I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi nods vaguely in Ronin’s direction, the movement more reflex than response. The talk of ratings washes over him without landing; he’s on a fixed fee, and right now the house’s aftertaste clings to him more than any promise of viewership. His eyes flick briefly toward Ronin’s grin, then away, as if he’s still trying to climb back fully into himself.
When Isla mentions weird stuff on the footage, his brows lift, a quiet, curious "oh?" escaping before he can swallow it down. He rubs at the back of his neck as she straightens up, fingers pressing into the tense muscles as though that might loosen whatever’s coiled there. Her offer of drinks hangs between them for a moment while he weighs it, his mouth opening and closing before he politely shakes his head.
"I'm tired," he says, voice warm but subdued. "Next time, though. Definitely."
He watches her go, the bag heavy over her shoulder, before stepping out into the night himself. The air outside is still balmy but feels thinner, the glow from the van casting pale puddles of light on the gravel drive. He lifts a hand to the crew and to Ronin in a small, automatic wave, then heads toward his car. The moonlight falls across the hood like spilled milk as he opens the door. For a heartbeat, it feels like someone is just behind him, no sound, no breath, just a prickle at the back of his neck as he slides into the driver’s seat. He glances at the rear-view mirror and sees only the house, patient and dark, as he pulls away.
—
In the days that follow, attempts to reach Remi to reschedule the rest of the shoot by Isla and then Ronin, begin to stall in strange, quiet ways. Calls ring without answer, and soon Remi's voicemail stops accepting new messages entirely, stating that it's full. Text messages don't show as having even been read, though all are delivered.
Nothing bounces back, but nothing breaks through either.
When Isla mentions weird stuff on the footage, his brows lift, a quiet, curious "oh?" escaping before he can swallow it down. He rubs at the back of his neck as she straightens up, fingers pressing into the tense muscles as though that might loosen whatever’s coiled there. Her offer of drinks hangs between them for a moment while he weighs it, his mouth opening and closing before he politely shakes his head.
"I'm tired," he says, voice warm but subdued. "Next time, though. Definitely."
He watches her go, the bag heavy over her shoulder, before stepping out into the night himself. The air outside is still balmy but feels thinner, the glow from the van casting pale puddles of light on the gravel drive. He lifts a hand to the crew and to Ronin in a small, automatic wave, then heads toward his car. The moonlight falls across the hood like spilled milk as he opens the door. For a heartbeat, it feels like someone is just behind him, no sound, no breath, just a prickle at the back of his neck as he slides into the driver’s seat. He glances at the rear-view mirror and sees only the house, patient and dark, as he pulls away.
—
In the days that follow, attempts to reach Remi to reschedule the rest of the shoot by Isla and then Ronin, begin to stall in strange, quiet ways. Calls ring without answer, and soon Remi's voicemail stops accepting new messages entirely, stating that it's full. Text messages don't show as having even been read, though all are delivered.
Nothing bounces back, but nothing breaks through either.
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.
