I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi huffs a quiet breath that might pass for a laugh, eyes rolling with mock disdain as Ronin lays on the easy charm as though trying to shake off the smile that threatens at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t respond, at least not out loud, but his body shifts with the kind of exaggerated patience Italians have perfected over centuries, all sighs and raised brows and small, theatrical shrugs.
At Ronin’s comment about the crew already having set up, Remi raises his brows, smirking faintly. "Very method of you. I’m impressed," he says, voice low and unbothered, footsteps falling soft against the bare wood. It should feel claustrophobic, the way the light from the house gives out so quickly and the shadows swallow the stairs whole. But Remi moves as if the dark is something he’s already made peace with.
When they reach the basement floor, he doesn’t hesitate. Instead of pausing to orient himself, he turns immediately toward a thin chain dangling near one of the support beams; impossible to spot in the gloom unless you already knew it was there. Reaching out, he gives it a tug. A bulb somewhere overhead rattles but stays dead, and with a shrug that says well, worth a try, Remi turns back.
His flashlight clicks on, beam cutting through the damp, stale air. The concrete is cracked and uneven beneath their feet, dust softening the hard lines, water damage curling the edges of the old foundation. It’s quiet; not in the way of silence, but in the way of breath held just out of reach. His light drifts over the covered well, lingering for a half-second longer than it should.
"Well?" he murmurs, tilting his head as he glances toward Ronin, seaglass eyes catching the reflection from his own lens. "How’s it doing for a first impression?"
At Ronin’s comment about the crew already having set up, Remi raises his brows, smirking faintly. "Very method of you. I’m impressed," he says, voice low and unbothered, footsteps falling soft against the bare wood. It should feel claustrophobic, the way the light from the house gives out so quickly and the shadows swallow the stairs whole. But Remi moves as if the dark is something he’s already made peace with.
When they reach the basement floor, he doesn’t hesitate. Instead of pausing to orient himself, he turns immediately toward a thin chain dangling near one of the support beams; impossible to spot in the gloom unless you already knew it was there. Reaching out, he gives it a tug. A bulb somewhere overhead rattles but stays dead, and with a shrug that says well, worth a try, Remi turns back.
His flashlight clicks on, beam cutting through the damp, stale air. The concrete is cracked and uneven beneath their feet, dust softening the hard lines, water damage curling the edges of the old foundation. It’s quiet; not in the way of silence, but in the way of breath held just out of reach. His light drifts over the covered well, lingering for a half-second longer than it should.
"Well?" he murmurs, tilting his head as he glances toward Ronin, seaglass eyes catching the reflection from his own lens. "How’s it doing for a first impression?"
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.
