I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi doesn’t answer, he just looks at Ronin—eyes still too pale in the flashlight’s glare, unreadable in their stillness—before slowly shaking his head with the sort of quiet finality that carries the weight of something already known. He turns back toward the well, wipes the blood from his finger onto one of the runes carved into the stone like he was merely cleaning his hand, as if the symbol was nothing more than a cloth on a wall.
Upstairs, the sharp clatter of voices breaks through the quiet.
"You did that!"
"Did not!"
"Well how did it spell BLOOD then?!"
Remi exhales—or perhaps inhales, it’s hard to tell—the sound shallow and reversed, the way a candle flame sometimes pulls inward just before it dies. His head tilts, gaze shifting not quite toward Ronin but just past him, and his voice slips out in a whisper so quiet it feels stolen: "We shouldn’t be down here."
The moment holds like the still eye of a storm—then BANG—the basement door slams shut above them. Hard. Definitive. A sharp echo rattles down the stairs like bones on tile. The flashlights flicker.
Upstairs, the sharp clatter of voices breaks through the quiet.
"You did that!"
"Did not!"
"Well how did it spell BLOOD then?!"
Remi exhales—or perhaps inhales, it’s hard to tell—the sound shallow and reversed, the way a candle flame sometimes pulls inward just before it dies. His head tilts, gaze shifting not quite toward Ronin but just past him, and his voice slips out in a whisper so quiet it feels stolen: "We shouldn’t be down here."
The moment holds like the still eye of a storm—then BANG—the basement door slams shut above them. Hard. Definitive. A sharp echo rattles down the stairs like bones on tile. The flashlights flicker.
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.
