I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi ambles up the path after Ronin, taking slow enough steps that he doesn’t look like he’s rushing to keep up. He gets about halfway before their hair and makeup person swoops in out of nowhere, fingers already in his curls. She fluffs and smooths with brisk efficiency, then tuts under her breath like the curls are personally misbehaving for camera. Before he can so much as lift an eyebrow, her hand dips to his chest, fishing out the thin gold cross from beneath his sweater and laying it flat against the knit, perfectly centered. She gives it a tap—light, reverent, stagey—and a wink before disappearing back into the van.
Remi exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t flinch. It doesn’t feel as...cheap as it did that first time, when he’d still thought he might be able to insist on dignity. Not when the cross was real but the bills were realer and the whole setup was helping him eat more than toast and quiet pride every night.
He falls into step beside Ronin and nods at his instructions, muttering a quiet, "Got it, can do." His voice is low and even, carrying just enough that it won’t get lost in the shuffle of boots and gear.
Then, as the crew starts shifting around them and Isla calls something about camera framing, Remi turns slightly, giving the house a lazy once-over over his shoulder. The porch groans under Ronin’s boots, the night air still balmy and utterly indifferent. His green eyes flick up across the windows, thoughtful, but not tense.
He’s just beginning to think of how to set his face for the intro—something pensive, maybe, or just blank enough to let the audience project whatever they want onto it—when suddenly a lens is shoved in close, the ring light bright enough to sting. Remi blinks into it, expression neutral as a playing card, and says nothing. From somewhere inside the house, something creaks—too sharp and sudden to be the wind, too deliberate to be forgotten wood settling—and his gaze cuts instinctively toward the front door and then back to Ronin.
Remi exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t flinch. It doesn’t feel as...cheap as it did that first time, when he’d still thought he might be able to insist on dignity. Not when the cross was real but the bills were realer and the whole setup was helping him eat more than toast and quiet pride every night.
He falls into step beside Ronin and nods at his instructions, muttering a quiet, "Got it, can do." His voice is low and even, carrying just enough that it won’t get lost in the shuffle of boots and gear.
Then, as the crew starts shifting around them and Isla calls something about camera framing, Remi turns slightly, giving the house a lazy once-over over his shoulder. The porch groans under Ronin’s boots, the night air still balmy and utterly indifferent. His green eyes flick up across the windows, thoughtful, but not tense.
He’s just beginning to think of how to set his face for the intro—something pensive, maybe, or just blank enough to let the audience project whatever they want onto it—when suddenly a lens is shoved in close, the ring light bright enough to sting. Remi blinks into it, expression neutral as a playing card, and says nothing. From somewhere inside the house, something creaks—too sharp and sudden to be the wind, too deliberate to be forgotten wood settling—and his gaze cuts instinctively toward the front door and then back to Ronin.
but there's a light in the attic and I swear it's calling me
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
