I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi does his best to look haunted. That’s the note they’d given him—in touch, too, but mostly haunted. Not in the freshly-digging-through-trauma way, more like someone who’s been politely living alongside ghosts for years and just occasionally makes them tea. So he stares off into the middle distance, jaw relaxed, eyes soft-focus and thoughtful, like he’s communing with something behind the lens instead of wondering if he looks like he’s trying too hard.
He doesn’t mind Ronin’s voice as it rolls through the intro. It’s warm, rich, easy to follow, the kind of voice that could probably narrate crime documentaries or bedtime stories depending on how he felt that day. It keeps the crew moving and the cameras steady.
Then Ronin steps up toward the door, and something shifts. It doesn’t rattle the trees or summon a thunderclap (though frankly, that would’ve been considerate), but it’s there. A pressure drop. A ripple in the fabric of something that pulls at Remi like a string wrapped around his ribs. Before he even knows he’s moving, his hand is out, fingers catching Ronin’s wrist just shy of the door handle.
Then he lets go. Quickly. "Scusami," he murmurs, voice low and rough at the edges. His hand drops to his side like it’s been caught somewhere it shouldn’t be. Glancing sidelong at the camera, he offers a shaky, almost sheepish smile and a small shrug, swallowing like his throat’s suddenly dry. "I just—there’s a lot of pain here," he says, tone cautious, eyes on the door now instead of the lens. The words are vague and safe, network-approved, and the line lands well enough for the camera, but Remi's gaze doesn't linger on it long.
And though he knows he isn’t supposed to turn away—always stay open to the camera, Remi—he angles his body slightly, turning one shoulder just enough to place himself between the lens and what he does next. His hand rises to the small cross at his chest, fingers curling around it with unconscious familiarity. He lifts it, presses a kiss to the metal before following Ronin inside.
He doesn’t mind Ronin’s voice as it rolls through the intro. It’s warm, rich, easy to follow, the kind of voice that could probably narrate crime documentaries or bedtime stories depending on how he felt that day. It keeps the crew moving and the cameras steady.
Then Ronin steps up toward the door, and something shifts. It doesn’t rattle the trees or summon a thunderclap (though frankly, that would’ve been considerate), but it’s there. A pressure drop. A ripple in the fabric of something that pulls at Remi like a string wrapped around his ribs. Before he even knows he’s moving, his hand is out, fingers catching Ronin’s wrist just shy of the door handle.
Then he lets go. Quickly. "Scusami," he murmurs, voice low and rough at the edges. His hand drops to his side like it’s been caught somewhere it shouldn’t be. Glancing sidelong at the camera, he offers a shaky, almost sheepish smile and a small shrug, swallowing like his throat’s suddenly dry. "I just—there’s a lot of pain here," he says, tone cautious, eyes on the door now instead of the lens. The words are vague and safe, network-approved, and the line lands well enough for the camera, but Remi's gaze doesn't linger on it long.
And though he knows he isn’t supposed to turn away—always stay open to the camera, Remi—he angles his body slightly, turning one shoulder just enough to place himself between the lens and what he does next. His hand rises to the small cross at his chest, fingers curling around it with unconscious familiarity. He lifts it, presses a kiss to the metal before following Ronin inside.
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.
