I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi wrinkles his nose, nodding slowly as Ronin speaks. "I heard someone tried to sue over the crime scene photos that were published. Claimed they were family." His voice is quiet, thoughtful. Not disbelieving, just weary with the ways people twist grief into spectacle. "Turns out they weren’t related at all—just happened to have the same last name. Case was dismissed."
At the lingering and..., his gaze flicks to Ronin, brows raised, lips drawing into a thin line of consideration. "The better question is whether someone else was ever actually here," he says, voice pitched for the room, not the camera. Then, glancing sideways at Ronin with a subtle tilt of his head, he adds, "Maybe she wasn’t alone. Maybe someone helped her. Maybe the table was set for a celebration." A pause. "Or maybe an offering. An invitation." He doesn’t elaborate, just lets it sit there between them like condensation on the glass; faint, but telling.
When the click of the basement door hits the air, his head turns immediately, green eyes narrowing. He hasn’t moved a single step into the dining room, and now he lifts his hands like a man being wrongly accused of murder himself. "I have not moved," he says mildly, tone innocent with just the right amount of Italian drama to be believable. He glances to the camera, then back to Ronin with a shrug. "Probably a draft. Basement window, maybe." Turning back into the kitchen, Remi scratches absently at the back of his neck, as if something about leaving the dining room at his back doesn’t sit right.
The stairs creak under his weight as he climbs, slow and careful, not for dramatic effect this time but because old wood and worn houses demand it. The GoPro bobs with each movement, but he lifts his phone and holds it up, angling the screen where it can catch the lens. "Here," he murmurs, voice low as he moves along the upper hallway. "You can see we're standing exactly where this photo was taken. And that’s the door to the kids’ room." He taps the screen gently, then glances up to compare the frame in the photo with the one before him.
There's no blood anymore, just the strange stillness that sinks into places after tragedy, like dust gathering where breath used to be. Remi’s steps slow as he approaches the room. He doesn’t reach for the door just yet, glancing over his shoulder for Ronin to give the go-ahead.
At the lingering and..., his gaze flicks to Ronin, brows raised, lips drawing into a thin line of consideration. "The better question is whether someone else was ever actually here," he says, voice pitched for the room, not the camera. Then, glancing sideways at Ronin with a subtle tilt of his head, he adds, "Maybe she wasn’t alone. Maybe someone helped her. Maybe the table was set for a celebration." A pause. "Or maybe an offering. An invitation." He doesn’t elaborate, just lets it sit there between them like condensation on the glass; faint, but telling.
When the click of the basement door hits the air, his head turns immediately, green eyes narrowing. He hasn’t moved a single step into the dining room, and now he lifts his hands like a man being wrongly accused of murder himself. "I have not moved," he says mildly, tone innocent with just the right amount of Italian drama to be believable. He glances to the camera, then back to Ronin with a shrug. "Probably a draft. Basement window, maybe." Turning back into the kitchen, Remi scratches absently at the back of his neck, as if something about leaving the dining room at his back doesn’t sit right.
The stairs creak under his weight as he climbs, slow and careful, not for dramatic effect this time but because old wood and worn houses demand it. The GoPro bobs with each movement, but he lifts his phone and holds it up, angling the screen where it can catch the lens. "Here," he murmurs, voice low as he moves along the upper hallway. "You can see we're standing exactly where this photo was taken. And that’s the door to the kids’ room." He taps the screen gently, then glances up to compare the frame in the photo with the one before him.
There's no blood anymore, just the strange stillness that sinks into places after tragedy, like dust gathering where breath used to be. Remi’s steps slow as he approaches the room. He doesn’t reach for the door just yet, glancing over his shoulder for Ronin to give the go-ahead.
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.
