I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Inside the dark, Remi doesn’t have room to move, but he doesn’t need it. He knows he isn’t alone, not really. Whatever’s pressed near him in that small space is cool, yes, and faint as a whisper, but it isn’t hostile. It isn’t the same as what’s outside.
He closes his eyes, whispers under his breath in Italian, soft and low. A comfort, maybe, or a prayer. Words meant for someone much younger than him, or much older. "Va tutto bene. Non siete soli." Something shifts behind his eyes; a door he’s kept locked for years groans quietly on its hinges, memory and meaning creeping out like sunlight under the edge of a blind. It prickles at the corners of his awareness—and then the bedroom explodes open.
The crash jars through the walls, loud and jarringly human this time. Light spills in, with Ronin’s voice following it. Remi flinches, but only for a heartbeat. Then the sound of Ronin’s voice cuts through whatever haze had started to gather behind his ribs, and he exhales sharply, shoulders sagging with something like relief. "Yeah," he breathes, voice hoarse but clear. He nudges the closet door open with one hand, the movement small and oddly careful, as if still half-afraid of what he might find on the other side.
There he is, curled into a compact knot of limbs, cross still clutched in one hand, the other bracing against the frame. He offers a sheepish smile, like a child caught hiding during a game that stopped being fun. Then, catching sight of the crew flanking Ronin, he clears his throat and begins the slow, awkward untangle of standing. "Sorry," he mutters, brushing dust from his knees and nodding toward the far wall. "I, uh… think we’ll need to replace the music box." What’s left of it glitters across the floor like spilled teeth.
He closes his eyes, whispers under his breath in Italian, soft and low. A comfort, maybe, or a prayer. Words meant for someone much younger than him, or much older. "Va tutto bene. Non siete soli." Something shifts behind his eyes; a door he’s kept locked for years groans quietly on its hinges, memory and meaning creeping out like sunlight under the edge of a blind. It prickles at the corners of his awareness—and then the bedroom explodes open.
The crash jars through the walls, loud and jarringly human this time. Light spills in, with Ronin’s voice following it. Remi flinches, but only for a heartbeat. Then the sound of Ronin’s voice cuts through whatever haze had started to gather behind his ribs, and he exhales sharply, shoulders sagging with something like relief. "Yeah," he breathes, voice hoarse but clear. He nudges the closet door open with one hand, the movement small and oddly careful, as if still half-afraid of what he might find on the other side.
There he is, curled into a compact knot of limbs, cross still clutched in one hand, the other bracing against the frame. He offers a sheepish smile, like a child caught hiding during a game that stopped being fun. Then, catching sight of the crew flanking Ronin, he clears his throat and begins the slow, awkward untangle of standing. "Sorry," he mutters, brushing dust from his knees and nodding toward the far wall. "I, uh… think we’ll need to replace the music box." What’s left of it glitters across the floor like spilled teeth.
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.
