Neon Nightmare

REMI

the bastion

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

The door creaks open behind a gust of humid evening air and the scent of fresh-cut grass, and in steps a man who doesn’t quite look like the harbringer of death that many stories paint him as. Remi's dressed in a worn chambray shirt with the sleeves haphazardly rolled, its collar open and soft with age, the fabric clinging to the shape of a body built more for battlefields than barstools. His curls are still damp from a recent flight, pushed back from his brow by a careless hand, and his presence—when noticed—turns a few heads more from instinct than recognition. Like the room remembers something ancient before the mind can catch up.

But Remi doesn't act like someone worth watching, and for the most part, prefers that no one does.

His sea-glass gaze slides through the crowd until it catches on her—bottle-spinning, bet-placing, giving-off-too-much-heat-to-be-ignored Colt. He knows her, of course. By reputation, and by rumour, so as he heads toward her, it's with a hint of a crooked smile. He comes to a gentle stop beside her table, then tilts his head toward the half-wilted label pile. "You look like you’ve been here long enough to start making paper art," Remi says, his accent warm and melodic like distant waves on rock. "Sorry I’m late,"

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!