I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
The neighbourhood has the sort of charm that only ever shows up in daylight and disappears the second the sun does. Cracked sidewalks, low iron fences that lean just a little too far into the footpath, and that familiar patchwork of graffiti tags and desperate renovation that screams almost-gentrified without quite getting there. The buildings are squat and old, their bricks soot-smudged and tired, windows either caged or cracked.
As Ronin presses the button for Apartment 17. The intercom crackles to life, faint and patchy. A woman’s voice murmurs something—maybe in greeting, maybe just a scrap of static caught mid-breath—before it cuts out altogether with a sharp pop. The silence afterward feels colder than it should.
A second buzz comes. This time, nothing follows it. Not even the static.
Just to Ronin's left, the front door creaks open. A couple steps out, mid-conversation, pausing just long enough to glance at him. Their eyes flick over the helmet, the jacket, the look of someone very much not from here. Suspicion, or just city caution marks their features, but they don't linger. The door groans slowly shut behind them, hinges dragging, latch sticking just enough to make slipping inside easy if you’re fast or lucky.
Inside the entryway, the wall directory flickers under a buzzing light. The names have been half-scraped off or rewritten in fading Sharpie, but one label still stands clear:
Remi Abruzzo—17
As Ronin presses the button for Apartment 17. The intercom crackles to life, faint and patchy. A woman’s voice murmurs something—maybe in greeting, maybe just a scrap of static caught mid-breath—before it cuts out altogether with a sharp pop. The silence afterward feels colder than it should.
A second buzz comes. This time, nothing follows it. Not even the static.
Just to Ronin's left, the front door creaks open. A couple steps out, mid-conversation, pausing just long enough to glance at him. Their eyes flick over the helmet, the jacket, the look of someone very much not from here. Suspicion, or just city caution marks their features, but they don't linger. The door groans slowly shut behind them, hinges dragging, latch sticking just enough to make slipping inside easy if you’re fast or lucky.
Inside the entryway, the wall directory flickers under a buzzing light. The names have been half-scraped off or rewritten in fading Sharpie, but one label still stands clear:
Remi Abruzzo—17
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.
