, sidestepping the word I seek to describe why I continue to look.

Her fragrance, that lingering scent of Hakubaiko that surrounds her, wafts towards me. I inhale, allowing it to envelop me.

Upon reaching my room, it dawns on me that, unconsciously, I had been hiding my hands while in her presence.

I make my way down to the Matsu-hall for my meal. It's a long room teeming with young Shishis, and, as always, it's loud. There's a shift in the volume as I enter, as it always is. I make my way to my usual spot and take my seat.

As usual, I notice Iizuka-san soon making his way over and sitting beside me.

Once he's seated, he leans in and whispers,
"This time you didn't even get a drop of blood on you, did you?"

I offer no reply. Instead, my eyes drift almost instinctively toward the large Shoji door, as if searching for something.

Iizuka-san says,
"Oh, today won't be Tomoe-chan."

I feel an immediate surge of irritation and turn to glare at him, making no effort to conceal my vexation.

He promptly falls silent.

After an uneventful meal, I exit the hall but come to a sudden stop on hearing the Okami-san's voice.

"Himura-san," she calls,
"Could you come over here for a moment?"

I turn towards her and begin to walk leisurely in her direction.

An evident expression of concern graces her features. She speaks softly, yet with urgency,

"It's Tomoe-chan."

The mere mention of that name seizes my attention. She proceeds, her fingers fidgeting slightly,

"We've run out of flowers for the arrangements, and..."
"I sent her to Sakura-tei to get some flowers"
She pauses, casting a questioning glance my way,
"You're familiar with Sakura-tei, aren't you?"
I offer a nod in response to her query. Without delay, she adds,
"There seems to be some commotion there."
Her face distorts with anxiety, and my hand clenches into a fist.
She continues, "I shouldn't have—"

I leave before she finishes.

I realize my hand is still clenched into a tight fist, my steps hastened as I move toward the east where I anticipate seeing her.

I can sense my heart racing, the flowing of blood within my veins, almost palpable.

No.

I must stay calm.

I take a deep breath but it proves to be futile.
Another inhale, and once more I try to quell the turmoil within.

Still, my efforts are futile. Each step I take seems to grow heavier than the last.

Because, more than anyone, I'm acutely aware of the dangers lurking in Kyoto's streets. In this city there lurks men like me.

My chest throbs with a disturbing mixture of anger and anxiety. It's an unfamiliar sensation, one I've not encountered before. I've witnessed the approach of death, seen it take away fragile lives before my eyes. Even then, I've never experienced this. I'd assumed that the fear of death had lost its grip on me, knowing that all that what exists now will cease to exist sooner or later.

However, in this instant, this treacherous agony reveals my folly. I can feel the weight of stress and concern gnawing at my very core.

As I approach, a distressing scene unfolds before my eyes. I see her, surrounded by a vile group of men, one of whom clutches her wrist with his filthy hand, attempting to pull her into their midst. The sight of those grimy fingers defiling her delicate skin sends a surge of icy rage coursing through my veins.

It's as if I've tapped into a boundless well of fury, and without hesitation, I grasp the man's wrist with agonizing force. I can sense the bones slowly giving way beneath my grip. A shrill wail escapes the man as pain courses through him, and my desire to obliterate him while making him suffer amplifies.

I continue to clutch his wrist until it's utterly ruined. He'll never wield a sword again, and never exert his dominance.
How dare he cast his lecherous eyes on her?
How dare he lay hands on her?
The words repeat in my head like a relentless chant.

Yet, my rage shows no signs of diminishing. I yearn to prolong his suffering. My eyes then turn to the other men who accompanied him, my veins still pulsating with wrath.

Just as I'm poised to unleash my wrath upon the remaining men, a gentle tug at my Kimono stops me. I turn, and in Tomoe's eyes, I find a serene composure untainted by fear or anger.

My attention drifts to her wrist, the man's vile touch has left a bruise on her pale skin. The sight of those marks makes me feel helpless, and an indescribable sorrow envelops me. Each bruise, every discolored contour, pulses with a poignant ache within me. My anger disappears and in its place, all that remains is an inexpressable sadness.

A sense of powerlessness soon envelopes me. No matter how much I destroy these men, I cannot erase their mark from her wrist.

My fingers ache to reach out, to touch her skin and somehow erase the bruises, a mark I couldn't prevent.
But will my touch be any different from theirs?
I recall the man's grip, devoid of honor, and it sickens me.

What if I had been too late?
What would they do to her?
A queasiness churns within my stomach.

My inattention is broken when her grip on my Kimono loosens, and she turns, beginning to walk away from the scene.

With an evident trace of anxiety in my voice, I ask,
"Where are you going?"

What on earth is she thinking?
Does she not have any fear or survival instinct?
What kind of predicament does she think she was in?
What if something worse happened to her?

This time, anger begins to brew within me, seething at her apparent disregard for the situation. I take a deep breath, attempting to quell it swiftly.

She replies, her voice calm and unperturbed, as though nothing has occurred,
"Okami-san told me to get flowers for the arrangement from Sakura-tei."
"I am going to get them."

I sigh once more, realizing that I've yet to acclimate to her nonchalance.

I offer a resigned, "I see," and quietly fall into step beside her, accompanying her.

I find myself strangely irritated, trying to maintain self-control by exhaling deeply, but it doesn't prove to be very effective.

Without turning towards her, I speak,
"Tomoe-san."
"The streets of Kyoto are no place for a woman on her own."

There's a pause, and just as I'm about to press further, she asks,
"Are you worried about me?"

I can't conjure a response to her unexpected question.
Worry?
Could the turmoil I'm experiencing be summarized in a single word "Worry"? I decide to remain silent.

Reiterating with a mutter steeped in sternness, I ask,
"Why didn't you scream?"
"Or raise your voice?"
"What if I hadn't arrived in time?"
"What was your plan?"

Despite my intentions, the words pour out, and I find myself powerless to stop them.

Almost immediately, she responds,
"But you did come, didn't you?"

Though the sun hangs high in the sky, her words feel like a gentle evening breeze, and a curious shiver courses down my spine.

It's clear that she had no grand scheme; she simply stood there like a serene observer amidst the frigid turmoil, as though the events were not happening to her but to someone else and she was a mere passerby.

What was she thinking?
Voice tinged with anger, I press the question once more,
"What if I hadn't come?"

She answers without hesitation, her tone unwavering,
"But you came."

The conversation has started to resemble a tiresome circle. I yearn for an answer, a resolution. Again, I repeat the question,
"And if I hadn't?"

She doesn't halt her pace but slightly tilts her head, as if to confirm my presence with a sidelong glance, and she replies,
"If you hadn't come,"
"I would have lost my honor,"
"I'd have been sold to prostitution,"
"Or perhaps,"
"I'd be dead,"
"Much like countless women in these turbulent times."

She pauses momentarily after these words, only to continue,
"Then again, you already know that answer, don't you?"

Every word she utters with such nonchalance feels like a piercing stab beneath my skin.
How can she speak of such matters so lightly?

I walk beside her, and as our sleeves brush against each other, a yearning washes over me.

Intentionally, I take a step back, ensuring our sleeves won't touch once more.

We enter Sakura-tei, a small hana-ya, where the chaos of Kyoto seems to have no dominion over.
The elderly proprietress gazes upon Tomoe-san and addresses her,
"Tomoe-chan."

However, her speech falters as she scrutinizes my face and proceeds to examine my entire being, top to bottom. Her eyes then return to Tomoe-san, and a sly grin adorns her face.
"Is this handsome man your lover, Tomoe-chan?"

Though flustered, I strive not to show it, and I maintain my composure. But Tomoe-san swiftly dismisses the suggestion.
"No," she asserts, "just someone I happen to know."

Her words, while truthful, prick me with a trace of vexation. The proprietress, however, observes us, her eyes shimmering with mischievous delight.

All of a sudden, a peculiar presence captures my attention. I turn my head toward a door that appears to lead to the Hana-ya's storage area. There, I spot a fluffy white cat, its curious eyes peering out, observing us. It ventures out slowly, its every movement drawing it nearer to Tomoe-san, and with an almost unsettling affection, it gently nuzzles her ankle.

To my amazement, her eyes, which typically regard humans with a distinct coldness, lack that quality when she gazes at the soft, furry creature.

I watch in fascination as she kneels before the cat and, in the sweetest tone I've ever heard from her, she addresses it,

"Have you been waiting for me?"

With deliberate gentleness, she extends her hand, so as not to startle the little creature. The cat looks at those beautiful fingers with a curiosity akin to what I sometimes find myself feeling, and it slowly nuzzles against her fingers, rubbing its soft fur against her skin. As her fingers move with gentle strokes along its body, the cat starts to purr, its eyes half-closed in contentment.

Her hand moves from the cat's body to tenderly scratching behind its ear. The cat tilts its head in response, gently pressing its cheek against her palm.

Suddenly, her gaze turns toward me as she says,

"Would you like to pet her?"

It appears she thinks my attention is drawn to her because I'm interested in touching the cat as well.

I don't respond, but I gradually get closer, kneeling beside her. I extend a cautious hand toward the cat and, with a hesitant tone, I mutter,

"I don't know..."

Her eyes are fixed on me, urging me to continue. So I do,

"I don't know... how to... touch it."

Realization dawns upon me that my experiences with creatures of this kind have been rather sparse. My birthplace was devoured by famine, a place where even humans struggled to survive, let alone these animals. In truth, those animals who still clung to life were likely consumed as sustenance in the early days of the famine.

During my years in the mountains, living with my master while honing my skills in Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu, I crossed paths with countless animals. Yet our interactions held no kinship; they were a matter of either sustenance or coexistence.

My hand inches closer to the cat's soft fur. It regards me with indifference, much like its human friend. I touch its soft coat, striving to be as gentle as I can. The cat, however, seems to flinch beneath my touch. It seems to be wary of me.

I hear Tomoe-san's voice saying,
"You must be gentle."

She leans in, her fingers grazing mine, guiding my hand gently across the cat's back.

The slightest brush of her fingers against mine sends a peculiar shiver down my spine. It's an almost painful sensation, similar to a gentle yet persistent ache. It's as though her touch, delicate though it may be, is not a caress but a blade, slowly piercing through my skin. An odd feeling, to say the least.

Her voice seems to reach my ears, although her words feel faint, lost, despite her closeness. It's only when her fingers stop their touch that I catch her next words.

She says,
"I will go get the flowers."

I offer no reply, instead, feigning complete absorption in petting the cat. As she moves away from my side to approach the owner, the loss of sensation of her hand on mine feels relieving and disappointing at the same time.

My attention finally lands on the cat, which regards me with curious eyes. I whisper, quietly enough to escape others' ears,
"Are you attached to your human friend because you two are alike?"

The creature lingers for a while, gazing at me, then leisurely stretches and strolls away, leaving no trace of attachment behind. Its behavior brings to mind the woman before me.

Ah, they are alike after all.

I glance up to find another pair of curious eyes observing me —the eyes of the elderly owner.

As we make our way back from Sakura-tei, Tomoe-san cradles the flowers she collected at Hana-ya in her arms. I offered to carry them, but she declined, saying that she likes having them close. She explained that carrying the flowers allows her to get to know them before arranging them, though I admit I'm not entirely sure I grasp her meaning.

The sun gradually descends, painting the world in twilight's gentle hues. Tomoe-san suddenly stops, turning her gaze upward. The soft red tones that drape across sky cast an otherworldly radiance upon her skin. At this moment, she feels as elusive as the fading sun.

My thoughts become entangled as I continue to observe her in silence.

Turning to me, she speaks,
"The twilight..." pausing briefly before continuing,
"...it's the same shade as your hair."
My eyes widen slightly in surprise, and she returns her gaze to the sky. The world seems to hold its breath, or perhaps it's only me. Her silent gaze meets with the crimson sky. I, in turn, watch her in awe.

Once more, the soft shade of red graces her porcelain skin. It dawns on me that the sky has painted her with the same color as my hair. The crimson tint and her skin merge, and for a moment, I can barely tell where the sky ends and she begins.

I've never been one for poetry, but in this moment, I can't help but wonder if this is how it feels to read one.